Rebel Fire (21 page)

The cab stopped outside a hotel that appeared to be significantly more salubrious than the ones closer to the harbour. Presumably, Sherlock thought, there was some kind of filtering effect going on—the steerage passengers would end up in dingy, dirty, cheap boardinghouses close to the water, while the passengers with more money could get further and further away, into the better, cleaner, but more expensive areas.

“This is the Jellabee Hotel,” Crowe said as he got out and helped Virginia to the street. “I've stayed here before. It's a decent place—at least, it was. The Pinkerton Agency uses it a fair amount. They're just around the corner. We'll head in and see if there are any rooms available, then go off for dinner at Niblo's Garden. Best place in the city.”

While Crowe went up to the front desk to book rooms, Sherlock looked around. Inside, the hotel was, if anything, even hotter than outside. It was, however, neatly kept, with decent carpets underfoot, and the people in the lobby were well dressed. Most people spoke with an accent similar to that of Amyus and Virginia Crowe, and to the men they had followed to this country, but Sherlock noticed a smattering of other languages—French, German, Russian, and several others that he couldn't place.

Crowe ambled back, smiling. “I've secured a suite of rooms for us,” he said. “A sittin' room plus three bedrooms. When we get Matty back, he'll have to double up with you, Sherlock.”

“Of course.” Sherlock took heart at the way Crowe said “when” rather than “if.”

They took the stairs to the third floor, where their rooms were located. Oddly, Sherlock noticed, it was on the second floor.

“Ah,” Crowe rumbled. “Good point. That's one of the differences between England and America. In England you have a ground floor, a first floor, a second floor, and so on. Here in America the ground floor is called the first floor, so we just have a first floor, a second floor, and so on. No ground floor.”

“What else do I need to know?” Sherlock asked.

“What you call a pavement, we call a sidewalk. Apart from that, it's pretty much the same. The money is different, though. We have dollars, dimes, and cents, not pounds, shillings, and pence. I'll give you both some money later on. Don't flash it around.”

The rooms were good—the sitting room had two sofas and several comfortable chairs, along with a writing desk, and a window with a view over the street outside. Sherlock's bedroom was smaller, but the bed was far softer than the one he had left behind at Holmes Manor. The hotel wasn't exclusive by any means, but it obviously catered to guests with money and expectations.

“Can I go out for a walk?” he asked Amyus Crowe.

Crowe thought for a moment. “You're a smart kid. You think you can find your way back?”

“I'm sure I can.”

“The city's laid out on a grid system: pretty logical to follow.” He crossed to the writing desk and picked up a sheet of letterhead. “If you get lost, ask for the Jellabee Hotel. The address is on here. Don't get involved with any street corner card games, don't flash any money around, an' don't give anyone any cheek. If you find yourself in a location called ‘Five Points,' then get out as quickly as you can. You'll know you're in Five Points because of the smell—the place is full of turpentine distilleries, glue factories, and slaughterhouses. Follow those rules and you'll be okay.” He delved in his pocket and handed over a fistful of notes and coins. “That should buy you somethin' to eat, if you get hungry, or a cab to get you back.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm goin' to find out when the SS
Great Eastern
docked. An' if it hasn't docked I'm goin' to find out when it's due in.”

Sherlock turned to see whether Virginia wanted to come with him, but she had already retreated into her room.

Crowe shook his head. “Leave her,” he said. “There's too many memories here for her. Let her come to terms with it herself.”

Outside, in the sunshine, the smell of sewage and rotting vegetables was much stronger. Sherlock wandered along the pavement—the
sidewalk
, he reminded himself—taking in the sights and the sounds of this new city in a new land.

