“And a bonus if you get what I need in time.”
It was negotiated with the efficiency of business transacted many times between trusted partners; Holmes and Wiggins shook gravely upon completion and stepped aside to discuss the particulars. Rather than be left alone with the little gang of pickpockets, thieves, and (I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn) cutthroats, and observing that Miss Mitchell had vanished, I ambled down to the corner and bought one of the racing rags. Holmes met me there, his meeting with the Irregulars concluded, and we were about to turn our steps homeward when I heard a shrill cry.
“Oi! You! Guv—Mr. ’Olmes!”
It was the little wretch from the burned-out house. Holmes paused. “Yes, Miss Mitchell?”
Suddenly shy, she lurched into something along the lines of a curtsy. Perhaps Wiggins had scolded her into manners. Or perhaps she was tottering from drink; there was now the reek of gin emanating from her. “This come for yer. Mr. ’Olmes. Sir.”
She handed him a scrap of folded paper. It was fine stock but, once pristine white, was now smudged by her grubby hand.
“Who gave it to you?” Holmes asked, offering her a coin in exchange for the paper.
The coin vanished quickly. “Young bloke. Not so much better off than us, maybe, but . . . in regular employ. Not sure ’e could’ve wrote it, though. Didn’t seem that smart. But he give me a hit off’n his flask, and a shilling besides.”
“Thank you, éirinn, those are excellent observations. Let me know if you see him again. Better yet, follow him, and find out who he works for, without getting caught, and there’ll be a guinea in it for you. Do you understand?”
Her eyes lit up at the thought of such a fortune. She nodded, and without a word, ran off.
I felt an overwhelming hopelessness in the face of such misery. “Is it fair, Holmes? To encourage them to spy and sneak and God knows what? They ought to be in school or in respectable service.”
“Yes, but they are not. I give them a chance, Watson. To learn that paying attention to detail can be profitable. To learn that work for a wage can be an alternative to begging and thievery. I give them a chance, that is all.”
“It is not much of one,” I said. How much money did I have in my pocket? Never much, but a king’s ransom wouldn’t cure what I saw around me.
“It is considerably more than we were given,” he said darkly.
“We?” Holmes and I seldom trespassed upon each other’s early lives; he took me off-guard, hinting he knew anything of my past or that we shared anything in common.
He held up the note. I could see the tiny, cramped handwriting. It read, “Do not interfere with my investigation of Miss H.”
“My brother Mycroft sends his regards.”
I stared, agape. I had only met Mycroft Holmes a handful of times. A giant of a man, he had an intellect to scale, and while he claimed to be a minor clerk for the British government, I soon learned that he was a spymaster of the first order, with agents around the world who supplied him with a never-ending stream of information. Mycroft ignored me, for the most part, which made me grateful, for I have no shame in admitting that the man terrified me.
I considered once again the radical ways in which Holmes and his brother lived. If one fairly wallowed in the criminal element and the other preferred to be secreted away, dealing at the highest levels of government, I didn’t dare guess what their early lives were like.
Holmes pursed his lips, considering. “Watson, I must make inquiries. Clearly, Mr. Deering’s stout red-headed copyist is working for Chercover, or possibly Miss Hartley.”
“What can I do?”
“Go back to Baker Street. See what you can discover in my files about either of those parties. I suspect Chercover is the reason for Mycroft’s attention, so I’m surprised he said anything to us about Miss Hartley. There is much more going on here than we expected.”
I nodded and departed. I knew that however obscurely Holmes’s brain might work, there was always a reason for his instructions. There was certainly no time to waste, because whatever Mycroft Holmes’s interest in Miss Hartley, it suggested danger to us all.
As I rounded the corner on my way to Baker Street, I found myself accosted by two unpleasant, and all too familiar, toughs. One short and stout, the other tall and thin, like something from a music hall act. But they were not clowns.
The short one said, “Doctor Watson. A word, with you.”
I slowed, cursing under my breath. “Campbell, tell Dermody—”
“Tell me what, Doctor Watson?” A third tough joined us from around the corner, shorter, leaner, and meaner than his messengers. “That you’ll have my money tomorrow? That you’re on to a sure thing? I’ve heard that song from you before.”
“I have the money at home,” I lied, hoping for a chance to escape.