the recent outbreak of blackmail and the mysterious Angels.”
I gave my head a shake. “He sounds like a thoroughly despicable specimen of humanity.”
“Oh, he is—although considering him human may be something of a compliment.” He frowned slightly and stared at me through the steamy air. “We are not on the best of terms. I have frustrated certain schemes of his, but I also saved the life of his... friend, Moley.”
“Moley?
Holmes smiled. “Hardly. One would not allow children anywhere near these two creatures.” He closed his eyes and sat back.
“Well?”
He did not open his eyes. “‘Well’ what?”
“Are you going to arrange to meet with Ratty and Moley?”
“I am.”
“But what of the risk you mentioned?”
“I shall take it.”
Not being by nature one who relishes danger and adventure, I hesitated. “Do you want me to accompany you?”
Sherlock’s dark eyebrows sank, a half-inch vertical line appearing on either side of the bridge of his nose. “Ratty favors a certain decrepit tavern in Underton, the worst rookery in London, and he holds a man’s life very cheap.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry despite the hot moist air. “Then I doubt you will want to venture into the lion’s den alone.”
Holmes was quiet for a moment. At last he opened his eyes. “No, I would not wish to go alone.”
“I shall come with you.”
“As I have said, the risk is considerable. Speak with Michelle before you hazard your life.”
“Knowing her, if I do, she will wish to accompany us.”
Holmes frown deepened. “Absolutely not.”
“Do you think I would allow such a thing? I shall make some excuse and come with you.”
Holmes opened his mouth, and then closed it. Finally, he said, “I should be grateful for your company, but do not feel obliged. Should you change your mind I shall certainly understand.” He closed his eyes again and let his head rest back against the tiles.
“Will it be safer for two people to visit Ratty than for one?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then I shall come.”
Holmes said nothing, and I closed my own eyes and tried—in vain—to regain the warm, easy comfort I had felt earlier.
“Thank you, Henry.”
Sunday was an uneventful day, and I worked to put our prospective visit out of mind. Perhaps, after all, “Ratty” would not wish to meet with Sherlock. Monday further lulled me into a sense of security. However, Tuesday I received a telegram asking me to be at Baker Street by eight p.m. should I wish to visit Mr. Mortimer R. Grace. My stomach lurched. I thought of backing out, but I knew I could never forgive myself should anything happen to my cousin.
I told Michelle that Sherlock wanted me to accompany him, but I did not mention the danger involved. However, I almost gave myself away with my farewell embrace. My eyes grew teary as I thought how much I loved her and as I reflected that I might not see her again. She knew me too well not to sense that something was wrong, but I rushed out before she could question me.
The weather was foul, a cold blustery rain, and Holmes’ sitting room was so warm and inviting I would have gladly remained behind, even were our endeavor not so perilous. He sat in a wicker chair before the fire, legs crossed, a pipe with a long stem between his lips. He wore the purple dressing gown and his favorite slippers. One would have thought he was settled in for the night.
He withdrew his watch, noted the time and gestured at a chair with his long graceful fingers. “Have a seat, Henry. You are early. Warm yourself by the fire.” He took a long draw from the pipe. “It is as I thought. We shall have to enter the singularly unpleasant Underton rookery and meet Ratty at the Sporting Tavern. There we have the exciting spectacle of some ratting to anticipate.”
“Ratting?”
Holmes gave an ironic smile. “Although not as popular as in Dickens’ day, it remains a favorite sporting event of the less fortunate. Rats are turned loose in a miniature circus and then the competing dogs, one by one, are set upon the unfortunate rodents. The dog who slays the most rats is champion.”
“Good Lord—such things still go on?”
“One may sympathize with the bear, the cock, or the dog: hence the prohibition of their combats. Rats, however, have few friends.” Sherlock exhaled a cloud of smoke, the bowl of the pipe nestled in his right hand. “We shall have to go incognito. I fear we must be nearly as filthy as our friends Mr. Brownstone and Mr. Blackdrop.”
I gave him an annoyed look. “Oh, not again.”
“Our journey will be dangerous enough disguised as ruffians, but were two prosperous gentlemen to pass through Underton after dark, they would not last five minutes.” He stood, tapped the bowl of the pipe into the fire, and set the pipe alongside its companions in the rack on the mantel. “Come.”
The clothing did not stink quite so much this time, but was still frightfully soiled. We put on black trousers, jackets, and hats. The bowlers were the same as before. I recognized the torn brim on Holmes’. His jacket had once been a frock coat, but all the buttons and the silk on the lapels were gone, the right sleeve badly torn at the elbow. The waistcoat had been a garish, black-and-white checkered affair, but now it was dirty gray. At least my shoes were still whole—barely, given the worn leather—but Sherlock’s left boot was open at the toe.
“Your foot will be soaked,” I said.
“No matter.”
He dirtied our faces and hands, and then blackened a few teeth. He smiled and nodded. “Very good, even if I do say so.” With his skeletal frame and that gaunt face with its piercing eyes and beaked nose, he did appear rather threatening.
“I would not wish to encounter you on a dark street.”
His smile was reassuring. “You also appear rather intimidating. By the way, you are to play the part of my bodyguard. Try to appear as truculent and as fierce as possible.”
“Your bodyguard? Who would believe...?”
“You are tall, your fists and shoulders large. I know you have histrionic talents. Use them. Be silent but threatening. We shall have other reserves.” He pulled open a drawer, removed a revolver, the metal a sinister blue-black, and handed it to me. “Be careful with this.”
“You know I cannot hit the proverbial broad side of a barn.”
“There are no barns where we are going, and if you need to use it, I doubt it will be from a distance.” He tried to close the drawer, but it was too full of clothing. From a second drawer, he took out another revolver, which he examined and put in his coat pocket. He was searching for something else, but I turned away.
Outside the wind had picked up, and the rain seemed ready to become a downpour. “I suppose umbrellas would be out of character,” I said.
“Most assuredly. Ah, Blunt is waiting for us, our Charon with his black barque.”
Across the street, in the pool of light from a streetlamp, sat a battered black hansom. Both driver and horse had seen better days. The black horse’s ribs were showing, his weary misery evident in his drooping posture. The driver’s black mackintosh appeared waterproof, but the rain had pooled and dribbled off his worn top hat. His face was gaunt and white, an odd leer twisting his mouth. The sight reminded me of those grim medieval paintings of Death or the Plague, a hideous skeleton upon his chariot pulled by a skeleton horse.
“Blunt!” Holmes cried. “As we arranged, you will take us to the Running Fox Tavern.”
“Certainly, Mr. ’Olmes.” Blunt’s teeth, what was left of them, were brown and rotting. He coughed once, a sound that made me think of the wasted lungs and tumorous masses I had seen in anatomy cadavers.
“I thought I told you when I last tipped you to give your horse a decent meal.”