He passed shops with signs outside offering “notions,” which seemed to be household items of various kinds, and bars serving everything from “gumption”—which he guessed from the smell was a kind of cider—to something called “port wine negus.” Alleys led off the main street, narrow canyons between the buildings in which he was surprised to see not only cats and dogs but also wild pigs rooting through the piles of discarded rubbish for something they could eat. There were also restaurants on every corner, offering food from various nations. Sherlock was particularly struck by the sheer number and variety of oyster bars, usually serving beer and wine and the mysterious “gumption” as well as oysters that had been fried, boiled, broiled, grilled, or just served on ice. Oysters seemed to be the most common food around New York.

As well as the bars, restaurants, and shops, there were churches made of white stone, with white steps up to their front doors and with sharply pointed steeples, and warehouses where all kinds of goods coming off the ships, or heading for them, were stored. Within the space of a few blocks Sherlock saw more variety than he'd seen in several villages and towns in England all put together.

And someone was following him.

He became aware of it after about half an hour of wandering. The same brown bowler hat kept turning up in the crowd behind him. He recognized it because it had a distinctive green band around the crown. He made a point of checking the crowds for other hats like that, but there was only one and it was always behind him.

He tried going into a shop looking around at the various “notions”—washing boards, soap, pegs, and suchlike—that were on display, but when he came out the man in the brown bowler hat was loitering on a corner, reading a newspaper that he'd obviously bought from one of the street boys. Sherlock then tried ducking down a rubbish-strewn alley to a parallel street, but somehow the man in the brown bowler hat guessed what he'd done and ran down another alley, so that when Sherlock looked behind him again the man was still there. Sherlock couldn't see the man's face, but he was bulky and he walked with a roll of his shoulders, as if he'd just come off a ship that had been gently moving under his feet and he wasn't used to the feel of solid ground.

Sherlock's mind raced. He didn't know whether the man had picked him up at the hotel or just seen him in the street and started following. If he'd just seen Sherlock in the street, then the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was to lead him back to the hotel where Amyus and Virginia Crowe were staying. He had to get rid of the follower somehow. No, he thought suddenly, he needed to reverse the situation; follow the follower to see where he was based. Because Matty might be held there as well.

This wasn't going to be easy.

He ducked into another of the general purpose stores. This one seemed to have a fair selection of clothes—jackets, caps, and trousers. Estimating that his follower was going to stay outside for a while, Sherlock quickly picked out a flat cap and a jacket and noticed with relief that the shop had another exit onto a side street. He took his items to the counter, where the man looked him up and down and said: “You know, a kid like you ought to think 'bout buyin' a sling. We just got a new batch in. Are you interested?”

“A sling?” The word stumped Sherlock for a moment. Was a sling some local term that he ought to know about? Then he remembered, thinking back to Bible study at Deepdene School. Hadn't David used a sling to kill Goliath in the First Book of Samuel? It was some kind of weapon that you could use to throw stones accurately and with force.

“All the boys around here are carryin' them,” the man added.

“How much?” Sherlock asked.

The price didn't add much to the cost of the clothes, so Sherlock agreed. If possessing a sling helped him blend in, then all the better. After he'd slipped the jacket and cap on he examined it as the man wrapped his own jacket—the one the follower would recognize and be looking for—in brown paper for him to take away. The sling was a simple pouch of leather that would hold a stone, with leather thongs on either side. One thong was designed to be tied around the wrist; the other looked like you held it, whirled the sling around and then released it, letting the stone fly off.

“You'll need some ammunition,” the man said, handing Sherlock the parcel containing his old jacket. “I'll give you a bag of ball bearin's for free.”

Sherlock paid with the money that Amyus Crowe had given him. He slipped the sling and the ball bearings into a pocket, taking the brown paper parcel tied up with string. He pulled the cap low on his head and left the shop at a fast walk through the side exit, trying to put some distance between himself and the man in the brown bowler hat. When he could see a corner coming up ahead, he accelerated his pace even more.

Heading around the corner, he called to the nearest paperboy.

“How much for all the papers?”

The kid looked like he couldn't believe his luck. “Ten cents a copy,” he said, “an' I got fifty left, ain't I? That makes…” He paused, calculating. “Six dollars straight.”

