by Marvin Kaye
“What do you think, Watson?”
“Good heavens, Holmes!”
“I admit it’s a bit of a stretch, but it’s necessary under the circumstances.”
“But—”
“Oh, I know; my soul could go straight to hell.”
“I didn’t mean that, but don’t you think it’s a bit—”
“Sacrilegious? I suppose it is, but I’m sure I’ve committed worse sins. And now if you’ll excuse me, I shall be off,” he said, throwing his black ulster on over his priestly garb. “Tell Mrs. Hudson I shall be back in time for dinner and that I look forward to the fine fruit tart she is preparing for us.”
I didn’t even bother to ask Holmes how he knew it was a fruit tart. I closed the door after him and wandered around the sitting room for a while, trying to make sense of the strange events of the morning. Finally I lay down upon the couch and attempted to immerse myself in some medical texts which I had recently purchased. My mind was having none of it, however, and soon I drifted off into uneasy dreams in which masked gunmen tried to pull me off the couch where I lay. I clung to my pillow, though, until I heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice coming from one of the gunmen.
“Dr. Watson, wake up! There’s a message for you.”
I sat up abruptly and took the slip of paper which she held in her hand. I opened it and read: “Meet me at Paddy O’Reilly’s—Holmes. P.S. Bring your revolver.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” I rose from the couch, groggy from the sleep which still clung to me. I thrust the note into my pocket and, with trembling hands, took my service revolver from the desk drawer and loaded it.
“I’m going out, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, smoothing my hair and buttoning my cuffs. My wife had just given me a beautiful new pair of gold cufflinks with my initials engraved on them, and I was very taken with them.
“Wouldn’t you like some tea before you leave?” she said, picking up the sofa pillows which I had flung about the room in my dream-tossed slumber.
“No, thank you—I haven’t any time.”
As I closed the door behind me, she was fussing about the room muttering something about “regular hours” and “all this dashing about.”
The weather had cleared, and a brisk wind had picked up from the river. I pulled my coat about me as I stood waiting for a cab to arrive; and soon I was seated in a hansom rumbling east along the cobblestones.
London’s East End is sometimes referred to as “the other London.” This catch-all description includes the opium dens and whore-houses in neighborhoods such as Whitehall and Spitalfields; it also describes the colourful but less ominous environs in which respectable working-class English people and foreigners made their homes. The men and women who cleaned the houses and chimneys of the richer folk, who shod their horses and shined their shoes, who baked their pastries and sewed their clothes—these hardworking people to a large extent lived in the eastern sector of the city. Holmes and I often journeyed into these places—as a source of information, the pubs and tea rooms of the East End were invaluable. The Irish pubs of Spitalfields were no exception. In London in 1891 an Irishman was regarded as closer to a foreigner than an Englishman. They retaliated by taking their business en masse to the East End.
An Irish pub is not like an English pub. It is noisier, more boisterous and more vital. There is usually music, there is often dancing, and there is always drinking—not polite social drinking, but serious, determined drinking, the consumption of alcohol serving as a revolt against the insults of the world. I am half Irish myself, and as a child I saw what motivated that kind of drinking, and also what it could do to a man.
Paddy O’Reilly’s was the kind of place you could go to forget the insults of the world—to drown them in a glass of stout if that was your choice, or to lose them in a reel played hard and fast on a concertina and a tin whistle. The sound of the music reached me even before I put my hand upon the handle of the heavy oaken door. It was a tune I recognized—“Mary’s Wedding,” a Scottish melody—and it was being played at breakneck speed on a fiddle and concertina, with a tin whistle supplying a kind of obbligato or counterpoint. I stood in the doorway for a moment, pushed back by the harsh smell of tobacco, sawdust and beer. The concertina player was middle-aged, with the heavy-lidded eyes of a Scotsman, and he sat pumping his instrument with a grim determination. Four or five dancers stomped out something close to the Highland fling, and a few other people watched them, clapping and laughing with a bleary-eyed euphoria.
