We couldn’t have asked for more variety during that walk. We began in the rarefied air of Mayfair, where the gentlemen experienced fresh air only in brief snatches, moving between the velvet-lined wombs of their carriages and the smoky interiors of their clubs. When Holmes had talked of looking as if we belonged he had not expected us to succeed in that aim here; in fact, we were looked upon with nothing less than open hostility by a number of the doormen and the few passers-by who deigned to waste shoe-leather.
“Move along there,” cried one old soldier, stitched up in his serge and braid, swapping the uniform of a foreign field for that of the Mummerset Club, where he could live out his years still tugging a forelock to the ranks above him. “We don’t like your sort around here.”
The fact that, as an ex-serviceman of sufficient rank, I was perfectly entitled to step through the club’s doors was something I chose not to mention. He would never believe me. In fact I had more right to step into its bar than he; with my service record I would have a brandy in my hand within moments whereas he would be out on his ear as an upstart pushing beyond his station in life. What ridiculous games we play and how little it all means in the end! Holmes gave him a theatrical salute and moved along the pavement, chuckling in a decidedly drunken manner. So much for not drawing attention to yourself, I thought, as we crossed into the theatre district. Here at least we could claim to belong, two strolling players heading towards their chosen stage.
It was the time of evening when many of the performances were ejecting their audiences back out into the world and the streets were busy with happy patrons and those who took advantage of the fact. We were far from being the only people on the street who seemed a long way from home. The crowds were studded with down-at-heel, grimy faces either calling on the generosity of the passers-by or simply helping themselves from unguarded pockets. As we moved past a small group of toughs, loitering by the Adelphi, I became conscious of allowing my hands to loiter near my coat pockets, ready to snatch at any intruding fingers. It took me a moment to realise that, looking as I did, I was hardly likely to present much of a target. As far as these street Arabs were concerned I was one of them, not a potential victim. It was a strange feeling, to be so removed from one’s usual sense of self.
From The Strand it was only a short walk to the river and the next available steamboat.
Pressed hard against the rail, I looked out at our smoky city as we made our way along the Thames. It seemed that no matter how long I lived here, I would never stop finding a different angle from which to view it. It was a city of so many faces, and it showed a different one to each and every one of its citizens. To the gentry it was an austere collection of ancient architecture; to the clerk a place of commerce and bustle; to the lower classes it was a dark and unforgiving mother, a place of soot and death that nonetheless gathered its shadowy skirts around the poor and disenfranchised if they begged hard enough.
Now it was a coastal city, an island of noise and light just out of reach across the choppy waters of the river that had always kept it alive.
“She’s a dark and ruinous place,” I said, unaware I had spoken aloud until Holmes fixed me with a curious stare.
After a moment he nodded. “On my low days, when it seems that nothing will rise from above the commonplace to engage my attention, I remember where it is we live.” He watched the towering factories pass us by. “In this city you are never far away from the extraordinary.” He thought for a moment. “Or the terrifying.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We travelled in silence for the rest of our journey. I continued to watch the passing city while Holmes turned his attention towards our fellow passengers. The boat was far from full at that time of the night, but the people it did carry were, for the most part, in boisterous mood.
By the time we arrived at the docks in Rotherhithe, the main bulk of our fellow passengers had taken to singing a bawdy tune regarding the medical health of an excitable young barmaid called Sadie. I can’t say I was familiar with the tune before our journey but it was damnably hard to shake from my head after it. From time to time I even found myself whistling a few bars of it as we pushed our way through the busy quayside. I’m sure it helped me fit in amongst the sailors and warehouse men as they shouted to one another, offloading produce or loading supplies, a seemingly endless to and fro of crates and people. The air was thick with the smell of tar and the creak of old ropes. Everybody seemed to be shouting, though it was so commonplace I ceased to be able to discern a single word—the whole became a background roar of voices. It brought to mind the animal noise of a jungle, all the species calling out to one another.
“Where to first?” I asked Holmes, sticking close by his side.
“I think a drink at the Bucket of Lies, don’t you?” he replied, moving easily through the crowd. I watched him stroll away from the waterside, the people naturally parting as he came towards them. He was like a large fish, I thought, sweeping the minnows aside in the current he pushed before him. He didn’t fade into the background, no matter what his advice, his personality was too strong for that, but he certainly appeared to belong. I thought again of Charles Darwin’s theories and wondered if Holmes might be the ultimate example of them; there seemed to be no environment to which he could not adapt, and which he could not dominate. I let that be some small consolation as we drew close to the tavern in question. After all, anywhere that Shinwell Johnson considered rough was likely beyond my scale of comparison.
As we moved away from the water, the streets became quieter. Ports ignore the clock, there is always someone disembarking or arriving, but once we were in the more residential areas, Rotherhithe’s citizens were fewer and farther between. By the time we were outside the Bouquet of Lilies, it stood out a mile, the sound of drunken cheering and singing the only sign of life in the surrounding area.
“Looks charming,” I said as we drew towards the front door.
“Oh,” Holmes said. “I’m sure we’ll manage to get through a glass of wine without having our throats cut.”
“Yes, because that’s always what I look for in a hostelry.”
We stepped inside and muscled our way towards the bar, moving between the drunken regulars. I honestly couldn’t tell whether some of them were dancing or fighting. The place stank of stale beer and bodily fluids—from the look of the ale the barman handed to me, the two may have been one and the same. I took a mouthful of it nonetheless, conscious of the need to fit in. Given the state of most of the people in here they must have managed to ingest the stuff. Either that, or people stuck to the gin, preferring to lose their eyes rather than their stomachs. The floor had been cleaned once, I was sure, though maybe not during the reign of our current monarch. The clientele was not the sort to fret about such absurd niceties. Perhaps the stickiness of the floorboards even had its benefits, allowing the tired inebriate to maintain their vertical position like a fly stuck to paper.