I did not like the Bouquet of Lilies. Soon, thanks to Holmes, it would become clear that it didn’t like me all that much either.
“So,” he announced in a loud voice, “what’s this I hear about dead bodies then?”
As investigative enquiries went it was not Holmes at his most subtle.
“And who are you to be asking?” said a ruddy old man on Holmes’ left. He had a face that was bent terribly out of shape, not helped by a constant nervous twitch that set his cheeks and nose vibrating. He looked as though he was constantly being punched by an invisible assailant.
“Only curious,” Holmes replied. “Came in tonight on the Spirit of Mayfair, didn’t I? Heard some of the lads talking.”
“Spirit of Mayfair?” asked another old soak, wiping away thick strings of saliva from his chin. He was so much like a bulldog I wondered if Moreau had made him.
“Aye,” Holmes replied. “Been away from home for the best part of a year, haven’t I?” He drained his tankard, an act of almost Herculean bravery. “And built up one hell of a thirst in that time.” He nodded at the barman and handed over the empty vessel.
“Suppose you’ve the price of another pint?” the first man asked, twitching the mottled lump of scar tissue I took to be a nose, given its location on his face.
Holmes looked at him. “Maybe I have, if you keep a civil tongue and welcome an old sailor back to shore.”
“Can’t be too careful,” the old man said offering his long-empty tankard. “I’m not a man who likes people snooping around.”
“Ain’t snooping around,” said Holmes, “just interested. Who wouldn’t be? Bodies turning up with great chunks missing? You see all sorts out at sea but that ain’t the sort of thing you expect to come home to is it? Makes me wonder if this is London I’ve washed up in or New Guinea!” He laughed at that and the old man joined him, more out of eagerness to see his drink filled than sharing in my friend’s affected humour. Holmes passed him a full tankard. “So, you going to tell me about it or not? What’s going on? Some sort of animal is it? Bloke I met on the quay reckons someone’s let a tiger loose or something.”
“Ain’t no tiger,” the old man replied after taking a large mouthful of his drink. “Tiger ain’t going to chew you up and then put the bits what’s left in a sack is it?”
“Clever tiger,” I added with a laugh, wanting to do my bit.
The old man stared at me. “Who’s this?” he asked. “He’s got a bigger beard than my old wife.”
“Mate of mine, ain’t he?” Holmes said. “But he don’t get out much.” Holmes gave me a meaningful stare. He changed the subject before the old man got too distracted. “All right, so it ain’t a tiger. Still, it’s got to be some sort of animal that done for ’em, ain’t it? Unless it wasn’t as bad a mess as I heard …”
“Oh, it were a mess all right,” the old man said. “You’ve never seen the like.”
Holmes scoffed. “Don’t be so sure, I’ve seen sights in my time that would make a horse sick. Just cos you landlubbers get yourselves in a twist.”
“The thing was in pieces,” the old man insisted. “It weren’t no body, it were a bag of butcher’s meat.”
“Like I say then, an animal.”
“How’s an animal put it in a bag you bloody idiot?” shouted the old man in exasperation at Holmes’ apparent stupidity. “It wasn’t no animal!”
“Maybe an animal did it then a bloke put it in a bag,” insisted Holmes. “I heard it had bite marks on it.”
“I don’t give a monkey’s what you’ve heard. I’m telling you it was Kane or one of his lot.”
There was a silence at that, a clear sense that those around us had been shocked at the mere mention of the man’s name.
Holmes let the awkwardness hang there for a moment before, with all pretence of innocence, saying, “Who’s Kane then? Local lad is he?” Nobody saw fit to reply. “Only if he’s got any work on offer I might be convinced to keep my feet on dry land for a while.”
Someone reached out and took Holmes’ drink from him.
“I’d get out while you still have legs to do so,” said a dry, rasping voice.
“I didn’t mean nothing,” said the old man, but then shut his mouth once more as he decided silence was his best option for survival.
“Touchy lot, ain’t you?” said Holmes. “Come on, Jim,” he said and pushed his way towards the door. Realising he meant me, and needing little in the way of encouragement, I followed on.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Well, that went well,” I said with some sarcasm once we were back out on the street.
“I thought so,” agreed Holmes, offering a smile that, when framed by his bald, tattooed face, looked positively terrifying.
“What did you hope to gain by that?” I asked. “Other than having to drink two pints of that foul muck they had the audacity to term ‘ale’.”
Holmes suddenly stopped and yanked me to one side. To the side of the Bouquet of Lilies was a rough lean-to, a small covered area where the landlord kept a padlocked coal-house and a pile of logs. Holmes pushed me into the shadows just as a high-pitched whistling noise rang in my ears. I felt a cold rush of air go past my face as something flashed past and then came to a percussive stop in the upright post of the lean-to.
“Dear God!” I exclaimed, looking at the still-vibrating hilt of the dagger that had passed not a foot from my head. “That could have been the end of me!”
“Have patience,” said Holmes. “They probably haven’t finished yet.”
“I can’t see a thing,” I admitted, staring out into the shadows.
“Luckily for us, neither can they.”
Holmes plucked the knife free from the wood and looked at it. “Interesting,” he said, “a German knife.” He glanced at me. “We’ve had a lucky escape, the knife-throwers of Hamburg are incredibly accurate.”
“I am struck dumb by relief,” I muttered, somewhat exasperated by the way he was happy to show off, even while our lives were under threat.
We heard the sound of footsteps coming towards us. Holmes grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the street behind the pub. “Run!” he shouted. “Your life depends on it!”
Didn’t it always?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We made our way through the backstreets, the sound of footsteps never far behind us. I didn’t know if Holmes had a particular destination in mind. His passage seemed entirely random as we turned left, then right, then left again, weaving our way through the narrow passageways and terraces. More likely, I realised, he was trying to ensure that our pursuers never had a clear line of sight for long enough to throw another knife, like a soldier zigzagging before enemy fire in the hope of avoiding a bullet.
I was armed. Holmes may mock my willingness to risk the wrath of the law by carrying a loaded firearm on our excursions but I was damned if I was going to skulk around the roughest parts of Rotherhithe without some form of protection. It was little use to me at the moment anyway. I may have been a medical man more than a soldier but even I knew that in the time it took for me to turn around and find my aim I would likely have a knife in my chest. If we were able to find cover so that I could turn the tables then maybe we’d stand a fighting chance. Breathlessly, I suggested as much to Holmes. But he just shook his head and continued to drag me through the backstreets of Rotherhithe.
We emerged close to the river again, having evidently looped right around. Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a stack of empty crates. I reached for my gun but he held down my hand and placed his fingers to his lips. Within a few moments our pursuers appeared. The first was as hairless as Holmes appeared to be, a thick scar running its way through his pale skin from the top of his head to the corner of his lips. The second made a pretence at refinement, his suit and glistening watch chain such an unfamiliar sight in this environment that it was a wonder he was able to walk the streets unmolested. Or perhaps that said all one needed to know about his potential for violence: only a man confident in his ability to take on all comers would have the audacity to dress in such a manner.