I made my way across the sawdust-strewn floor, heading for a lone figure sitting hunched over at a table at the back of the room. I was very nearly drawn into the dance by a raucous young woman, who attempted to link her arm around mine. Her red hair was wild; her eyes were wilder, and I extracted myself from her clutches, mumbling a polite excuse, and made my way to the back of the room.
When I reached the solitary man, who was seated at a dimly lit table in the corner, I sat down. When I looked at his face I thought I had made a mistake; surely the ruddy complexion and full cheeks did not belong to my friend Holmes. I began to rise, but I felt a strong hand upon my shoulder pull me back down.
“Sit still, Watson! Do you want to call attention to us?”
It was unmistakably Holmes’s voice, and I could not prevent the look of astonishment which crossed my face.
“Holmes!” I whispered, “it is you, then!”
“Of course it is. Now keep still and try not to look suspicious.”
Holmes ordered two glasses of stout from the surly waiter, whose cigarette perched upon his lower lip, defying the laws of gravity and physics.
“Try to look inconspicuous,” Holmes muttered as the man set two foaming mugs in front of us.
“By the way, what happened to your last disguise?” I said, taking a sip of the heavy, sweet dark liquid in my glass.
“It was very useful for a time.” He smiled. “I’m afraid I violated the sanctity of the confessional, but as you know, Watson, I am not religious.”
“You mean—you posed as a priest to hear confessions?”
“The Fenians are Catholics to a man, and a Catholic may do any number of heinous deeds, but if he is a good Catholic he will always confess it to his priest.”
“Holmes—!” I was raised Church of England myself, but still I admit I was shocked.
“Yes, Watson; no doubt I am a sinner, and if there is a hell, I shall end up there.” He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “No matter; I now know the identity of at least one of the conspirators. You see that man there?” he said, indicating a large, heavy-shouldered man who stood watching the dancers as they spun and bobbed to the music. With his thick unruly hair and massive torso, he resembled a large brown bear.
“Yes?”
“He is a good Catholic; he is also a kidnapper, and very probably a murderer.”
Just then, as if he had sensed we were talking about him, the man turned towards us, and I saw his lips part to reveal a mouth of large, yellowed teeth. His face was heavy and thick-featured, a crudely sensual face, and I shuddered at the sight of so many teeth set between those thick lips. His eyes moved about the room but did not settle upon us, and when he turned back to watch the dancers I exhaled heavily; I had been holding my breath.
“So you—you followed him here?” I whispered to Holmes.
“Yes, and it was no easy feat, let me tell you. A priest attracts more attention on the street than an ordinary man, and several times I had to dart behind buildings to make certain he didn’t see me. But when he went in here I had some time to apply the makeup which you see I now wear.”
I shook my head; there seemed to be no end to my friend’s ingenuity.
“So what do we do next?” I asked, but just then Holmes’s hand gripped my arm.
“Shhh—it is time!” he said in a low voice.
Our massive friend was now bending over a tableful of men, a serious expression on his florid face. The others at the table were a grim-looking lot, an
d a tall, sallow man who appeared to be the leader was speaking, his head lowered; all the others listened to him intently.
“Time for what?” I whispered to Holmes.
“The thing we have come here to see. Avert your gaze; don’t let them see you looking at them!” Holmes murmured as one of the men at the table let his eyes roam idly around the room. It was too late, however; our eyes met and he nodded to me. His face would have been handsome except for his deeply pockmarked skin; his eyes were large and lustrous, and the high cheekbones bespoke an aristocratic heritage. My skin chilled as he bent over and said something to the thin sallow leader, who nodded and looked over at us.
“You have your revolver?” Holmes whispered.
“Right here in my pocket.” I closed my fingers over the handle of the gun; the cool smooth metal was reassuring in my hand.
The pockmarked man straightened up and walked towards us, and my fingers tightened around the revolver. However, when he reached us he smiled.
“Are you finding it unusually warm in here?” he said in a cultivated, educated voice with just a trace of an Irish accent.
