Authors: Carole Bugge
“Do you remember the Swiss tourists we saw in Cornwall, Watson?” Holmes said, leaning against the window of our cab as it swayed back and forth upon the cobblestones.
“Yes,” I answered. “One of them had whitish blond hair, just like Stockton. Do you think it’s possible that he was one of the tourists?”
“I think it not only possible but likely,” said Holmes grimly. “Unfortunately I barely glanced at him—as you can imagine, my mind
was on other things. And, as you noticed, his cap was hiding most of his face. He must have come straight back to London after we saw him—he may even have thought we recognized him.”
Our cab stopped in front of a low, unsavory tavern called The Drowned Rat. The sign hanging above the entrance had a picture of a waterlogged rodent, evidently deceased. Holmes paid the driver and we alighted.
“Watch yourself among these men, Watson,” Holmes said before we went in. “They would just as soon pull a knife on you as look at you.”
I nodded, wishing I had brought along my service revolver. I took a deep breath and followed Holmes into the tavern.
If any of the clientele in this charming establishment actually had no criminal record, it wasn’t immediately obvious. One would be hard pressed to find a more hardened, depraved, or menacing crew than the one gathered at The Drowned Rat. Holmes and I were so clearly an anomaly among this crowd—just by virtue of the way we were dressed, if nothing else—that I feared for our safety. Several rough-looking fellows stared at us when we entered, but Holmes strode straight ahead with his usual confidence and they left us alone. Evidently they felt we weren’t worth bothering about. We made our way through the cloud of tobacco smoke to the bar, where the huge and unkempt bartender ignored us for as long as he possibly could before finally asking us what we wanted. Holmes gazed at him calmly.
“Freddie Stockton,” he said evenly.
The bartender blinked, and then he laughed, showing his large, discolored teeth.
“Now what would fine gentl’men like you be wantin’ with the likes o’ Freddie?”
Holmes did not smile; not a muscle moved on his taut face. The bartender fidgeted with his filthy rag, and then he frowned.
“Freddie’s not ’ere right now.”
“Then find us someone who can tell us where he is.”
The bartender looked as if he were about to say something, and then he shrugged.
“Well, I s’pose Wickham would know.”
“And where can I find him?”
“’E’s in t’ back room.”
Without a word Holmes turned and walked in the direction the bartender had indicated, through a corridor which led to a dark and foul-smelling back room. A dozen or so men were seated on benches around a pit in which a small white terrier was shaking a rat that it held between its teeth. The pit was littered with the corpses of rats who had already met their fate in the fangs of this ferocious beast. The men were laughing and egging on the terrier with cries of, “Go, Billy!” and “Come on, finish him off!”
The stench in the room was vile, a disgusting combination of stale smoke, sweat, sawdust, and death. A couple of the men looked up at us as we entered.
“Is Wickham here?” Holmes said loudly.
Several of the men snickered. A fat, hairy-armed man shoved a tattooed elbow into the side of the fellow sitting next to him.
“Oi, Wickham, didn’t you ’ear the gentl’man—yer
wanted
!”
His companion was a tall, thin, bespectacled man—singular among this crowd—with a look of corrupted respectability. He peered nervously at Holmes and myself.
“Are you Wickham?” said Holmes sternly.
“What if I am?” he replied with an attempt at a sneer that came off as a sulk.
Holmes walked up to Wickham and grasped him by the collar, practically lifting him up off his seat.
“Then I hope for your sake you can tell me what I need to know,” he said, pulling the man’s face close to his.
Wickham’s face reddened, though I could not tell if it was from fright or from the fact that Holmes was cutting off his air supply. In any event, he managed to choke out a reply.
“All right; all right, guv’ner—what do you want to know?”
Holmes released his grasp on Wickham.
“Just this: Where is Freddie Stockton?”
Wickham rubbed his throat and looked around for help, but his comrades were enjoying the spectacle of his interrogation more than the efforts of the energetic Billy, who had just sent two more rats off to meet their maker.
“Well, I—I suppose you might find ’im at Penny Annie’s about now,” Wickham said, his voice shaking. “It’s in Lambeth—just ask anyone.”
