Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“She surely does. She’s the one what was living with her two ‘nieces.’”

“And do you know what has become of her?”

Ratty gave a sharp laugh, inhaling through his nose as he did so. “Now that is the interesting part. In general, if I want to find someone—especially someone as obvious as Auntie Carlson—I can. But she’s vanished.”

“Have you also heard of the theft of George Herbert’s diamond necklace?”

Ratty nodded. “Same kind of business. The housekeeper’s also vanished, but the necklace itself is for sale. The dealer is hoping to find someone who will buy it as is. It’d be a shame to cut up such a beauty. Must be some swell willing to keep it locked up, secret like, only take it out once in a while to admire. Maybe put it and little else on his doxie.” He laughed again, and I had the irrational, suicidal urge to strike him. “I tried to find the housekeeper. Thieving is a dangerous occupation, not fit for an old woman. She could fall prey to all sorts of villains with such a trinket. I could offer her my protection.” Again he relished the irony of a word. “I’d’ve given her a fair cut, but someone beat me to it.”

“How do you know that?”

“How else would it’ve got to a dealer so fast? Many servants steal things, then realize they don’t know how to dispose of the merchandise. They’re shocked when they find they can get back only a fraction of the value. This old lady was with the Herberts twenty years or so. Where’s she going to make the contacts to unload a hot necklace? She’s not, but it was up for sale two days later. Some clever bloke planned the whole thing. A nice bit of business that—very professionally done. No breaking and ent’ring, no stupid cracksmen having at the safe. From what I hear, if it wasn’t for you, Herbert wouldn’t even know the necklace was gone.”

“That is so.” Sherlock’s voice revealed his pride.

“You and me, Mr. Holmes, we know better than to leave valuables lying about the house. I keep my money and any special goods in the bank.”

The crowd of men began to cheer, while the dogs simultaneously barked or howled. Approaching the ring was a man holding before him an enormous wire cage some three feet tall. Inside, packed to the top, was a writhing, shifting mass of small gray, brown, and black forms. He set the cage into the ring, then swung his legs over the wall. I watched in horror as he unfastened some latches and raised the top, letting the rats swarm into the small circus. Some ran about; others washed at their whiskered snouts with tiny paws. Some stood against the walls seeming to reflect on how they might escape. Many must have come from the sewers, for the stench was terrible.

Ratty leaned forward. “They’re about to begin. Nothing like the good old sport. Care to place a bet, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am not familiar enough with the dogs to make a wager.”

“I could give you some good counsel. It’s only for small stakes here—a pound or two is a big bet. And it’s all honest and above reproach, more so than with the horses.”

Holmes shrugged, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a sovereign.

Ratty turned to his companion who had been listening silently but attentively to the conversation. “What do you say, Moley? Which dog will it be?” He put his hand briefly on the other man’s thigh then quickly withdrew it. I had an odd sensation at the back of my neck.

Moley’s voice was a rolling basso profundo which contrasted with Ratty’s shrill tenor. “Curly is the favorite, but Prince Albert is ’ere tonight and looks ’ungry. I says Albert.”

Ratty nodded. “Albert it is.” He took two gold coins from his coin purse and beckoned to the burly former pugilist. “Put these three sovereigns on Prince Albert, Jack.”

The pugilist nodded, stepping into the crowd.

“Tell me,” Sherlock said, “earlier you mentioned something about prostitutes.”

Ratty frowned and nodded. “Someone’s stirring them up. I own several houses myself, as you know. There’s no man neither rich nor poor in London that can’t get a bit of satisfaction. If a bloke has only five shillings, there’s a place not half a mile from here, and if he’s got a few pounds, well, I’ve got nice clean, high-class girls. They’ll give him a night he’ll never forget, and all in well-furnished, respectable homes in the West End.” He shifted his glance from Holmes to me. “If your German friend here would care for a bit of gratification...”

Outraged, I gave him a look of absolute disgust, which he severely misinterpreted. “Of course, if you’re of the other persuasion, I could...”

“I am a married man!” I exclaimed.

Holmes frowned, and I tried to get hold of myself. The smoke and the din made my head hurt, and Ratty and Moley were like two creatures from a bad dream.

“I mean... Ich ... I have a... weibchen, my kleine weibchen , who is... very dear.” I struggled to produce a German accent.

Holmes nodded. “Mr. Verniger is newly married, so he reluctantly declines your generous offer. He comes from a very respectable background for a person of his occupation.”

Ratty nodded. “Ah. Well, he’s lucky then. I’ve had to work hard to pass in more respectable circles, and they still look down on me—and especially Moley. I don’t care anymore. I’ve finally understood that they’re no better than me. Let them loiter in their finery at Ascot. The boys and I know how to have a bit of fun at a fraction of the cost. Nothing like a night of drinking and ratting, huh, lads?” He clinked glasses with Moley, and all his henchmen voiced their cheery agreement. “As for you, Mr. Holmes, my offer still stands: a night at my very best house with my star performer, a veritable legend—Miss Jeanne du Baisers. It’s an offer worth a good hundred pounds.”

Holmes face stiffened, but he forced a smile even as he shook his head. “No. As I have told you before, I have certain moral scruples.”

Ratty shook his head sadly. “A pity that. I must admit I cannot understand moral scruples, but I respect them all the same.”

“We have wandered off the subject. You said someone is stirring up the prostitutes.”

Ratty frowned and nodded. “Someone is putting most peculiar ideas in their heads, telling them that they shouldn’t work for men like me—that it’s a disgusting profession because men are disgusting—or worst yet, that they should set aside their earnings and retire as soon as possible! All sorts of oddities. Then there’s all the blackmailing.”

Holmes nodded emphatically. “Ah—there has been an increase.”

“Most assuredly! Such news travels fast, and it’s very bad for business indeed. Your police and the average citizen don’t understand, but running a brothel is like running any other business. Why, I don’t mean to boast, but I am one of the largest employers in London. Do you know how many women would be starving in the streets if not for me?” He must have noticed the expression on my face. “Think what you will, Mr. Vinegar. I treat my girls far better than most employers. Visit one of those textile mills if you doubt me—machines going day and night, with all those poor females working as hard and fast as they can for the paltriest of wages! If one of my girls is good at her trade, she can move up the ladder to a better house. Why, one of my best girls took up with a royal relation and retired happily! I was sorry to lose her, but...”

“We were discussing blackmail,” Holmes said.

“Ah—yes, and as I was saying, it’s very bad for business—just as is roughing up the customers. Volume and happy customers are the key to my success. I want the man who visits one of my houses to go away smiling and eager to return. I want him to tell all his friends about my girls. Sure, you might make a few quid blackmailing some bloke, but word gets around—it always does—and then trade drops off. That’s why any girl who robs a customer or tries a bit of blackmail is out the door at once. And that’s why I’m concerned, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had to dismiss three times as many girls this past year as before, and that’s most unusual. Until now, the rate always stayed about the same, and I’ve been involved in the trade for twenty years.”