But Arthur’s incubating sense of suspicion did not become full grown until he was greeted by the shopkeeper. A boy of no more than twenty, he stepped from behind one of the presses, lifting his head to the light to reveal the handsomest face Arthur had ever seen on a man. His blond hair fell delicately over his brow, toward his shimmering blue eyes and a small, evenly sloped nose. Even Arthur, no expert on the subject of men’s faces, was taken aback. The boy raised his hands in greeting, and Arthur saw that he wore two ink-stained gloves. Blotches of ink had spread to his shirt, and when Arthur stepped closer, he could even make out a sprinkle of purple ink on the boy’s unshaven chin.
“Help you, sir?” said the lad in a delicate voice. “Pardon my hands. I’d give you a shake, but I’m afraid it’d ruin your suit.”
Arthur was charmed. And, upon recognizing how charmed he was, he became terribly frightened. He knew that he’d have to be very cautious about how he proceeded. His eyes on the boy’s dirty hands, Arthur removed the flyer from his own coat pocket.
“Good afternoon, then,” Arthur said. “We’ll exchange a proper handshake at a later date.” He gave his friendliest smile. “I’m here to find the printer of this sheet. Might you have printed this here? It would have been some months ago.”
Arthur held the image of the three-headed crow up to the light. The boy looked at it expressionlessly. If he recognized it, he gave no indication of doing so.
“What’s that, then?” said the boy.
“Hell if I know,” said Arthur.
“Then why’re you inquiring about it?”
Arthur paused. Yes. The boy was playing dumb, but he was not particularly good at it. Arthur considered how next to approach the matter. Not like a detective, he reasoned. Not like a member of the Yard. What this boy needed, Arthur guessed, was a sympathetic ear.
“Bunch of bloody dollymops have been leaving them around my shop,” said Arthur. “I run a butcher’s, down in the East End. I put up some literature in the windows, and it seems they didn’t take kindly to it. So wherever I turn now, these infernal pictures keep popping up in my property. They even found my flat and left some papers there. It’s frightful, don’t you think? I want to see these cunnies punished.” These last words left a bitter taste on Arthur’s tongue after he’d spoken them. But he knew of the rage within this boy, and he knew that he needed to tap into it. They would be brothers in misogyny before the evening fell.
The boy smiled again and removed his gloves. He placed them atop one of the printing machines and held out his clean hand for a shake.
“My name is Bobby,” the boy said. “Bobby Stegler. This is my pop’s shop, I just help out.”
Arthur reached out and shook Bobby Stegler’s hand.
“Andrew,” Arthur said. “Andrew Greenleaf. Pleased to meet you.”
“You know these girls, then?”
“Afraid I do,” said Arthur. He let go of Bobby’s hand and gave him a look of playful suspicion. “Say, I’m willing to bet that you know a little more about them than you’re letting on, don’t you?”
Bobby Stegler lowered his head sheepishly. “If I was to say that I printed those papers, sir, and know a thing or two about these girls’ organization, would you hold it against me?”
“Not if you could tell me who they are,” said Arthur.
“Bunch of rabble-rousers, really. They’re part of a group, those girls, agitating for-can you believe this?-granting woman suffrage.”
“Yes, I know. They told me as much. Can you imagine?”
“The downfall of the empire, it would be,” said Bobby Stegler.
Arthur gave the boy a hearty pat on his shoulder. “Finally!” Arthur exclaimed. “A man who understands reason! I’m afraid their cause is growing frightfully popular of late.”
“That’s why something needs to be done about it,” said Bobby.
Arthur looked the boy dead in the eyes. It was time to see what he was made of.
“And will you?” Arthur asked. “Will you do anything about it?”
The boy smiled mischievously. “When was the last time those girls came around your ‘shop’ anyway?” The lad had accented the word ‘shop’ strongly; Arthur was not sure what he was getting at.
“I’ll admit, they haven’t come around recently. Might you have had anything to do with that?”
“Not sure what you mean, sir,” said the boy. He paused. He looked as if he were waiting for Arthur to say something.
“If you’ve a mind to take care of these girls,” said Arthur, “I might have a pair of hands that could help you.”
“What’d you say your ‘shop’ was, again?”
“Just a simple butcher’s, like I said.”
The boy returned Arthur’s pat on the shoulder. But this one was harder, sharper. There was a lot of strength in the boy’s arm.
“Oh, come off it,” said Bobby Stegler. “I know who you are! What did you say, Andrew Something-or-Other from the East End? Really now. Don’t think that the great Arthur Conan Doyle could walk into my printing house and I wouldn’t put the name to the man’s face!”
Arthur blanched. He had not expected to be so well known among the murderers of London.
“You’ve made a mistake, boy,” he said lamely.
Bobby Stegler was having none of it.
“It’s all right, Dr. Doyle. You can come level with me. You don’t know what an inspiration you’ve been. Your speeches against the suffrage. Tops. And your stories. They’ll show a man what his place in the world is, won’t they? Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have listened to any of that feminine mewing.”
For the first time in a great while, Arthur felt truly ashamed. Is that really what people took from his stories? Is that what they said?
“Please, take a seat, sir,” said Bobby. “We have a lot to discuss. You see, you and I are on the same side. And I think we could help each other out quite a bit.”
CHAPTER 40 The Old Centuries
“If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the explanation.”
– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
“The Problem of Thor Bridge”
January 16, 2010
As Harold’s cab passed from under the great pines, he gazed up at Undershaw for the first time. Most of the windows were shattered. Empty husks of jagged glass hung from the peeling panes, like the teeth of a dying animal. The windows that weren’t empty were boarded up with cheap, rotting wood. The grass out front was tall and unkempt, sprouting mangy vines that scratched at the bricks.
Harold had never laid eyes on Undershaw before, though he’d seen it in photographs. He could only imagine what it must have looked like in its prime. To think that behind those faded walls the entire second half of the Canon had been written. Holmes had been resurrected from the Great Hiatus not a hundred feet from the spot along the driveway where Harold’s cab pulled to a dusty stop. For once he might actually be days-or even moments-away from knowing why. Who knew how many scholars had made this trip before him and come away empty handed? Harold would not be among them. He felt awed, he felt humbled, and yet a part of him was glad that he was going to first enter this house now, and not earlier in his life. Because now, Harold felt, he was worthy of its secrets.
An elderly woman sat on the stone steps leading to the front door. Only there was no front door, just a series of broken wood planks that had been nailed together. The woman was hunched over, hair pulled back in a bun, her bent frame wrapped in the sort of heavy, dark coat that would have been equally at place in any decade of the last six. She kept her head buried in a thick volume of photographs on her lap.