The Web Weaver (27 page)

“Do not drink so much you cannot drive,” Sherlock said.

Blunt’s laugh sounded much like his cough. “’Ave no fear. It’d take an ’ole night before you’d lose me. Come fetch me when y’re back.”

Sherlock turned to me. “We have about a fifteen-minute walk before us. Whatever you see, whatever anyone says to us, say nothing and continue walking. British law and civilization do not apply within Underton’s boundaries.”

He set off at a resolute pace down the street, and I followed, struggling with my fear. Across the street from the tavern was a tall, stately home, the windows lit up with a rosy, yellowish glow. The edifice was in much better condition than its neighbors and appeared inviting.

I raised my hand and pointed. “That place seems out of character for this neighborhood. It even has two functioning streetlamps.”

Sherlock gave a sharp laugh. “It is a well-known bawdy house, Madam Irene’s. You can have one of the girls for a mere seven shillings.”

“That is the last thing I would want!” My voice was shrill.

“Henry, surely you must know that I would not actually suggest...”

“Forgive me. Yes, I do know that. My nerves are...”

“Well, let us go—the infernal regions await us.” Sherlock turned down an alley.

Within a few yards, the rainy stinking darkness swallowed us up. The black walls rose on either side, only a window or two showing a flicker of light from within. The odor was a dreadful blend: human excrement, a rancid fatty smell, wood and coal smoke, something faintly rotten. I was glad I could not see what I was stepping in. These tenements had no plumbing; the refuse of the people packed into the dark cold rooms ended up in this foul alley. The frigid rain made a constant, gentle murmur.

“What a stench,” I said.

“You should try a visit in the summer. This is nothing.”

“What is it? It seems more than...”

“There is a rendering plant not half a mile from here, and next to it, a slaughterhouse.”

We came out of the narrow alley and turned onto a wider cobblestone street. Here and there a streetlamp cast a feeble halo of rainy light. The buildings were mostly brick, the windows smashed out or boarded up. A group of men huddled about near a lamp, and a few pedestrians, all men in groups of two or more, walked the streets. Somewhere above us I heard a woman wailing.

“This is better than that alley,” I murmured.

Sherlock’s beaked, blackened visage was grotesque in the dim light. “We were safer in the darkness there.”

The air was so damp that the rain seemed to come from every direction, to swirl from the side, to even fall upwards. My face was wet and very cold. I kept my hands in my pockets, my arms pressed to my side. The rain had penetrated the toes of my pathetic boots, and my stockings felt soggy.

Sherlock crossed the street to avoid passing too near any group of men; hence our path zigzagged back and forth. After about five
minutes, I saw before us a particularly vile-looking man, much taller than his companions, a dilapidated top hat augmenting his height. His nose was bulbous, a mass of scar tissue covered his right cheek, and his complexion was sallow under the streetlight. I could imagine butter, rather than fat, filling that bloated, fleshy neck.

I turned away from that visage and was relieved (prematurely) when we had left behind us the man and his companions—four short, black, beetle-like creatures.

“’Ey, you two ugly crows! Come back ’ere!”

Something icy slithered up my spine, the muscles in my groin tightening.

“I mean you two stinkin’ turds! Come ’ere—
now
.”

“Damnation,” Sherlock muttered. With a sigh, he gazed up at the solid brick facade of a building, and then walked over to it. “Keep your back to the wall,” he whispered. “And do not use the revolver until I tell you to.”

I watched the big man and his four compatriots approach us. He had a horrible smile on his face. With them was a mangy little black dog. “I told you nice-like to come ’ere, didn’t I?” His malice was gleeful.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, his eyes widening. “You stinkin’ lousy swine—you dirty fat pig—I’ll cut open yer stinkin’ rotten guts and feed ’em to yer dog, I will! By God, I will!” As he screamed these words, he withdrew an evil-looking knife, the blade over six inches long, and a leather-covered club.

The dog whimpered and retreated. The big man’s smile had vanished, and his companions backed away. “’Ere now, mate. I...”

“Don’t mate me!” Holmes yelled. “You want trouble—you can have it! Step closer and I’ll cut the fat off you—I’ll slice you wide open!”

I stared in horror at Holmes. His eyes were those of a madman, his face totally contorted with rage.

The big man took a step back. He had pulled a cosh from his own pocket, but it seemed more a defensive reflex that a threat. “Easy now, mate.”

