George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

“What… could you do to him, miss?”

She makes a grab for me. “Give me the letter, you little whelp!”

She’s awfully quick in those clicky heels, but I’m quicker, and I’m off like a shot again, running down the way she came as she takes off after me, shrieking all sorts of awful things. Worst part is, she gets a lot farther than the fella from before, and by the time I’ve lost her and can stop running for a few minutes, I’m well off track. I’ve gone in the complete opposite direction I should be going, and now I have to turn back and retrace my steps. Or rather, find some new steps. No way am I going back the same route I came. Not when I’ve got two people willing to come after me over this letter.

I know Mr Holmes said to keep to the back alleys, but as you can sort of tell, I’m not having the best of luck with those. I’m starting to think I’ll hide better in plain view. Because they’re all looking for me back where no one’s ever looking. I know he said don’t take the main roads, and I’m all about following orders to the letter… but I’m thinking maybe surviving long enough to get the letter where it’s going is more important than how I do it at this point.

So I take a few turns and eventually make my way back out to the main road, keeping my head low and my hands in my pockets, just sort of doing my best to blend in, right? That’s not too hard. There’s people everywhere. And it’s going to look really suspicious if anyone tries to manhandle a boy in public in broad daylight.

Ah, but you’ve probably already suspected that someone’s going to try anyway. And you’re right. Someone else walks right up to me, in the middle of everything… and he just sort of stands there. I’d try to step around him, but he’s tall and wide so I know I won’t be getting far unless I shoo him off somehow.

I look up at him – have to tip my head all the way back to do it. He’s huge and fat, balding on top, and his face and bald pate are pinkish and gleaming with sweat, even in the cold. He’s got a massive scraggly ginger beard, and this strange sort of panicked grin on his face like he’s afraid his heart’s about to give out at any moment but he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Really, there’s something so unsettling about him, I’m ready to scream for help even though he’s not said anything yet.

“Hello there.” His voice is a lot reedier than I would’ve expected it to be. And he’s still smiling, fussing with his hands while he talks to me.

I give him a “Hello there” back. And he just stands there. Smiling. Smiling like I ought to know what to say next. I think at this point I’ve caught that terrified smile of his, because I can feel my face cramping up.

I try to keep my voice from going all wobbly, and I say, “You need anything, sir?”

And he sort of chuckles, like, that laugh grown-ups do when you’ve said something silly but they’re not going to tell you why it’s silly. He takes out a handkerchief and he dabs at his shiny forehead, but he doesn’t give me an answer.

“Right, well, if you don’t need anything, I’ll be on my way.”

I start to walk past him, and he puts a big hand on my shoulder. Not clamping down or anything, just sort of there , like the fact that he’s done it should be enough to stop me. Granted, I’m so confused by how he’s acting that it does.

“I see, you have to play dumb in public,” he says, and he’s trying to look all jovial, but he just looks like a sweaty, ginger St Nick. “I know how it is. Very wise of you. Don’t want anyone catching on you’ve spotted me, do we?”

“If I knew who you were, sir –”

“Very good, very good!” He claps me on the shoulder. “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your discretion, young lad. Most people would have called the authorities as soon as they laid eyes on me.”

Would they? I could see someone slipping away nervously, but not much more than that. I still regret what I said next, but off I go and say, “And why would that be, sir?”

He squints at me. The smile’s gone now. When he’s not smiling, his face goes all threatening, like a great gorilla thinking whether it might like to squash you. “You’re taking this game a little too far, boy. I might almost think you actually don’t know who I am.” He tugs on his collar a bit like it’s choking him. “And considering who you are, and considering who I am, that’s highly unlikely.”

“Right. Well, either way, I do have somewhere to be.”

“Yes.” Oh, there’s that grin again. Like a little boy grin. That’s a grin too young to be on that old face. It’s unnerving is what it is. “Yes, I know. I know, I do. You’d better run along and, er, get your message delivered.”

Now at this I nearly just chuck the letter on the ground and start stomping up and down on it. How does everyone know? Why does everyone know? But I just give him a tight smile and start trying to get past him again. Except he’s still got that big, flabby hand on my shoulder.

“Just… out of curiosity,” he says, “what does he say about me?”

“What does who say about what?”

The hand on my shoulder squeezes. “Charles Hart, boy. Charles Hart.”

“I don’t know what Charles Hart says about you.”

His hand is like a vice, and it nearly makes me drop. “ I’m Charles Hart, you little –” His grip loosens and he laughs that odd strained laugh again. “Very clever, very clever. Nearly had me there. No matter, I’m sure it’s about the, er, tobacconist incident.”

All I want is to be away from him and his reedy laugh and his strange smile as soon as possible. So I go, “Right, right. Well, what else would it be about? Who doesn’t know about the tobacconist incident?” And I pat my jacket and give him a wink and just hope I’m not shaking as much as I feel like I am. “Better be on my way, then.”

“Yes, guess you better had.” Finally his hand’s off my shoulder and he gives a chuckle and shuffles off. I rub my shoulder where he gripped it, and I’m thinking maybe I should be a bit more worried about this than I am. But considering he seems happy thinking I’m off to report him to Scotland Yard or the Archbishop of Canterbury or whoever, I’m not going to think too hard about it.

Meanwhile, nobody else has come after me, and I’m finally starting to get closer to Dr Watson’s. Can’t be much longer now, surely. I know what Mr Holmes said, but I’m about finished dealing with these people, so I decide to take as straight a path possible. No stealth, no cover, no nothing. Beeline. Main streets, a hop over a fence here and there…

I’m parched.

There’s a teashop just in front of me. And in front of it is a lady in a fancy black dress and gloves. She’s short and skinny and sort of dark, with her black hair all piled up on her head. I’m standing there wondering about how long it took to get it to stay up like that, but then she squats down so we’re eye to eye.

“You look thirsty.”

I start running.

The lady starts laughing. And it’s not a weird, tinkly villain laugh like the other lady, and it’s not a nervous laugh like the man before. It’s sort of sweet and charming, like we’re old friends teasing each other. That’s confused me, so I stop running and look back. And she’s just smiling at me.

Now, you’ve heard the sort of day I’ve had up ’til now. Any time someone runs into me, it turns sour quickly. At this point I’m pretty sure I’ll never talk to anyone ever again, save for my parents and maybe Mr Holmes. Maybe.

But there’s this lady, and she’s smiling and waving to me all friendly. Not examining my uniform or looking impatient. She looks really proper nice.