Ratty sat back and turned to us. “Now, then, Mr. Holmes, what was you asking about?”
“Have you no idea who is stirring up the prostitutes?”
“I have my suspicions. There is a certain revivalist church group made up of females. Angels of the Lord, they call themselves. Most of the preachers who come round are harmless fools. One such minister came to the house near here, and the girls got so tired of listening to his whining and lamenting about hellfire that they finally jumped him and pulled off his trousers. Gave him a blanket and told him to be gone or they’d strip him naked then start on themselves. I saw that part. You should have seen his face. A big gangly fellow, a blanket wrapped round his scrawny legs.”
Moley’s face reddened and his shoulders began to quake. He rumbled but nothing much came out. Glancing at him, Ratty began to laugh. Moley finally released some air, the sound something like an ill-firing engine, “puh-puh- puh.”
“He was out the door in a flash and ran down the street. What a sight!”
Moley finally opened his mouth, emitting a veritable shriek of laughter, but the cheers and shouts of the crowd soon drowned him out. Another dog careened about the ring, snatching madly at the rats.
“Anyway, these Angels of the Lord are far cleverer than most preachers. They sound like... suffragettes or socialists. They tell my girls they are being exploited and that they need to unite and demand better wages. Now, as I’ve said, any of my girls who wants better wages can get them by moving up the ladder. It’s survival of the fittest, after all. These Angels are a tough lot; a tight group, very secretive. Many of them are former prostitutes or dismissed servants. They tell the girls once their looks are gone they’ll be cast out on the streets. They tell them how bad all men are and how the females have to stick together. It’s very sad. I remember one bright smiling lass who had a great future before her. One of the Angels talked to her, and next thing you knew she was all sullen. Became a regular rotten apple. She tried a bit of blackmail with a poor clerk, and of course I had to let her go.”
Holmes frowned. “And you think... some person is behind the Angels?”
Ratty nodded. “Oh, yes. I know talent when I see it. The head Angel is clever, whoever he is. The Angels may be righteous, but they’re making a good take. The person is misguided: blackmail and theft are a dangerous way to make money. Oh, I’ve tried them both, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but my houses are safer and more reliable.”
“And none of your—” Holmes smiled ironically— “peers knows who is behind the Angels either?”
“No one knows. Like I said, I was hoping you could tell me.”
Holmes’ upper lip curled. “Not yet.”
“Look at that pathetic thing!” Ratty said.
A roar of laughter went up as a fat little terrier was set in the ring and gazed wearily at the rats.
“Get ’em, Tiger!” The owner was heavy himself, with protruding eyes and clenched fists. “Get ’em!”
“E’s too fat to move.”
“Try starvin’ ’im for a week or two next time!”
The humiliated owner withdrew the dog even before the two minutes were up. Holmes’ long fingers made fists, and he pounded lightly at his knees, his jaw thrusting forward. He glanced at me and must have seen the desperation in my eyes. “There is little point in remaining.” He turned to Ratty. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Geoffrey Steerford?”
“Something to do with finance and speculation, isn’t it? Heard of him, but risky investments are not for me. My profits go straight into a good sturdy English bank.”
Holmes took off his hat and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Ratty, thank you for your assistance. I hope to remove this thorn from your flesh. I must be leaving.”
Ratty’s jaw dropped, again revealing his narrow sharp teeth. “So soon? But Prince Albert hasn’t even had his chance yet! Won’t you at least stay for that?”
“I have... other business. And Herr Verniger wishes to return to his wife.”
“Ah.” Ratty gave me a conspiratorial wink, which made me want to slap him. “It seems a shame. Not very polite, it is.” His eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. “I could make you stay.”
Something in his tone of voice made my flesh crawl, and I thought if I had to remain in that stinking, noisy, hellish den for even a minute longer, I would go mad. I slipped my hand into my pocket and seized the revolver handle while trying to look ferocious, not frightened out of my wits. Holmes stared coldly at Ratty, who was the only one smiling now. His men had all gone silent. Moley was frowning, his squinting eyes appearing even tinier behind the thick lenses.
“I think not,” Holmes said.
“No? My pals are good men.”
“Then it would be foolish to risk their lives—or your own.”
Ratty’s nostrils flared, and he gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, very well, be off with you then! I can’t force you to share in our good times.” He laughed again, and his companions joined in. They seemed as relieved as I. “What about your sovereign? I’m sure you’ll win two on it.”
“You may keep them, Ratty. After all, the tip was yours, and you have told me a great deal this evening.” Holmes stood up.
“That’s good of you.” Ratty seemed genuinely pleased although he must already have had a fortune. He rose and nodded at me. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Vinegar.” Moley loomed up behind him.
I nodded and tried to smile. “Yah, yah.”
We set down our glasses on our chairs then stepped off the platform. “Keep me informed!” Ratty shouted. He turned to the pugilist who’d taken his bet. “Jack, another round here—my mouth is positively parched.”
A dog leaped into the ring, teeth bared, and seized a big gray rat by the throat, releasing a spray of blood. Small red splatters now covered the white paint of the floor and the wall.
I shoved aside a man who blocked my way, cursing him angrily. I made it to the stairs and went down them two at a time. My eyes burned from the smoke; they watered and stung.
“Henry!” Holmes shouted. “Henry!”
I strode through the pub, which was half vacant now because of the ratting upstairs, and pulled open the oak door. The cold wet fog enveloped me. After the heat and noise of the ratting den, it was like plunging into a quiet icy stream—a fetid one. The fatty, rancid smell of the rendering plant and the muted decay of the slaughterhouse mingled with the mist. My stomach lurched, and I tasted something hot and foul, which I fought to keep down. My hand groped out as I sagged against the brick wall.
“Henry—what is it?”
“I think I am about to vomit.”
“Little wonder. I should never have brought you with me.”
“Are you mad? You would have faced that odious little vermin alone?”
He seized my arm. “Try walking. It may steady your stomach.”
“Yes. My God, let’s get out of here.” I lunged forward, but his grip tightened.
“I said walking, not running. In another quarter of an hour we will be out of here. In an hour or two you will be with Michelle.”
I made a loud sound between a sob and a laugh. “Can it be? Shall I ever see her again?”
“Of course you will.”
We were in the blackest part of the alley now. Most of the windows on either side were dark. The rain had already soaked my clothes again, and I started to shiver. Holmes still held my arm. “The trip was well worth it, Henry. He told me little I did not know or suspect, but confirmation of one’s theories is of value in a case like this.”
“He is not really a man, is he, Sherlock? He was truly a rat, and the rest of them were not men either. They were dogs—or pigs. Someone—Circe, I suppose—had turned them into swine. Or maybe rats. Did you ever see so many rats? It is the tails I cannot abide. Their bodies are all furry, but those pink hairless tails...”
“Please stop that, Henry. You have shown your bravery. Now show some good sense. Ratty is only a man. Were you to strike him down, another Ratty would arise. It is only a business to him, and he does treat his ‘girls’ fairly well. I thought he might know... If even Ratty and his friends are in the dark, then no one knows.”
We had turned onto the cobblestone street. The rain poured down, drenching us to the skin. A few men were out, but they huddled under the shelter of the eves. I was shivering so hard my teeth wanted to chatter.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. A streetlight lit up the steamy vapor of my breath.