“Call me mate again, and I’ll cut out yer liver and feed it to the rats.”

The big man smiled, his fear obvious. “Easy now.” He realized his friends had deserted him. “I’ll just be off.”

“Yer damn right you will! Get away, all of you—get away from me!” The other men and the dog fled, and their chief walked as rapidly as his massive bulk allowed. “Stinkin’ pig! Come back ’ere if you want trouble! I’ll make stinkin’ bacon strips of you!” Sherlock stepped forward.

“For God’s sake.” I seized his arm, convinced he was going after them.

He brusquely shook me off, and then turned, a playful smile pulling at his lips. His eyes, however, did not appear quite normal. “Rather convincing, I trust?”

“Good Lord, yes!”

“Hurry, before they change their minds.” He pocketed his weapons and strode away.

My hands were still trembling. “Truly, I thought you had gone mad.”

“Excellent. That was the impression I wanted. Even a base ruffian fears a true lunatic, especially one with a knife. There is no predicting what such a man will do.”

The rain had let up, but the foggy mist still soaked us. A breeze assailed my nose with some fatty rancid odor, and I thought of the rendering plant and slaughterhouse.

“Is it much further?” I could not keep the desperation from my voice.

“We are nearly there, and you have done quite well.”

Holmes turned right at another alley. The walls were only ten feet apart, and the stench of excrement returned. I remembered Sherlock’s open-toed boot and shuddered. My feet were damp, but at least
that
could not get inside. High above us was a forlorn strip of grayish-red sky—even it appeared unclean—and ahead to our left a gas fixture hung from a bracket on the brick wall. The light shone on a sign for the Sporting Tavern.

Sherlock stopped to hand me the cosh and knife. “You may want to wave these about. Remember to appear truculent. Ratty knows me too well for me to play the lunatic with him.”

I shook my head. “He comes to a place like this for amusement?”

“Yes. A former denizen of Underton, he still has a sentimental fondness for the old neighborhood.”

Holmes opened the sturdy oaken door and went inside. The air was warm and so thick with smoke that one could have saved one’s own tobacco and simply inhaled deeply. The din was dreadful: loud talk, laughter, drunken singing, glasses being slammed down on tables, chairs scraped across the floor. The men were a rough lot, most wearing worn gray or black coats, bowlers or cloth caps. Sherlock had certainly dressed us appropriately; no one paid us any attention.

“Would you prefer...?” A curse drowned out his words, and he leaned closer and shouted, “Gin or beer—which would you prefer?”

“Neither.”

“I shall get you something for appearance’s sake. You need not drink it.” Sherlock clapped a coin on the counter. “Two pints of stout.” Behind the bar on the wall were photographs of several pugilists, many with faces as battered as the bartender’s. “Ratty will be upstairs,” Holmes said, handing me my glass.

We managed to cross the packed floor without spilling too much of our beer, then went up the rickety stairway to a big open room. At its center, a gas fixture with several branches and lamps hung from the ceiling illuminating the circus. The round wooden circus was painted white, its diameter about ten feet, its sides about three feet high. Men
were crowded about, most of them talking, many holding small dogs. Several of the dogs barked or yapped, their voices generally high-pitched. To one side was a raised platform where several worthies sat. Two of them were so striking I knew at once who they must be.

“Ratty and Moley,” I murmured.

“Yes.” Sherlock weaved through the crowd toward them.

I brushed against a man; his dog—a nearly hairless white-and-black creature—gave a bark and snapped at my arm. “Watch yerself!” snarled his owner, equally vicious.

Holmes bent closer. “Stay as far from the dogs as you can. Most of them know what is to come, and they have worked themselves into a frenzy.”

Sherlock stepped up onto the platform. Another former pugilist—this one in a dark suit of a respectable cut and fabric—stood.

Ratty seized the man’s wrist. “Leave him be. They are friends.” He rose and extended a hand, the smile on his face turning my already queasy stomach. “Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are looking well, but I can’t say much for your tailor.”

Holmes shook his hand. “Good evening, Ratty.” He nodded at the man behind Ratty who slowly stood, rising higher, ever higher.

Their nicknames were appropriate, although Moley was a monster mole, one closer in size to an elephant. He was as tall as Donald Wheelwright but terribly fat. He must have weighed nearly four hundred pounds, perhaps over four hundred. His face was oddly diminutive, and the thick lenses of his spectacles shrank his eyes, making them appear tiny. His head was quite bald, the curved pate narrower by far than his massive neck. He wore the only black frock coat in the room, one that must have taken yards of worsted.

