“Yes, but this rain is a good thing. The roving bands like the one we met earlier will prefer to stay indoors until it lets up. It is time to consider what we might have to eat and drink when we return to Baker Street. We deserve some reward for this evening’s work.”
“Nothing for me. I shall never eat again.”
“Perhaps curried rats tails?”
“Sherlock!” In spite of myself, a strange, outraged laugh burst from my lips.
He gave a great roar of laughter, drowning out the steady sound of the rain on the dark stones about us. “Forgive me, it was a very ill jest, but one I could not resist.” He stopped before an alley. “And here is the gateway back to the surface, back for me—I who have no Michelle—to
We started down the alley, the featureless brick walls rising on each side. “You had your chance,” I said. “Ratty offered you a night with the lovely Jeanne du Baisers.”
Holmes was briefly silent, and I could barely see the black shape of him beside me, let alone his face. The alley was quieter and somewhat sheltered from the downpour.
“Ah, yes, the lovely Mademoiselle Du Baisers. One can imagine how lovely, how radiant, such a woman must be.” His voice was full of loathing.
“When we reach the end of this alley are we almost to the Running Fox?”
“Yes, it is just around the corner.”
The light from the street ahead of us spilled into the alley, and I could see the raindrops’ slanted fall. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but already it seemed to smell cleaner. I staggered out into the street and swung my arms about, staring up at the cloudy heavens. The raindrops stung my cheeks and eyes. My hat fell off.
“Saved!” I cried. “Shall I kiss the ground?”
Holmes smiled. The rain had smeared the blackening on his face, and his dark clothing was soaked. All the same, he seemed as oddly happy as I. “I cannot recommend it. While not the equal of the alley, the pavement here is none too clean.”
We started down the street, and abruptly the rain diminished. A great quiet seemed to settle about us. A lone carriage passed, the horse’s hooves clopping regularly on the street. It stopped ahead of us at the stately old house with the two streetlights.
“I am so glad to be out of there,” I mumbled. Never again would I volunteer for any insane adventures!
Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me back against the wall, clapping his other hand over my mouth. All my fears returned at once. “What?” I tried to say, but could not speak through his hand.
“We are in no danger. Be quiet and still. Do you understand?” I nodded, and he lowered his hand. “Look over there.”
We were in the shadows and behind a hedge of bushes and a thick tree trunk. Across the street, two women stood in the doorway talking. One was older and wore a gaudy, elaborate gown; the other was a slight figure in a black dress, bonnet, and coat. The older woman seemed to be thanking the younger woman.
“That is Madam Irene,” Holmes whispered. “The brothel is hers.”
I frowned. The younger woman was twisted partly away, and the light on the porch was not good. Still, she seemed oddly familiar.
“Good night, and bless you,” exclaimed the older woman, her voice ringing out. “Truly you are an Angel of the Lord!”
The woman in black turned and started down the walkway to the waiting hansom. The light from the streetlamp fell full on her face, showing her pale skin, thin nose, and tight lips. The bonnet sat back on her head so that we could see the black hair parted in the middle.
“Good Lord,” I said.
“Hush!”
She seemed almost to hear me, for she hesitated and gazed about. We did not move. She went to the end of the walkway where she was hidden from us by the cab. The driver climbed back up, then snapped his whip and started down the dark, barren street.
Holmes took a deep breath, then released my arm. “Mrs. Lovejoy?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Lovejoy.”
Henry had behaved so strangely before he left that I resolved to wait up for him. He returned just before midnight, murmured, “Thank God,” and gave me an embrace that took my breath away. I demanded to know where he had been, and when he hesitated, I told him we must not try to deceive one another. Clearly, he was relieved to tell me the truth.
The mention of Underton made the back of my neck feel cold. I listened silently as he related the whole nightmarish story—the tubercular coachman, Sherlock’s performance as a lunatic, the encounter with Ratty and Moley, the disgusting spectacle of the ratting, and the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Lovejoy. My anxiety grew, manifesting itself as a tightness in my throat and chest. When he was finished, I began to weep, an action that surprised us both.
He tried to comfort me—I was not only fearful but outraged. “How could you do such a thing and not even tell me? How could you?”
His own eyes filled with tears as he apologized.
We sat together by the fire a long while. Henry was badly chilled from being wet and cold for so long. We actually fell asleep, and only later did we wake and go upstairs.
The next day, Wednesday, was my day at the clinic. Violet was there although I had told her not to come. She was not squeamish, but the harried pace and the frightful condition of most of the patients were agitating and disturbing. She did not look well. She had grown thinner, gaunter, and although she was still undeniably beautiful, she appeared oddly fragile, vulnerable even—qualities I had never associated with her.
She lasted until mid-afternoon, but then, as I was stitching up a nasty wound in a man’s leg, I noticed her turn absolutely white. The patient, a large, heavily muscled workman, lay unconscious from the ether on my improvised operating table.
I turned to Jenny. The contrast between her and Violet was striking. With her youth and rosy complexion, she radiated health and well-being. “See to Violet, my dear. She is about to faint.”
“I am not.” Even as she spoke, her brown eyes grew glassy, and she swayed.
“Hurry,” I said to Jenny.
Violet let her lead her away. Jenny returned almost at once. She shook her head. “Is Mrs. Wheelwright ill? She does not seem herself.”
“She is ill. I told her I thought she should remain at home.”
Jenny’s concern was obvious. “Is it serious?”
“Not yet, but it could be.”
Jenny shook her head. “I cannot understand it. She has everything, has she not? She is beautiful, wealthy, and clever. And yet, she has always seemed so... sad.”
I glanced at Jenny’s blue eyes, the clear, youthful innocence reflected there. If I could not fathom Violet’s torments, how could I begin to explain them to Jenny? I prayed silently that Jenny and her young man might truly learn to love one another. Recently we had talked again, and at least she knew what the whole business was about.
Jenny nodded at the unconscious man. “Can I help?”
“Yes. We are nearly finished. I am going to wash the wound in carbolic one last time, and then I shall be ready for the dressing.”
She handed me the bandage, keeping her eyes focused elsewhere as she did so. I wondered why—bloody wounds and ugly sores did not seem to bother her—then smiled as the answer came to me. My patient was mostly covered, but his thigh was exposed. Jenny had never seen a man’s bare leg before, that pale skin with the short curly hair. My cultivated medical detachment had inured me to such sights.