Holmes stared at the man as if assessing the veracity of his statement. Then, evidently satisfied, he turned around and, without a word, left the room. I followed after, hearing as I went the taunting voices of Wickham’s comrades: “Oo, what ’a ya done now, Wickham, my boy?” and “Good thing you told ’im or ’eed ’a turned you into terrier meat!” followed by shrill, raucous laughter.
Holmes left the pub without so much as a glance at the bartender or any of the rough lot who looked us over as we made our way out. Holmes seemed utterly unconcerned by the sullen faces which squinted up at us from the various tables, although I for one was glad to get out of there. It is a facet of my friend’s character that when he is focused on a task he cares little for his own personal safety. However, I am more easily intimidated, and I breathed a sigh of relief when we stood once more in the cold night air of the London street. I took a deep breath; even the London atmosphere was an improvement upon the fetid air we had just left.
I wanted to say something to Holmes, but, seeing his determined face in the lamplight, I couldn’t think of what to say. We hailed a cab and soon we were among the winding streets of Lambeth. The cab pulled up alongside a row of respectable-looking shops, and I could see light coming from the upper stories of the buildings. As we climbed out of the cab, the sound of shouting and laughter greeted our ears, almost drowning out the sound of music coming from the upper floors of the buildings. People were coming and going in and out of the buildings, in groups or in pairs. Most were shabbily dressed, their faces flushed with drink, arms flung around each other in a casual camaraderie made easy by cheap gin. Holmes stopped one of the more respectable-looking couples.
“Can you tell me which of these establishments is Penny Annie’s?”
The woman, who hung somewhat crookedly on her companion’s arm, straightened up and regarded Holmes with a smile. Her lipstick was smeared, and her half-closed eyes indicated her inebriated state. A soiled yellow silk shawl hung rakishly over one shoulder.
“Why do you want to go in there, luv?” she said.
“Hey, sod that,” said her companion, a short, muscular man who was dressed in a striped sailor’s shirt.
“Oh, go to, Eddie, I’m just ’aving fun,” she said, turning to Holmes. “It’s the one on the end—there.” She pointed to a brightly lit establishment with the tinny sound of a concertina coming from its windows.
“Thank you,” said Holmes.
“Any time,” she said as her companion pulled her away. I could hear them arguing as Holmes and I made our way to our destination.
“You’re my girl, Mary. Why do you make me suffer so?”
“Oh, Eddie, don’t fuss at me; it’s only in fun.”
Penny Annie’s was one of the many “penny gaffs” which were to be found all over the city: places where disreputable performers sang and
danced for a variety of customers. After the show the “performers” were often available for a more private engagement.
As Holmes and I ascended a staircase littered with walnut shells and orange peels, we could hear the laughter and shouting above us mixing with the stalwart concertina, which droned on bravely through the din. I could just barely hear a penny whistle weaving in and out of the melody. The “theatre” was comprised of a converted flat: a rough stage had been constructed at one end of the long room, and benches had been set along the floor. A motley crowd sat upon these seats—sailors and dock workers mixed with some who appeared to be office employees on a night out. Dustmen rubbed shoulders with prosperous-looking merchants; and a few of the customers wore the distinctive red silk neckerchiefs which labeled them as costermongers, or street vendors.
One customer stood out, though, even if you weren’t looking for him. Burly, with muscular shoulders and a snarl for a smile, he was like many of the other men we had seen tonight, except that he was distinguished by his striking complexion. His hair was so blond that it was almost white, and his skin was so pale that it shone like a beacon from among the ruddy, sunburned lot who surrounded him. I recognized him immediately as the second Swiss tourist we had seen upon the moor, though he was now without his little mustache.
“Stay here, Watson!” Holmes hissed, and began to make his way through the crowd. Stockton was seated on one of the benches in the back, and could not see Holmes approach. I stood at my post by the door and looked at the stage. A suggestively dressed woman well past forty years old was dancing to the tunes which the concertina player continued to grind out; she jiggled and bobbed, flipped her skirts and displayed whatever she could to the grinning customers in the front row, who whistled and grabbed at her. She was too quick for them,
though, and they always ended up with a fistful of air for their efforts. They didn’t seem to mind, and howled with laughter, cheering her on.
