Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

I stared in horror at Holmes. His eyes were those of a madman, his face totally contorted with rage.

The big man took a step back. He had pulled a cosh from his own pocket, but it seemed more a defensive reflex that a threat. “Easy now, mate.”

“Call me mate again, and I’ll cut out yer liver and feed it to the rats.”

The big man smiled, his fear obvious. “Easy now.” He realized his friends had deserted him. “I’ll just be off.”

“Yer damn right you will! Get away, all of you—get away from me!” The other men and the dog fled, and their chief walked as rapidly as his massive bulk allowed. “Stinkin’ pig! Come back ’ere if you want trouble! I’ll make stinkin’ bacon strips of you!” Sherlock stepped forward.

“For God’s sake.” I seized his arm, convinced he was going after them.

He brusquely shook me off, and then turned, a playful smile pulling at his lips. His eyes, however, did not appear quite normal. “Rather convincing, I trust?”

“Good Lord, yes!”

“Hurry, before they change their minds.” He pocketed his weapons and strode away.

My hands were still trembling. “Truly, I thought you had gone mad.”

“Excellent. That was the impression I wanted. Even a base ruffian fears a true lunatic, especially one with a knife. There is no predicting what such a man will do.”

The rain had let up, but the foggy mist still soaked us. A breeze assailed my nose with some fatty rancid odor, and I thought of the rendering plant and slaughterhouse.

“Is it much further?” I could not keep the desperation from my voice.

“We are nearly there, and you have done quite well.”

Holmes turned right at another alley. The walls were only ten feet apart, and the stench of excrement returned. I remembered Sherlock’s open-toed boot and shuddered. My feet were damp, but at least that could not get inside. High above us was a forlorn strip of grayish-red sky—even it appeared unclean—and ahead to our left a gas fixture hung from a bracket on the brick wall. The light shone on a sign for the Sporting Tavern.

Sherlock stopped to hand me the cosh and knife. “You may want to wave these about. Remember to appear truculent. Ratty knows me too well for me to play the lunatic with him.”

I shook my head. “He comes to a place like this for amusement?”

“Yes. A former denizen of Underton, he still has a sentimental fondness for the old neighborhood.”

Holmes opened the sturdy oaken door and went inside. The air was warm and so thick with smoke that one could have saved one’s own tobacco and simply inhaled deeply. The din was dreadful: loud talk, laughter, drunken singing, glasses being slammed down on tables, chairs scraped across the floor. The men were a rough lot, most wearing worn gray or black coats, bowlers or cloth caps. Sherlock had certainly dressed us appropriately; no one paid us any attention.

“Would you prefer...?” A curse drowned out his words, and he leaned closer and shouted, “Gin or beer—which would you prefer?”

“Neither.”

“I shall get you something for appearance’s sake. You need not drink it.” Sherlock clapped a coin on the counter. “Two pints of stout.” Behind the bar on the wall were photographs of several pugilists, many with faces as battered as the bartender’s. “Ratty will be upstairs,” Holmes said, handing me my glass.

We managed to cross the packed floor without spilling too much of our beer, then went up the rickety stairway to a big open room. At its center, a gas fixture with several branches and lamps hung from the ceiling illuminating the circus. The round wooden circus was painted white, its diameter about ten feet, its sides about three feet high. Men were crowded about, most of them talking, many holding small dogs. Several of the dogs barked or yapped, their voices generally high-pitched. To one side was a raised platform where several worthies sat. Two of them were so striking I knew at once who they must be.

“Ratty and Moley,” I murmured.

“Yes.” Sherlock weaved through the crowd toward them.

I brushed against a man; his dog—a nearly hairless white-and-black creature—gave a bark and snapped at my arm. “Watch yerself!” snarled his owner, equally vicious.

Holmes bent closer. “Stay as far from the dogs as you can. Most of them know what is to come, and they have worked themselves into a frenzy.”

Sherlock stepped up onto the platform. Another former pugilist—this one in a dark suit of a respectable cut and fabric—stood.

Ratty seized the man’s wrist. “Leave him be. They are friends.” He rose and extended a hand, the smile on his face turning my already queasy stomach. “Good evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You are looking well, but I can’t say much for your tailor.”

Holmes shook his hand. “Good evening, Ratty.” He nodded at the man behind Ratty who slowly stood, rising higher, ever higher.

Their nicknames were appropriate, although Moley was a monster mole, one closer in size to an elephant. He was as tall as Donald Wheelwright but terribly fat. He must have weighed nearly four hundred pounds, perhaps over four hundred. His face was oddly diminutive, and the thick lenses of his spectacles shrank his eyes, making them appear tiny. His head was quite bald, the curved pate narrower by far than his massive neck. He wore the only black frock coat in the room, one that must have taken yards of worsted.

Ratty was only slightly over five feet tall. The outspread ears, the pronounced overbite, the thin face with its pointed chin, and above all, the small, malevolent eyes did create the impression of a large rodent. He wore a brown tweed suit and a black bowler. Brownish-gray curls fluffed out from under the brim, vainly attempting to conceal his enormous ears. His companions, except for Moley, also wore dark suits and bowlers; but none had so fine a suit, or a hat so spotless, the nap so new.

Ratty gestured at the wooden chairs. “Have a seat, Mr. Holmes. And who is your friend here?”

“This is Herr Heinrich Verniger, originally of Berlin. He is a talented man with a knife or cosh. I brought him along as a precaution.”

Ratty squinted at me, a smile baring his slender, sharp teeth. “Have a seat, Mr. Vinegar.”

For a native of Underton, Ratty’s diction was fairly good—he must have had some coaching from a teacher of elocution—but the German “Verniger” was too much for him.

We sat in the front row, the place of honor, surrounded by Ratty’s gang. Holmes was next to Ratty, and beyond loomed Moley’s massive bulk, his bald head rising above all else like the dome of a church.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, it has been a while. It is good to see you under more pleasurable circumstances.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes. My note suggested the reason for my visit. I wished to discuss any unusual activities you may have noticed.”

“That’s why I’m only too happy to see you. I was hoping you could tell me what’s what. Someone’s out there, Mr. Holmes. Someone’s stirring up things and causing trouble, especially with the whores. My peers...” He seemed to relish the irony of this word so much that he repeated it. “My peers and I generally get along, and we have our ways of knowing what each other is up to, but some new bloke has entered the game, some sly devil. Can you tell me who he is?”

Holmes shook his head brusquely. “No. Unfortunately I cannot.”

Ratty leered. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you know about the girl connected with Lord Harrington’s death?”

“Of course. Stupid little baggage. Auntie Carlson was the brains behind that—or the front for the brains, anyway.”

“Does Auntie Carlson have a large and intimidating presence?”