“The weather can be unpredictable this time of year,” Holmes replied smoothly.
The man nodded, then turned and walked back to his table; once again he leaned over for a consultation with his leader. I held my breath; this was evidently the password which Mycroft had referred to, but he had said he was not certain if it would work. To my surprise, the man motioned to us, whereupon Holmes rose and walked over to the other table. I followed him, and I could feel the men’s eyes on us but I tried to look unconcerned. I am not the actor Holmes is, though, and I am afraid I did not manage to look any more nonchalant than I felt. In truth, my heart was racing and my palms were oozing sweat. I have been under fire in wartime and managed to remain rather cool, but there was something in the stares of these men which sent tingling threads of fear up my spine.
The thin sallow man regarded us through half-closed eyes; he reminded me of a long yellow cat.
“I understand you are interested in the current climate,” he said.
“My brother usually knows when it’s going to rain,” Holmes replied calmly.
The sallow man nodded, and motioned to his pockmarked lieutenant, who indicated that we should follow him. He led us across the sawdust-strewn floor, behind the musicians and other patrons, and through a narrow door on the other side of the bar. We followed him down a set of steep steps to a dimly lit basement room. A few chairs were scattered about the room, and a podium stood underneath a flag of Ireland, which had been tacked up on one wall.
“Wait here,” he said, and with that, he left us and went back upstairs. Holmes and I stood listening to the sounds coming from upstairs. Someone was singing in a faltering tenor:
“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountainside . . . ”
I wondered what we were waiting for, and was about to ask Holmes what was going on, but just then I heard the sound of footsteps upon the stairs. Our pockmarked friend reappeared, followed by the large, thick-lipped fellow we had seen earlier, as well as the sallow man whom I took to be the leader. The rest of the men in his entourage were close behind, as well as a few others whom I supposed had been scattered among the pub patrons. I estimated that there were perhaps two dozen people in the room, including ourselves.
To my surprise, the wild-haired redhead was also among them, the only woman in the group. Holmes and I took our seats among the other patrons, and as we did, the young woman caught my eye and smiled. Though I averted my gaze, she came and sat next to us, brushing my leg with her long skirt as she did so.
“And what might your name be?” she said in a voice somewhat the worse for whiskey.
“Uh . . . Raoul,” I said uncertainly.
“Oh, are you French, then?”
I looked at Holmes, but he sat staring straight ahead.
“On my mother’s side.”
“Oh, the French are very romantic, aren’t they?” she replied, snuggling up closer to me.
“I—I don’t know,” I said miserably.
“Oh, but you should know . . . I could teach you, you know.”
Just then our pockmarked friend banged a gavel upon the podium at the front of the room.
“All right, it’s time we began,” he said, and the room quieted down. “Let’s all listen to what Brother Kerry has to say.”
The wan-faced leader took the podium. He stood for a moment gazing at his audience and then he spoke.
“Our fight has just begun. As most of you know, we are ready to strike a blow which will leave our English oppressors reeling. I will let Brother O’Malley tell you about it.”
With that, he stepped away from the podium and allowed the pockmarked man to take his place.
“This is the grandest plan we have ever conceived,” Brother O’Malley began, but just then the intoxicated young woman grasped my hand in hers. I pulled away, but her grip was tight, and as I pulled away, the cufflink on my right sleeve came off and fell to the floor. She bent down and picked it up, and then her eyes fell upon the engraved initials: “JHW.”
“You said your name was Raoul,” she said in a loud voice. Brother O’Malley stopped in mid-sentence and looked at us.
“Is there a problem?” he said in a stern voice.
To my horror, the young woman stood up, swaying uncertainly.
“Yes, Annie; what is it?” Brother O’Malley said impatiently.
“We have a spy among us,” she said, pointing at me. At that moment my blood froze and ran cold in my veins; I felt as if the floor had suddenly been removed out from under me.
“Oh?” replied O’Malley in a wary voice. “What makes you think that?”