The woman’s thick curly hair had been dyed an improbable shade of red, her make-up was running in rivulets down her sweaty cheeks—so that one had the impression she was crying rainbow-colored tears—and yet there was something both game and touching about her. She was giving her customers their money’s worth, and I had to admire her dogged energy and determination. The concertina player sat, cigarette hanging from his lips, reeling off tune after tune, gazing implacably above the heads of his listeners.
Holmes had reached his destination, and I looked up just in time to see him place a hand on Freddie Stockton’s collar. Stockton hadn’t seen him coming, and, when he saw Holmes, real terror passed over his unpleasant face. Holmes half dragged him through the crowd over to where I was standing.
“Let’s go, Watson,” he said, and we left the theatre.
Once outside, Holmes dragged Stockton around to the side of the building and held him up against the wall.
“All right, Stockton, let’s hear it, and it had better be convincing,” said Holmes.
“I d-d-don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about,” Stockton said sullenly.
“Oh yes you do, and it will go better for you if you talk sooner rather than later.” He held Stockton about six inches off the ground. “Now, you have exactly one minute to tell me why you killed Jeremiah Wiggins.”
Holmes was not a violent man, but I don’t like to think what he would have done to Stockton if the man had not confessed.
“It w-w-wasn’t supposed to happen like that; I d-d-didn’t
do
anything to him,” Stockton muttered.
“Didn’t
do
anything to him?” Holmes said, his voice hoarse with rage. “He’s dead, and you didn’t
do
anything to him?”
“Well, not m-m-much, anyway. I just... t-t-tried to s-s-scare him a little... and all of a s-s-sudden ’e was d-d-d-dead.”
Holmes tightened his grip on Stockton’s throat, and, not wanting my friend to answer to murder charges himself, I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Holmes,” I said softly.
“What
is
it, Watson?” he answered irritably.
“His condition—the disease—it would have made strangling him by accident quite easy. As I mentioned before, one of the side effects of his condition is difficulty—”
“All right!” Holmes said angrily, and loosened his grasp on Stockton. “Someone else was there with you—who was it?”
“Wickham... the idiot,” Stockton added under his breath, referring to the prim, bespectacled young man we had just seen at The Drowned Rat.
“What were you there for then, if not to kill him?”
Stockton hesitated, and then, seeing Holmes meant business, muttered, “W-w-we was supposed to g-g-get information—”
“Information? About what?”
“About why you was there. B-b-but ’e wouldn’t t-t-talk, and so’s I ’ad to convince ’im, an’ that’s when...” Stockton stopped and looked at Holmes almost contritely. “I didn’t m-m-mean to k-k-kill ’im.”
“I believe you,” said Holmes, “but why was it so important to know why we were there?”
Stockton looked around desperately, and then he closed his eyes as though expecting a blow.
“G-g-go ahead, k-k-kill me,” he said. “If I t-t-tell you, ’
e’ll
kill me anyway.”
“Who? Who will kill you?”
“’E will.”
“The man you’re working for?”
Stockton nodded.
“I’d rather be killed b-b-by you than ’im.”
Holmes released Stockton.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell him you did anyway. But if you tell me, he never need know where I got the information.”
Stockton looked at us, a crafty smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t know w-w-what you’re talking about,” he said. “You don’t even know who I’m w-w-working for.”
“Oh yes we do,” said Holmes.
“You don’t,” said Stockton, but this time he sounded a little less convinced.
“The dead will rise and the lame will walk,” Holmes said suddenly. “He has risen, hasn’t he?”
Stockton’s face turned as white as his hair.
“’E’s the Devil himself,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I wouldn’t ‘a believed it if I ’adn’t s-s-seen it with me own eyes.”
Holmes put his face close to Stockton’s.
“Why was he so interested in our visit to Mr. Wiggins?”
“All I know is it was s-s-somethin’ about a p-p-perfume, somethin’ Wiggins w-w-was s’posed to know about.”
“That’s all you know?”
“Cross me heart; Wiggins died before I c-c-could get any more. I swear it.”
Holmes released his grip on Stockton.
“Come on, Watson; we’ve learned all we’re going to from this sewer rat.”
“Shouldn’t we turn him in for the murder of Mr. Wiggins?” I said.