another way.”
“And what way would that be?” asks Irene.
“Well … I could go. That ’otel is frequented by working-class folks, lots of people in the service. I wouldn’t stick out. People talk after they’ve ’ad a few drinks. I could learn more about this Jewish owner, about —”
“And you aren’t without charms, my dear, and can use them to get the keeper to talk? We need the hat.” She turns to the door. “I must be going. I must get to my audition.”
“But Sherlock,” pleads Beatrice, “you can’t —”
“You aren’t going there, Beatrice,” says Holmes firmly. “And you won’t be involved in any way either, Irene.
I
will take care of this.”
The boy is again bearing the knife and horsewhip when he leaves the shop. Bell is fast asleep, or so it seems. It is another misty night. As he drops over the gates at the Cremorne, this time making absolutely certain that no one is nearby, he wonders why he let Irene convince him to do this. Maybe he should have listened to Beatrice.
She is the one who has my best
interests at heart. Or is that true? How can I be certain, after what she did? Irene believes in justice and that’s why she is encouraging me. She’s more like me; she knows who I want to be, instead of who I was. And she is the dazzler of the two, no question
.
Sherlock becomes lost in his thoughts as he walks through the dark Cremorne jungle surrounded by the now-quiet, show-business venues. He smiles as he thinks of his remarkable female friend.
Why not live a little? Why not escort Miss Doyle about London? I couldn’t have dreamed of such a thing just a few years ago. She has a good heart too. She knows you have to take chances and stand up for what you believe in. She has made so much more of herself than she might have been, more than most girls dare. Irene believes in being truly alive. That’s what I want too
.
He has allowed himself to think so absent-mindedly about the girls in his life (always an error for a detective) that he doesn’t see Scuttle creep up behind him.
“Ass-sign with Scottish Yard again, sir?”
Sherlock nearly jumps from the Gardens into the River Thames. When he calms down, he thanks the stars that the little boy is whispering tonight.
“Yes, Master Scuttle, though we must be quieter this time.”
“I shall be as silent as the bedbugs infesticating my mattress.”
“You have a mattress?”
“Of a sort. I gets fresh horse dung each night and wraps it in straw from the Cremorne stables, I does.”
That would explain the smell
.
“Scuttle, would you be a good lad and stand guard tonight? One knock means someone is nearing, two means I must come immediately. Do it lightly.”
The small lad scratches his head. “Can you repeats that?”
Sherlock does.
“I thinks I ’ave it. But can I ’ave a badge?”
“No, Scuttle. We are —”
“Ah, yes, under the covers, of course. Excellence!”
“Ssshh.”
Sherlock’s hands are shaking so badly that it takes him a while to open the latch, but at last he is inside the workshop, closing the door gently behind him so it doesn’t creak. He takes a single, tentative step and listens carefully, not moving a muscle, not even lighting his candle. Just as on the previous night, he hears a sound. He stands stock still, holding his breath.
Pay attention to it this time. Where, exactly, is it coming from?
He doesn’t advance another step for a long while and slowly calms his breathing to the point where no one could detect it, unless they were inches from his face. Soon, he hears the sound again.
Faint footsteps?
He keeps still. Then there’s a different noise: a cough, a human cough in the distance, but somehow, not outside.
Somewhere to my left
. He treads silently toward it, each step carefully taken. The sound comes again. It is apparent that it isn’t originating from inside the room or from the hotel above.
How is that possible?
It’s like magic … or a ghost — a soundwith no
“And what way would that be?” asks Irene.
“Well … I could go. That ’otel is frequented by working-class folks, lots of people in the service. I wouldn’t stick out. People talk after they’ve ’ad a few drinks. I could learn more about this Jewish owner, about —”
“And you aren’t without charms, my dear, and can use them to get the keeper to talk? We need the hat.” She turns to the door. “I must be going. I must get to my audition.”
“But Sherlock,” pleads Beatrice, “you can’t —”
“You aren’t going there, Beatrice,” says Holmes firmly. “And you won’t be involved in any way either, Irene.
I
will take care of this.”
The boy is again bearing the knife and horsewhip when he leaves the shop. Bell is fast asleep, or so it seems. It is another misty night. As he drops over the gates at the Cremorne, this time making absolutely certain that no one is nearby, he wonders why he let Irene convince him to do this. Maybe he should have listened to Beatrice.
She is the one who has my best
interests at heart. Or is that true? How can I be certain, after what she did? Irene believes in justice and that’s why she is encouraging me. She’s more like me; she knows who I want to be, instead of who I was. And she is the dazzler of the two, no question
.
Sherlock becomes lost in his thoughts as he walks through the dark Cremorne jungle surrounded by the now-quiet, show-business venues. He smiles as he thinks of his remarkable female friend.
Why not live a little? Why not escort Miss Doyle about London? I couldn’t have dreamed of such a thing just a few years ago. She has a good heart too. She knows you have to take chances and stand up for what you believe in. She has made so much more of herself than she might have been, more than most girls dare. Irene believes in being truly alive. That’s what I want too
.
He has allowed himself to think so absent-mindedly about the girls in his life (always an error for a detective) that he doesn’t see Scuttle creep up behind him.
“Ass-sign with Scottish Yard again, sir?”
Sherlock nearly jumps from the Gardens into the River Thames. When he calms down, he thanks the stars that the little boy is whispering tonight.
“Yes, Master Scuttle, though we must be quieter this time.”
“I shall be as silent as the bedbugs infesticating my mattress.”
“You have a mattress?”
“Of a sort. I gets fresh horse dung each night and wraps it in straw from the Cremorne stables, I does.”
That would explain the smell
.
“Scuttle, would you be a good lad and stand guard tonight? One knock means someone is nearing, two means I must come immediately. Do it lightly.”
The small lad scratches his head. “Can you repeats that?”
Sherlock does.
“I thinks I ’ave it. But can I ’ave a badge?”
“No, Scuttle. We are —”
“Ah, yes, under the covers, of course. Excellence!”
“Ssshh.”
Sherlock’s hands are shaking so badly that it takes him a while to open the latch, but at last he is inside the workshop, closing the door gently behind him so it doesn’t creak. He takes a single, tentative step and listens carefully, not moving a muscle, not even lighting his candle. Just as on the previous night, he hears a sound. He stands stock still, holding his breath.
Pay attention to it this time. Where, exactly, is it coming from?
He doesn’t advance another step for a long while and slowly calms his breathing to the point where no one could detect it, unless they were inches from his face. Soon, he hears the sound again.
Faint footsteps?
He keeps still. Then there’s a different noise: a cough, a human cough in the distance, but somehow, not outside.
Somewhere to my left
. He treads silently toward it, each step carefully taken. The sound comes again. It is apparent that it isn’t originating from inside the room or from the hotel above.
How is that possible?
It’s like magic … or a ghost — a soundwith no
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