Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“I think not,” Holmes said.

“No? My pals are good men.”

“Then it would be foolish to risk their lives—or your own.”

Ratty’s nostrils flared, and he gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, very well, be off with you then! I can’t force you to share in our good times.” He laughed again, and his companions joined in. They seemed as relieved as I. “What about your sovereign? I’m sure you’ll win two on it.”

“You may keep them, Ratty. After all, the tip was yours, and you have told me a great deal this evening.” Holmes stood up.

“That’s good of you.” Ratty seemed genuinely pleased although he must already have had a fortune. He rose and nodded at me. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Vinegar.” Moley loomed up behind him.

I nodded and tried to smile. “Yah, yah.”

We set down our glasses on our chairs then stepped off the platform. “Keep me informed!” Ratty shouted. He turned to the pugilist who’d taken his bet. “Jack, another round here—my mouth is positively parched.”

A dog leaped into the ring, teeth bared, and seized a big gray rat by the throat, releasing a spray of blood. Small red splatters now covered the white paint of the floor and the wall.

I shoved aside a man who blocked my way, cursing him angrily. I made it to the stairs and went down them two at a time. My eyes burned from the smoke; they watered and stung.

“Henry!” Holmes shouted. “Henry!”

I strode through the pub, which was half vacant now because of the ratting upstairs, and pulled open the oak door. The cold wet fog enveloped me. After the heat and noise of the ratting den, it was like plunging into a quiet icy stream—a fetid one. The fatty, rancid smell of the rendering plant and the muted decay of the slaughterhouse mingled with the mist. My stomach lurched, and I tasted something hot and foul, which I fought to keep down. My hand groped out as I sagged against the brick wall.

“Henry—what is it?”

“I think I am about to vomit.”

“Little wonder. I should never have brought you with me.”

“Are you mad? You would have faced that odious little vermin alone?”

He seized my arm. “Try walking. It may steady your stomach.”

“Yes. My God, let’s get out of here.” I lunged forward, but his grip tightened.

“I said walking, not running. In another quarter of an hour we will be out of here. In an hour or two you will be with Michelle.”

I made a loud sound between a sob and a laugh. “Can it be? Shall I ever see her again?”

“Of course you will.”

We were in the blackest part of the alley now. Most of the windows on either side were dark. The rain had already soaked my clothes again, and I started to shiver. Holmes still held my arm. “The trip was well worth it, Henry. He told me little I did not know or suspect, but confirmation of one’s theories is of value in a case like this.”

“He is not really a man, is he, Sherlock? He was truly a rat, and the rest of them were not men either. They were dogs—or pigs. Someone—Circe, I suppose—had turned them into swine. Or maybe rats. Did you ever see so many rats? It is the tails I cannot abide. Their bodies are all furry, but those pink hairless tails...”

“Please stop that, Henry. You have shown your bravery. Now show some good sense. Ratty is only a man. Were you to strike him down, another Ratty would arise. It is only a business to him, and he does treat his ‘girls’ fairly well. I thought he might know... If even Ratty and his friends are in the dark, then no one knows.”

We had turned onto the cobblestone street. The rain poured down, drenching us to the skin. A few men were out, but they huddled under the shelter of the eves. I was shivering so hard my teeth wanted to chatter.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. A streetlight lit up the steamy vapor of my breath.

“Yes, but this rain is a good thing. The roving bands like the one we met earlier will prefer to stay indoors until it lets up. It is time to consider what we might have to eat and drink when we return to Baker Street. We deserve some reward for this evening’s work.”

“Nothing for me. I shall never eat again.”

“Perhaps curried rats tails?”

“Sherlock!” In spite of myself, a strange, outraged laugh burst from my lips.

He gave a great roar of laughter, drowning out the steady sound of the rain on the dark stones about us. “Forgive me, it was a very ill jest, but one I could not resist.” He stopped before an alley. “And here is the gateway back to the surface, back for me—I who have no Michelle—to Il Purgatorio , while you pass upward to Il Paradiso .”

We started down the alley, the featureless brick walls rising on each side. “You had your chance,” I said. “Ratty offered you a night with the lovely Jeanne du Baisers.”

Holmes was briefly silent, and I could barely see the black shape of him beside me, let alone his face. The alley was quieter and somewhat sheltered from the downpour.

“Ah, yes, the lovely Mademoiselle Du Baisers. One can imagine how lovely, how radiant, such a woman must be.” His voice was full of loathing.

“When we reach the end of this alley are we almost to the Running Fox?”

“Yes, it is just around the corner.”

The light from the street ahead of us spilled into the alley, and I could see the raindrops’ slanted fall. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but already it seemed to smell cleaner. I staggered out into the street and swung my arms about, staring up at the cloudy heavens. The raindrops stung my cheeks and eyes. My hat fell off.

“Saved!” I cried. “Shall I kiss the ground?”

Holmes smiled. The rain had smeared the blackening on his face, and his dark clothing was soaked. All the same, he seemed as oddly happy as I. “I cannot recommend it. While not the equal of the alley, the pavement here is none too clean.”

We started down the street, and abruptly the rain diminished. A great quiet seemed to settle about us. A lone carriage passed, the horse’s hooves clopping regularly on the street. It stopped ahead of us at the stately old house with the two streetlights.

“I am so glad to be out of there,” I mumbled. Never again would I volunteer for any insane adventures!

Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me back against the wall, clapping his other hand over my mouth. All my fears returned at once. “What?” I tried to say, but could not speak through his hand.

“We are in no danger. Be quiet and still. Do you understand?” I nodded, and he lowered his hand. “Look over there.”

We were in the shadows and behind a hedge of bushes and a thick tree trunk. Across the street, two women stood in the doorway talking. One was older and wore a gaudy, elaborate gown; the other was a slight figure in a black dress, bonnet, and coat. The older woman seemed to be thanking the younger woman.

“That is Madam Irene,” Holmes whispered. “The brothel is hers.”

I frowned. The younger woman was twisted partly away, and the light on the porch was not good. Still, she seemed oddly familiar.

“Good night, and bless you,” exclaimed the older woman, her voice ringing out. “Truly you are an Angel of the Lord!”

The woman in black turned and started down the walkway to the waiting hansom. The light from the streetlamp fell full on her face, showing her pale skin, thin nose, and tight lips. The bonnet sat back on her head so that we could see the black hair parted in the middle.

“Good Lord,” I said.

“Hush!”

She seemed almost to hear me, for she hesitated and gazed about. We did not move. She went to the end of the walkway where she was hidden from us by the cab. The driver climbed back up, then snapped his whip and started down the dark, barren street.