Andrew Lane - Red Leech

Disembarkation at New York was a chaotic affair. Everyone was trying to get down the gangplank at the same time with their luggage, and the number of passengers suddenly seemed to have doubled, with everyone from steerage suddenly appearing on deck and blinking at the bright sunlight. Eventually, however, all the passengers ended up in a large warehouse-type building, where lines formed and people were called forward to a row of desks where immigration officials in uniforms and with serious, humourless faces checked everyone’s documents. Sherlock could make out hundreds of voices talking in as many different accents, and mentions of final destinations like Chicago, Pennsylvania, Boston, Virginia and Baltimore.

Sherlock caught sight of Rufus Stone in a different queue. The violinist had his case slung over his shoulder. Apart from that he seemed to have precious little in the way of luggage. He turned and caught sight of Sherlock, and winked. Sherlock smiled back.

The German — Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin — was also in another queue. His stiff back and his frown suggested that he wasn’t used to waiting, or to mixing with people of such a different social class. He didn’t look around at all. Instead he just stared straight ahead, apparently wishing he was anywhere else but there.

The ship had docked alongside many other ships belonging to different shipping lines, all set along the extensive harbour area. Most of them were iron — or wooden-hulled with two huge paddle wheels on the sides, but Sherlock noticed a smattering of smaller wooden ships that still used sails, and some more modern iron ones that appeared to have a set of metal blades on an axle at the back.

The weather was hot and stifling. It reminded Sherlock of the engine room of the SS Scotia, but with an additional smell of sewage added on top. He tried to breathe as little as possible, standing with Virginia behind Amyus Crowe as the big American dealt with a particularly dour immigration official, then following him outside into the open air of America.

America! He was in a different country! Excitedly, Sherlock looked around, trying to catalogue the differences between England and America. The sky was the same blue, of course, and the people looked identical to the ones he’d left behind, but there was something indefinably different. Maybe it was the cut of the clothes, or the architectural style of the buildings, or something he couldn’t even put his finger on, but America was different from England.

Crowe managed to secure a cab — one of hundreds that were queuing up for the disembarking passengers — and they set off through the amazingly wide dirt streets of New York. Most of the buildings were either made of wood or of a brown stone that must have been quarried locally. The wooden buildings were typically only one or two storeys tall, but the brownstone ones could be four or five storeys, and many of them had a basement level accessible via steps. A large number of the buildings nearest the harbour were either hotels, boarding houses, restaurants or bars, but as the cab headed into the city Sherlock spotted more and more shops and offices, as well as large tenement buildings where hundreds of people lived together but in their own separate sets of rooms. Now that was something you didn’t see in England very often, except possibly in the dangerous Rookery areas of London.

And there were boys on every street corner selling newspapers — four or six sheets of small-print text which they waved over their heads while they called out the juicier headlines — bodies found without their hands, robberies carried out at gunpoint, politicians found to have taken bribes. All human life appeared to be there — well, the seamier side of human life, at least — and each boy seemed to be selling a different newspaper — the Sun, the Chronicle, the Eagle, the Star ... an endless parade of names.

The cab stopped outside a hotel that appeared to be significantly more salubrious than the ones closer to the harbour. Presumably, Sherlock thought, there was some kind of filtering effect going on — the steerage passengers would end up in dingy, dirty, cheap boarding houses close to the water, while the passengers with more money could get further and further away, into the better, cleaner but more expensive areas.

“This is the Jellabee Hotel,” Crowe said as he got out and helped Virginia to the pavement. “I’ve stayed here before. It’s a decent place — at least, it was. The Pinkerton Agency uses it a fair amount. They’re just around the corner. We’ll head in and see if there are any rooms available, then go off for dinner at Niblo’s Garden. Best place in the city.”

While Crowe went up to the front desk to book rooms, Sherlock looked around. Inside, the hotel was, if anything, even hotter than outside. It was, however, neatly kept, with decent carpets underfoot, and the people in the lobby were well-dressed. Most people spoke with a similar accent to Amyus and Virginia Crowe, and to the men they had followed to this country, but Sherlock noticed a smattering of other languages — French, German, Russian and several others that he couldn’t place.

Crowe ambled back, smiling. “I’ve secured a suite of rooms for us,” he said. A sittin’ room plus three bedrooms. When we get Matty back, he’ll have to double up with you, Sherlock.”

“Of course.” Sherlock took heart at the way Crowe said “when” rather than “if” they got Matty back.

They took the stairs to the third floor, where their room was located. Oddly, Sherlock noticed, it was on the second floor.

“Ah,” Crowe rumbled. “Good point. That’s one of the differences between England and America. In England you have a ground floor, a first floor, a second floor and so on. Here in America the ground floor is called the first floor, so we just have a first floor, a second floor and so on. No ground floor.”

“What else do I need to know?” Sherlock asked.

“What you call a pavement, we call a sidewalk. Apart from that, it’s pretty much the same. The money is different, though. We have dollars, dimes and cents, not pounds, shillings and pence. I’ll give you both some money later on. Don’t flash it around.”

The rooms were good — the sitting room had two sofas and several comfortable chairs, along with a writing desk, and a window with a view over the street outside. Sherlock’s bedroom was smaller, but the bed was far softer than the one he had left behind at Holmes Manor. The hotel wasn’t exclusive, by any means, but it obviously catered to guests with money and expectations.

“Can I go out for a walk?” he asked Amyus Crowe.

Crowe thought for a moment. “You’re a smart kid. You think you can find your way back?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“The city’s laid out on a grid system: pretty logical to follow” He crossed to the writing desk and picked up a sheet of headed paper. “If you get lost, ask for the Jellabee Hotel. The address is on here. Don’t get involved with any street corner card games, don’t flash any money around an’ don’t give anyone any cheek. If you find yourself in a location called “Five Points” then get out as quickly as you can. You’ll know you’re in Five Points because of the smell — the place is full of turpentine distilleries, glue factories and slaughterhouses. Follow those rules and you’ll be OK.” He delved in his pocket and handed over a handful of notes and coins. “That should buy you somethin’ to eat, if you get hungry, or a cab to get you back.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m goin’ to find out when the SS Great Eastern docked. An’ if it hasn’t docked I’m goin’ to find out when it’s due in.”