Sherlock estimated that he had just over forty newspapers left, and even if it was fifty the total price would only be five dollars. “I'll give you five dollars for the lot,” he said.

“Done!” the kid cried. He handed over the pile of newspapers, and Sherlock gave him five dollar bills. As the kid ran off, waving the money in the faces of his friends and laughing, Sherlock started to sell newspapers.

“Read all about it!” he cried in the best approximation of a New York accent he could manage. He knew it was probably mangled by having been listening to Amyus Crowe and Virginia for so long, but as long as it wasn't an English accent it probably didn't matter that much. “Terrible murder at”—his mind raced—“Five Points! Police baffled! More murders expected!”

The other paperboys checked their headlines, wondering where he'd got that from, but he'd already got three customers taking newspapers off him when the man in the brown bowler hat came around the corner.

It was Ives—the man from the house in Godalming. The burly, pale-haired man with the gun.

Sherlock tried to scrunch himself down, letting his shoulders drop and hunching himself, as though he was tired and hadn't eaten properly for a while. It worked. Ives's gaze passed over Sherlock, ignoring him in the same way a man might ignore a gas lamp or a horse trough. He stopped, scanning the street ahead, presumably looking to see where Sherlock had gone. When he couldn't locate him, Ives cursed under his breath. He stood there uncertainly for a moment, barely six feet away from the boy he was searching for, then abruptly turned around and walked away.

Sherlock threw the papers at the feet of the nearest paperboy. “Here, sell these,” he said.

“That's the
Sun
,” the kid said. “I only sell the
Chronicle
.”

“Expand your inventory,” Sherlock replied, and sped off after Ives.

Ives headed off at a fast walk, head down and hands in his pockets. He looked dejected. Perhaps whoever his employer was would be angry at the fact that he'd lost Sherlock. The fact that he didn't head back to the Jellabee Hotel meant that he probably didn't know where Sherlock and the other two were staying.

The sun was slipping down in the sky now, barely clearing the tops of the buildings and casting an orange light over everything. It shone directly into Sherlock's eyes, making him squint so that it was hard to track where Ives went. They must have covered five blocks or more before Ives turned off the street and headed into a boardinghouse.

Sherlock looked around uncertainly. He didn't know if this was Five Points or not, but it certainly didn't look as appealing as the area where the Jellabee Hotel was located, despite the presence of a dilapidated clapboard church with a wonky steeple at the end of the street. It stank, but he wasn't sure if it was the smell of turpentine distilleries and slaughterhouses or just the general smell of decay and sewage that seemed to hang over New York like an invisible fog. This place looked dangerous. The people hanging around on street corners weren't paperboys anymore, they were men in ripped shirts and dirty trousers who watched everyone going past with hard eyes. Somewhere, a man was playing a mournful trumpet. The instrument was out of tune, but so much else around there was out of tune as well that it seemed to fit.

Sherlock needed to blend in even more than he had earlier. He ducked into an alley and rubbed his cap in the dirt, then ripped one of the sleeves of his jacket so that the lining was exposed.

That should do the trick. He looked like he belonged now.

Heading back to the street, limping slightly to make his gait appear different, he walked down to the boardinghouse. The door was open, and he glanced inside.

There was no lobby, as there was back in the Jellabee. If he walked into the hall he would just have a choice of doors or the bare stairs. It wasn't like he could go around knocking on doors looking for Matty. He had to think of something else.

Glancing around, he saw that the building opposite had a metal staircase bolted to the brickwork outside—some kind of fire escape, perhaps. Ladders led down from one floor to the next, attached to narrow metal balconies. If he climbed up, he might be able to see inside some of the windows of the boardinghouse. If the curtains were open. And if the glass was clean enough.

Stop procrastinating!
he told himself. Crossing the road, he waited for a moment when nobody was passing by and quickly scrambled up the fire escape to the first floor. Or was that the second floor? He wasn't sure.