Ratty was only slightly over five feet tall. The outspread ears, the pronounced overbite, the thin face with its pointed chin, and above all,
the small, malevolent eyes did create the impression of a large rodent. He wore a brown tweed suit and a black bowler. Brownish-gray curls fluffed out from under the brim, vainly attempting to conceal his enormous ears. His companions, except for Moley, also wore dark suits and bowlers; but none had so fine a suit, or a hat so spotless, the nap so new.

Ratty gestured at the wooden chairs. “Have a seat, Mr. Holmes. And who is your friend here?”

“This is Herr Heinrich Verniger, originally of Berlin. He is a talented man with a knife or cosh. I brought him along as a precaution.”

Ratty squinted at me, a smile baring his slender, sharp teeth. “Have a seat, Mr. Vinegar.”

For a native of Underton, Ratty’s diction was fairly good—he must have had some coaching from a teacher of elocution—but the German “Verniger” was too much for him.

We sat in the front row, the place of honor, surrounded by Ratty’s gang. Holmes was next to Ratty, and beyond loomed Moley’s massive bulk, his bald head rising above all else like the dome of a church.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it has been a while. It is good to see you under more pleasurable circumstances.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes. My note suggested the reason for my visit. I wished to discuss any unusual activities you may have noticed.”

“That’s why I’m only too happy to see you. I was hoping
you
could tell me what’s what. Someone’s out there, Mr. Holmes. Someone’s stirring up things and causing trouble, especially with the whores. My peers...” He seemed to relish the irony of this word so much that he repeated it. “My peers and I generally get along, and we have our ways of knowing what each other is up to, but some new bloke has entered the game, some sly devil. Can you tell me who he is?”

Holmes shook his head brusquely. “No. Unfortunately I cannot.”

Ratty leered. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you know about the girl connected with Lord Harrington’s death?”

“Of course. Stupid little baggage. Auntie Carlson was the brains behind that—or the front for the brains, anyway.”

“Does Auntie Carlson have a large and intimidating presence?”

“She surely does. She’s the one what was living with her two ‘nieces.’”

“And do you know what has become of her?”

Ratty gave a sharp laugh, inhaling through his nose as he did so. “Now that is the interesting part. In general, if I want to find someone—especially someone as obvious as Auntie Carlson—I can. But she’s vanished.”

“Have you also heard of the theft of George Herbert’s diamond necklace?”

Ratty nodded. “Same kind of business. The housekeeper’s also vanished, but the necklace itself is for sale. The dealer is hoping to find someone who will buy it as is. It’d be a shame to cut up such a beauty. Must be some swell willing to keep it locked up, secret like, only take it out once in a while to admire. Maybe put it and little else on his doxie.” He laughed again, and I had the irrational, suicidal urge to strike him. “I tried to find the housekeeper. Thieving is a dangerous occupation, not fit for an old woman. She could fall prey to all sorts of villains with such a trinket. I could offer her my protection.” Again he relished the irony of a word. “I’d’ve given her a fair cut, but someone beat me to it.”

“How do you know that?”

“How else would it’ve got to a dealer so fast? Many servants steal things, then realize they don’t know how to dispose of the merchandise. They’re shocked when they find they can get back only a fraction of the value. This old lady was with the Herberts twenty years or so. Where’s she going to make the contacts to unload a hot necklace? She’s not, but it was up for sale two days later. Some clever bloke planned
the whole thing. A nice bit of business that—very professionally done. No breaking and ent’ring, no stupid cracksmen having at the safe. From what I hear, if it wasn’t for you, Herbert wouldn’t even know the necklace was gone.”

“That is so.” Sherlock’s voice revealed his pride.

“You and me, Mr. Holmes, we know better than to leave valuables lying about the house. I keep my money and any special goods in the bank.”

The crowd of men began to cheer, while the dogs simultaneously barked or howled. Approaching the ring was a man holding before him an enormous wire cage some three feet tall. Inside, packed to the top, was a writhing, shifting mass of small gray, brown, and black forms. He set the cage into the ring, then swung his legs over the wall. I watched in horror as he unfastened some latches and raised the top, letting the rats swarm into the small circus. Some ran about; others washed at their whiskered snouts with tiny paws. Some stood against the walls seeming to reflect on how they might escape. Many must have come from the sewers, for the stench was terrible.