The Confidential Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (42 page)

Then I saw more of Maddy's flesh near his than I could stand the sight of, and, averting my eyes, lowered my gaze to the cat on my legs. Handsome he looked, quite self-assured. Desperate to put my mind onto something objective, I studied his head as any medical student might. The formations of his whiskers interested me. I noted that at each side of the nose leather, the whiskers were grouped into four short rows.

But unbearable sounds from the room still reached me. I closed my eyes hard, bent myself low over the scar-faced tomcat, wishing I could plug my ears, but unable to, lest my name at last be
called, unlikely as that now seemed. No matter what, I would not abandon her.

Then as Heaven sought to comfort this poor captive in a closet, a rumbling came up, a distant engine muffling the grunts of the man I to this day have hated most. The sound grew louder, its rhythm building like a locomotive train, and when I suddenly knew what caused this sound, the sheer surprise of it nearly made me laugh aloud.

The cat. In my indignation I'd been puffing my breath hard on his fur, and this was his method of showing he rather enjoyed it. I stroked him. His back felt rather moist, too much so to have been wetted merely by my breathing. I put my head back down, onto my noisy, fuzzy companion.

I guess one might say I was crying.

After a silence I peered out again.

Randall fastened his pants, checked his watch, snatched up the tiny blue poison bottle, and made a hasty retreat. He banged the door on his way out.

“John Watson,” Jane called gently. “Can I coax you out for a nice relaxing cup of tea?”

The mental image of we three fussing over little cups on that same divan sickened me. But just then, anything at all might have done so.

“I thank you,” I said, my voice strange to me. “But I'd best be on my way.”

“Come out now or cut a mail slot,” said Jane, feigning high spirits. “ ‘Once, a philosopher. Twice, a pervert!' ”

“Jane!” scolded Madeline.

“No,” said Jane. “Voltaire!”

Stiff and aching I ventured from the closet, the old warhorse of a cat following at my side. Madeline looked nearly proper again, just more than a bit unkempt.

Volleys of daylight hurt my eyes.

“Look!” Jane gave a high-pitched laugh. “Old Curmudgeon's
made his first friend!” She chatted quickly now, too gaily, waving her hands, the way some women do when apprehensive or elsewise stirred. “Mudgy, you like him? Don't be aggrieved that he bit you, John. Curmudgeon bites everyone without exception. The remarkable thing is he stayed near you! Oh dear, oh my, I hope our mouser hasn't passed on his fleas to you, John!”

“I don't doubt it,” I replied.

“I'm so sorry, John,” Madeline said. She wasn't talking about old Curmudgeon.

“Please,” I said, “Don't add that to it. Don't feel bad on my account to-day. I just couldn't bear it, Maddy. You mustn't deride yourself for any of this. Instead you shall rest. I've done all you have asked; now you must promise what I ask.”

Madeline looked about her dreamily, as if she didn't know where she was. “John,” she complained, “you're too good.”

“Not by half. Now promise me.”

After Maddy nodded her assent, I said, “Janie, see that she has a hot bath, will you? And bed rest after.”

Jane looked relieved to know what to do. “I'll draw the bath this instant!”

“Mark me,” I added. “Summon a physician if there's any unusual bleeding.” Jane nodded. I felt awful. Madeline didn't look right at all. “And if she cries or blames herself, remind her of her promise.” I coloured slightly. “You do seem to know what to say to her.”

“I only wish I did, wish I could . . .” Regretfully, Jane shook her head.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable, a man-shaped reminder of all things vile. Additionally, I was to myself the embodiment of physical discomfiture: my arms needed to stretch and my back to twist. I needed to rub my neck and to eat something and to change my ripped trousers and to wash my cat-scratched legs and to quench my thirst with cool water and for a month to rest body and soul. But first I had to leave here, and before that I had to
enquire: “Jane, Maddy, where might Randall be off to with that bottle?”

The ladies didn't know, but I had a definite notion.

“Promise me,” I said to Jane, “You'll take care of Madeline.”

“That,” she said, “is what I will do.”

Tenderly I kissed Madeline's hand, then departed.

