in my hand, anxious to determine the source of such pitiable sounds.
Nearing the bottom of the stairs, I heard, with all the drowsy confusion of the startled sleeper, the sound of Holmes’s voice intermixed with that of the unnerving siren. I threw open the door to our sitting room, and there sat Holmes, likewise hastily clad in shirtsleeves and dressing gown, holding both the hands of a ragged child who appeared to be six or seven years of age.
“I knew you to be blessed with great strength of character,” Holmes was saying to the boy. “You behaved splendidly and I am very proud of you. Ah! Just the thing. Here is Dr. Watson. You remember Dr. Watson, do you not, Hawkins?”
The ill-fed vagabond swiveled his head in alarm at the introduction of another’s presence, and I at once recognized the pale features and dark Irish curls of Sean Hawkins, one of the youngest members of Holmes’s band of street urchins, the Baker Street Irregulars.
“Hawkins,” said Holmes softly, “it is extremely important that you tell me what has happened. You wish me to help, do you not? There,now. I thought so. And I must have all the information at your disposal, yes? I know it is very difficult, but I only ask you to try. Sit next to me upon this chair—no, no, strong back, like your father, the prizefighter. Now, tell me all about it.”
“I found a woman who was killed,” said little Hawkins, his lips trembling all the while.
“I see. That is just the sort of thing I am able to solve, is it not? Where did you find her?”
“In the yard of the building next to my own.”
“Yes, you live in the East-end. Twenty-seven Hanbury Street, is it not?” said Holmes, his grey eyes meeting mine with grave urgency. “So you saw a woman who had been killed. I know you are frightened, Hawkins, but you must pretend that you have come back from enemy territory to give intelligence.”
The lad drew a deep breath. “I quit our room this morning to see if there were any leavings on the shore. When you’ve no cases to hand, I tries my luck as a mudlark. I keep a sharp stick hidden in the back yard on a hook, and I climbed up to get at it. When I looked over the fence to the next yard, I saw her. She was all in pieces,” cried the child. “Everything meant to be inside was outside.” Hawkins then burst into a fresh assault of tears.
“There now, you are perfectly safe here,” said Sherlock Holmes, sending a hand through the boy’s hair. “You were very brave to come all the way to Westminster on the back of a gentleman’s hansom, and very clever not to be caught. I am at your service. Shall I go to Hanbury Street?”
The youth nodded feverishly.
“Then Dr. Watson and I shall leave at once. On my way down, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hudson about your breakfast, and I shall tell your mother you are sleeping upon my sofa. Oh, come now. Mrs. Hudson will be only too glad to see you as soon as I inform her she is playing host to the hero of Hanbury Street. Well done indeed, Hawkins.” Holmes shot me a significant glance and ducked into his bedroom. I was dressed not half a minute after my friend, and away we rushed inthe first cab we could find, after informing Mrs. Hudson that our tiny houseguest was to be treated in every way as if he had just returned from near-fatal conflicts abroad.
Our cabman delivered us to Hanbury Street, with all the haste our equine allies could muster, by the streaks of dawn’s skeletal fingers. We strode without hesitation toward a cluster of police constables, distraught residents, and ardent reporters, who veiled their enthusiastic questions under a thin veneer of shock. Their eyes lit up when they glimpsed my friend’s singular profile, but he brushed through them as if they were so many chickens.
A clean-shaven young constable guarded the greying wooden entrance to the building’s yard. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t allow you through. There’s been a murder done.”
“My name is Sherlock
Nearing the bottom of the stairs, I heard, with all the drowsy confusion of the startled sleeper, the sound of Holmes’s voice intermixed with that of the unnerving siren. I threw open the door to our sitting room, and there sat Holmes, likewise hastily clad in shirtsleeves and dressing gown, holding both the hands of a ragged child who appeared to be six or seven years of age.
“I knew you to be blessed with great strength of character,” Holmes was saying to the boy. “You behaved splendidly and I am very proud of you. Ah! Just the thing. Here is Dr. Watson. You remember Dr. Watson, do you not, Hawkins?”
The ill-fed vagabond swiveled his head in alarm at the introduction of another’s presence, and I at once recognized the pale features and dark Irish curls of Sean Hawkins, one of the youngest members of Holmes’s band of street urchins, the Baker Street Irregulars.
“Hawkins,” said Holmes softly, “it is extremely important that you tell me what has happened. You wish me to help, do you not? There,now. I thought so. And I must have all the information at your disposal, yes? I know it is very difficult, but I only ask you to try. Sit next to me upon this chair—no, no, strong back, like your father, the prizefighter. Now, tell me all about it.”
“I found a woman who was killed,” said little Hawkins, his lips trembling all the while.
“I see. That is just the sort of thing I am able to solve, is it not? Where did you find her?”
“In the yard of the building next to my own.”
“Yes, you live in the East-end. Twenty-seven Hanbury Street, is it not?” said Holmes, his grey eyes meeting mine with grave urgency. “So you saw a woman who had been killed. I know you are frightened, Hawkins, but you must pretend that you have come back from enemy territory to give intelligence.”
The lad drew a deep breath. “I quit our room this morning to see if there were any leavings on the shore. When you’ve no cases to hand, I tries my luck as a mudlark. I keep a sharp stick hidden in the back yard on a hook, and I climbed up to get at it. When I looked over the fence to the next yard, I saw her. She was all in pieces,” cried the child. “Everything meant to be inside was outside.” Hawkins then burst into a fresh assault of tears.
“There now, you are perfectly safe here,” said Sherlock Holmes, sending a hand through the boy’s hair. “You were very brave to come all the way to Westminster on the back of a gentleman’s hansom, and very clever not to be caught. I am at your service. Shall I go to Hanbury Street?”
The youth nodded feverishly.
“Then Dr. Watson and I shall leave at once. On my way down, I’ll speak to Mrs. Hudson about your breakfast, and I shall tell your mother you are sleeping upon my sofa. Oh, come now. Mrs. Hudson will be only too glad to see you as soon as I inform her she is playing host to the hero of Hanbury Street. Well done indeed, Hawkins.” Holmes shot me a significant glance and ducked into his bedroom. I was dressed not half a minute after my friend, and away we rushed inthe first cab we could find, after informing Mrs. Hudson that our tiny houseguest was to be treated in every way as if he had just returned from near-fatal conflicts abroad.
Our cabman delivered us to Hanbury Street, with all the haste our equine allies could muster, by the streaks of dawn’s skeletal fingers. We strode without hesitation toward a cluster of police constables, distraught residents, and ardent reporters, who veiled their enthusiastic questions under a thin veneer of shock. Their eyes lit up when they glimpsed my friend’s singular profile, but he brushed through them as if they were so many chickens.
A clean-shaven young constable guarded the greying wooden entrance to the building’s yard. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t allow you through. There’s been a murder done.”
“My name is Sherlock
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