By now everyone was looking at us. I looked at Holmes; he sat utterly still, his face impassive, barely breathing.
“This cufflink!” Annie declared, holding it up for all to see.
“What about it?” said Brother Kerry, a gleam of suspicion in his eyes.
“Well, he told me his name was Raoul, but his cufflinks have the initials JHW! I say he’s a spy!”
There was a murmur of voices in the room. I slipped my hand into my pocket and gripped the revolver.
“Hmmm,” said Brother O’Malley, and he walked slowly towards us. I cursed myself for having worn these cufflinks, and for having the misfortune to attract the attention of the inebriated young woman.
It was too late, however; I think Holmes also knew the gig was up, because he stood up when O’Malley reached us.
“How did you manage to procure our password?” said O’Malley.
Holmes shrugged and did not reply. O’Malley nodded to the large bearlike fellow, who was looming nearby. To my horror, the huge fellow took two steps towards Holmes and suddenly rammed his massive fist into my friend’s stomach. Holmes groaned and fell to the floor. I drew my gun, but with a quickness I would not have given him credit for, the giant flicked his hand out with lightning speed and delivered a crushing blow to my wrist, sending the gun flying. Cradling my wrist in my other hand, I dropped to the floor.
“We don’t take too kindly to spies, you know,” said Brother O’Malley in a flat voice. He bent over Holmes, who lay gasping for breath.
“Who sent you?”
Holmes shook his head. O’Malley shrugged and turned to me. “Perhaps you will tell me—or it will not go well for your friend here.” He motioned to the bearlike man again, and before I could stop him he kicked Holmes in the ribs. Holmes moaned and lost consciousness.
Just then Annie interposed herself between O’Malley and us.
“Stop it—stop it, I say!” she screamed, clawing at him wildly. O’Malley nodded to his goon, whereupon the man lifted her off her feet and carried her from the room.
“I always said women should not be allowed to be a part of this,” muttered Brother Kerry, walking over to us.
“What shall we do with them?” sa
id O’Malley.
“Oh, I think we can put them with our other friend for the time being—at least until we finish our meeting,” he replied, looking down at Holmes. “He’s no good to us right now, anyway.”
O’Malley nodded to several of the men, whereupon I found myself being half carried and half dragged from the room. Several of the men followed behind, carrying Holmes. A blindfold was placed over my eyes, and abruptly locked into darkness, I experienced the sensations which I imagined a blind man must feel. My world consisted now only of my other four senses, and I was suddenly very aware of the sounds and smells around me. The smooth voice of O’Malley faded into the background and was replaced by the heavy steps of my captors, whose laboured breathing indicated that they were unused to such strenuous exercise.
I was carried along for some ten minutes, and then I heard the high-pitched cry of seagulls and smelled the thick brackish aroma of the Thames; we were near the river. A door was opened and we entered a room; then another door, and then we stopped. I was shoved rudely into a chair, and I felt my hands and feet being tied. Then the blindfold was removed, and when my vision cleared I saw that I was in a long, low-ceilinged room, the walls and floor entirely made out of crude wooden planks; the kind of room you would see in a warehouse by the docks. Buoys and rusted anchors hung from the walls; coils of rotted rope sat in corners gathering dust; the warehouse had evidently been abandoned for some time. The room smelled of mildew and salt water.
The massive fellow, whom his comrades addressed as Connors, was engaged in tying Holmes to a chair. O’Malley stood, arms folded, gazing out of a small window at the other end of the room, the pale light highlighting the craters on his face. It was then I noticed there was a third figure in the room: along the far wall, in the shadows, I could barely make out the form of a man upon the floor, sitting slumped up against the wall. I strained my eyes to see better, but just then O’Malley turned and spoke.
“You stay and stand guard outside, Connors; we’ll deal with them later,” he said; “I have to get back to the meeting. Well, gentlemen,” he continued, addressing himself to me, “I trust you will introduce yourselves to each other; I shall return as soon as I can.”