I
could not afford hansom cabs in my student days, yet for the second time that year and that day I rode in one. The first time was at Maddy's behest, as her guest; now if I exercised my quotidian prudence, a vigorous young woman's life might be forfeit. Plus, were Randall's tale true, an innocent babe was also imperilled. (When in 1666 the great fire of London burnt down half the city, only six people were injured. The deaths of
these
two persons then might be as great catastrophe, and through happenstance, no man was more likely able to avert that enormity than myself.)

All the same, I knew quite well I'd no idea of Randall's plans, his destination, or whether he travelled now by foot or cab or even by private carriage whose liveried driver stood outside the ladies' door while he performed his villainy. I still had no idea what the cobalt bottle contained.

What I did know was how to skip meals to offset this insane expenditure.

As the cabriolet jostled me thoroughly, I hung back beneath the tiny awning out of the sun, hoping not to be seen wasting my money. After sitting still in that cabinet afraid to make noise, the bumpy journey and the brisk pace exhilarated me. I'd have greatly enjoyed the sightseeing as London's work centres and monuments spun past, but I instead felt compelled to gain my fare's worth by examining each pedestrian, ever-vigilant in search of the evil earl. Indeed by the time I was near enough to the circus to hear the barrel-organ, I'd become so practiced looking for Randall that when we passed him I noticed his “men's best” white silk neck scarf. I
might as easily have missed him: he was stepping from the door of a small pharmacy.

The hansom driver stopped after only a little urging, and as I paid out nine of my eleven pence, Randall walked right past us, untying a string-wrapped butcher-paper parcel about the size of this pen Holmes loaned me, but of slightly lesser length. In moments I was following Randall through the circus, down crowded paths between booths and carriages, pleased with the man's height now that I found it of use. Nor was his visibility solely of use to me. Behind and about him, a mob of talented street urchins crept and leapt, poised to relieve him of his valuables in the blink of a fool's eye. I wondered if he were clutching his pocket watch.

The crowd became denser as we moved toward the tents. In my way stood pale slender consumptive-looking women, donkeys and carts, people of every sort, booths that smelled of caramel and those which smelled of nefarious gaming. This last interested me, but not now.

I saw a pleasantly proportioned clean-shaven young man with shiny mahogany-colour hair coaching a tiny hairy-faced dog. Staring at his master, ears at attention, the dog stood upright on hind legs, forelegs folded, and whirled back and forth as if dancing. Just as I passed them, the young man yelled in a plain, harsh voice, “Good dog, Rocky!” right in my ear. The sound ricocheted within my head like pellets of shot. The man couldn't have meant this effect, though, for his sensitive hazel eyes met mine and an awkward smile tugged his mouth to one side when he said, “Sorry,” or mouthed the word. I'm unsure: because suddenly the cacophony from innumerable “musical” bands nearly wiped my mind clean of the possibility of thought. Then my path cleared—I could see my man a dozen paces ahead, between us only a space of dirt and a stopped cart. I moved forward into that space, and a cartwheel gone loose hit me straight on in the abdomen.

When I looked up, Randall had vanished from sight.

I returned the wheel to its owner, who seemed unsurprised at
his trouble, but glad to receive the wheel from myself, and not have to pay one of the wilier children to regain it. Before my eyes stretched a bewildering array of tents. Huge illustrated canvasses proclaimed unbelievable attractions:

WILD SAVAGE
! The painting showed a patently insane, nearly naked bright red man scalping a yellow man.

WORLD'S LITTLEST GROWN MAN!
The painting was of a man in a tea cup.

FROG LADY!
A green frog with a woman's face afloat on a lily pad.

The preposterous canvasses continued as far as I could see. A bevy of gypsy girls hooded in showy handkerchiefs sallied forth offering to tell my fortune. One took my hand between hers and looked into my eyes. Her eyes were black, thickly fringed with matching lashes. Her hands were warm, her voice low.

“Your heart she is holding a question up for me,” the girl said. Her voice had authority. She spoke as if she knew. That day my heart held a great many questions. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“Yes.” She looked at me closer, smiling. “What is it you are wishing to know?”

“Where is Vittoria?”

