Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Holmes’ fingers stroked his chin. “Curious. Have you...?”

His words were cut off by the boisterous applause greeting a fat man who had stepped up onto a rickety chair. He had a huge gray mustache and wore a purple velvet vest. “Welcome, gents! Welcome, one and all, to the Sportin’ Tavern, and now it’s time for our sport. Everyone placed their bets? If not, see Fred over there in the corner. Raise yer hand, Fred. Now let’s get to it. You all know the rules. Whichever dog kills the most rats in two minutes wins the grand prize. First up’ll be the current champ, Curly Joe.”

A toothless old man at the front held up a truculent little brown bulldog whose face had many folds. Curly’s partisans cheered loudly. The dog nearly writhed from his master’s arms, so desperate was he to get at the rats. I had a sick feeling in my stomach and took a swallow of the foul stout. I did not care for rats, but I did not enjoy seeing any creature slaughtered.

Holmes started to question Ratty again, but his eyes were fixed on the ring. “Hold off, Mr. Holmes. I want to watch Curly. He was a wonder in his prime, but he’s a bit old now. He’s put on weight, hasn’t he, Moley?”

“A regular little pig,” rumbled his companion.

The master of ceremonies had withdrawn a gold watch and raised his hand. “Ready—set— go! ”

Curly fell upon the rats like an avenging angel, catching them by the throats and shaking them. One he caught by the hindquarters and flung against the wall. The rats raced about, vainly attempting to escape. Some tried to work their way into the crack between the wall and the floor. One of the bolder ones leaped at Curly and clamped his teeth into the dog’s ear. The dog released another rat and gave a howl, then shook his head wildly. The rat swung about, his long pink tail whipping through the air, but his teeth held their grip.

Ratty’s smile was fierce. “He’ll never win now. Too slow by far.”

Seeing that shaking would not dislodge the rat, Curly changed his tactics and swung his head around, smacking the rat against the wall. With a squeal the rat let go, and Curly was on him at once.

“Time!” The man in the vest raised his hand.

“’Ere, Curly.” With some difficulty, the elderly owner managed to pull the dog from the ring.

Two men in black aprons stepped into the circus and began gathering the dead or dying rats, while the master of ceremonies conferred with another man.

“Twenty-one rats it is for Curly!”

There was some feeble cheering, but the groans of disappointment were louder.

“No, he’ll never win now. I recall one time he killed nearly fifty. Of course, that was the best night of his life.”

I drank my stout and glanced at the men all around me, their faces hot and flushed from drink and excitement, and I felt, as never before, the incredible gulf between us. How could anyone enjoy this spectacle? It was so vile, so base and vicious. The Roman crowd at the Coliseum must have resembled this mob. My stomach twisted, and for a moment I feared I might vomit. I wanted to stand up and flee, but that was foolish. Getting away from Underton alive would be difficult enough even with Holmes’ aid.

Ratty sat back and turned to us. “Now, then, Mr. Holmes, what was you asking about?”

“Have you no idea who is stirring up the prostitutes?”

“I have my suspicions. There is a certain revivalist church group made up of females. Angels of the Lord, they call themselves. Most of the preachers who come round are harmless fools. One such minister came to the house near here, and the girls got so tired of listening to his whining and lamenting about hellfire that they finally jumped him and pulled off his trousers. Gave him a blanket and told him to be gone or they’d strip him naked then start on themselves. I saw that part. You should have seen his face. A big gangly fellow, a blanket wrapped round his scrawny legs.”

Moley’s face reddened and his shoulders began to quake. He rumbled but nothing much came out. Glancing at him, Ratty began to laugh. Moley finally released some air, the sound something like an ill-firing engine, “puh-puh-puh.”

“He was out the door in a flash and ran down the street. What a sight!”

Moley finally opened his mouth, emitting a veritable shriek of laughter, but the cheers and shouts of the crowd soon drowned him out. Another dog careened about the ring, snatching madly at the rats.

“Anyway, these Angels of the Lord are far cleverer than most preachers. They sound like... suffragettes or socialists. They tell my girls they are being exploited and that they need to unite and demand better wages. Now, as I’ve said, any of my girls who wants better wages can get them by moving up the ladder. It’s survival of the fittest, after all. These Angels are a tough lot; a tight group, very secretive. Many of them are former prostitutes or dismissed servants. They tell the girls once their looks are gone they’ll be cast out on the streets. They tell them how bad all men are and how the females have to stick together. It’s very sad. I remember one bright smiling lass who had a great future before her. One of the Angels talked to her, and next thing you knew she was all sullen. Became a regular rotten apple. She tried a bit of blackmail with a poor clerk, and of course I had to let her go.”

Holmes frowned. “And you think... some person is behind the Angels?”

Ratty nodded. “Oh, yes. I know talent when I see it. The head Angel is clever, whoever he is. The Angels may be righteous, but they’re making a good take. The person is misguided: blackmail and theft are a dangerous way to make money. Oh, I’ve tried them both, as you know, Mr. Holmes, but my houses are safer and more reliable.”

“And none of your—” Holmes smiled ironically— “peers knows who is behind the Angels either?”

“No one knows. Like I said, I was hoping you could tell me.”

Holmes’ upper lip curled. “Not yet.”

“Look at that pathetic thing!” Ratty said.

A roar of laughter went up as a fat little terrier was set in the ring and gazed wearily at the rats.

“Get ’em, Tiger!” The owner was heavy himself, with protruding eyes and clenched fists. “Get ’em!”

“E’s too fat to move.”

“Try starvin’ ’im for a week or two next time!”

The humiliated owner withdrew the dog even before the two minutes were up. Holmes’ long fingers made fists, and he pounded lightly at his knees, his jaw thrusting forward. He glanced at me and must have seen the desperation in my eyes. “There is little point in remaining.” He turned to Ratty. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Geoffrey Steerford?”

“Something to do with finance and speculation, isn’t it? Heard of him, but risky investments are not for me. My profits go straight into a good sturdy English bank.”

Holmes took off his hat and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Ratty, thank you for your assistance. I hope to remove this thorn from your flesh. I must be leaving.”

Ratty’s jaw dropped, again revealing his narrow sharp teeth. “So soon? But Prince Albert hasn’t even had his chance yet! Won’t you at least stay for that?”

“I have... other business. And Herr Verniger wishes to return to his wife.”

“Ah.” Ratty gave me a conspiratorial wink, which made me want to slap him. “It seems a shame. Not very polite, it is.” His eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. “I could make you stay.”

Something in his tone of voice made my flesh crawl, and I thought if I had to remain in that stinking, noisy, hellish den for even a minute longer, I would go mad. I slipped my hand into my pocket and seized the revolver handle while trying to look ferocious, not frightened out of my wits. Holmes stared coldly at Ratty, who was the only one smiling now. His men had all gone silent. Moley was frowning, his squinting eyes appearing even tinier behind the thick lenses.