“Vittoria.” She nodded, and at once ceased to smile. “Vittoria Circus Belle.” She disapproved, perhaps was insulted, but pointed a slender dark hand to a channel I'd not noticed between two huge yellow tents. “There.”

I turned back to give thanks, but already she was lost to me in the throng. I hurried through the passage lest someone coming the other way question my presence. I found myself in a pleasant, more relaxed arena of caravans and cookery, where jugglers, ventriloquists and conjurers in silken vests rehearsed their arts, and circus children worked on tumbling and walked about on stilts. I watched one gentleman swallow a tuppence worth of halfpence seemingly for practice, while another hurried past carrying five puppets (including a dog and a devil) for a Punch and Judy show.

With so much entertainment at no cost, I doubted the public was allowed here. Fortunately, nobody seemed concerned at my presence. These were performers. It was not their job to police the fairgrounds. However, nobody present looked like they could be Vittoria. If I asked after her, might I be told to leave?

On the ground near a caravan lay a so-called “bonnet” from a gaming booth, dead asleep.

“Young man!” A woman's voice bellowed heartily from nowhere. “Look up, I say!”

“He's asleep,” I said of the bonnet, looking around.

“Not him, you! Look up!”

I did, and saw the strangest woman perched on a tiny carved balcony high atop a wooden caravan. Somewhat portly, with large slightly bulgy green eyes, and a thick neck, she was decked out in a short, bright green sleeveless satin dress, which apparently fastened at the bottom to reveal her tiny suede boots, also green. Though her hands and feet were tiny and perfect, they grew at her shoulders and hips; that is, the woman had no arms and legs. She wore her thick dark hair piled on her head in an artful chignon. In one hand she held a well-cooked slab of breakfast bacon, in the other a hunk of bread. Beside her lay a tiny pair of green satin gloves with shell buttons.

She laughed at me when she saw me staring. “Hullo there, dearie,” she said. “Fetch me an ale off the back stair, will you?” She pointed with the bacon.

I brought over a stone bottle, and opened it for her. “Have some if ye like,” she told me. I thanked her. We shared some warm ale. I meant to ask about Vittoria, but didn't wish to insult her as I had the gypsy by asking too soon. The ale tasted good and I said so.

“Such a nice young man. What's your name?”

“I'm John Watson. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She laughed, a quite engaging laugh. That combined with her smile made me smile a bit myself. “I'm Sadie,” she said. “Sadie Bookbinder. But there's nobody any more calls me that.”

“Sadie's a fine name,” I put in.

She laughed again. “Oh, they calls me Sadie, all right. But I'm an artist now: ‘Sadie the Frog Lady.' ”

I was reminded of the canvas poster of a frog with a woman's face.

“You don't look like any frog I've seen,” I said. That can't have been the proper thing to say, but the ale may have loosened my tongue.

“Nor do I much resemble a lady, neither,” she countered gleefully, wiggling her boots. “But nobody's demanded back his coin! I
am
a Frog Lady,” she explained. “I know all there is about frogs! Like: A group of frogs is called an army. A fact, that is! True besides! I read it in a book. Did you know, there's all sorts of frogs. More than types of people. Some frogs will sing for you nicer than a bird! Me, I'm the best Frog Lady ever was. What's
your
trade, then, Mister John Watson?”

“I haven't any trade.”

“No trade? A fine young man like you? Surely you do something.”

“No, ma'am. That is, I'm at University.”

“Well, a gent you are!” she said, finishing off the bottle.

I coloured at being called a gent, though the lady had me charmed.

“My family's Bookbinders,” she continued, “all save me, that is, being as I am in Shows. My, my, University! What are you reading there?”

“Medicine,” I said quietly.

“Medicine! Splendid! Just what I'm in need of! Fetch us another pint bottle, then, will you, Doctor?”

‘Twas a relief to do so. Next, I would ask after Vittoria. But as I reached for the second stone bottle, another hand clasped it first. It was the largest hand I'd ever seen, and the darkest.

A voice above me growled, “Who might you be, eh?”

I looked up. And up. And up.

It became clear at once how Sadie had got herself so high on
the caravan: that's where this huge young man kept her. He was wearing only a rough leather kilt sort of garment.