He took my arm. ‘I am Bailey, head of Heating, Bathing and Laundry. Watch your step there. That’s it. Take it slowly. We have four sunken baths, two cold and two hot, and you almost took a very chilly dip.’ There was a hint of glee in his voice as he guided me along the platform. ‘The professor told me you were to be soaked in hot seaweed for twenty to thirty minutes to help you recover from your altercation. After that, you must use the plunge pool to cleanse and close the pores. Here, let me help you in.’
He stopped beside a cast-iron tub that brimmed with foul-smelling green-black water. ‘You won’t be needing that robe, sir.’
I took it off and handed it over.
‘Thank you.’ He extended an arm for me to steady myself as I raised a leg and stepped in.
‘Lower yourself slowly now, sir. Enable your flesh to become accustomed to the temperature.’
The water was surprisingly hot. I inched down until my back rested on the rear of the tub and I managed to stretch.
Bailey bent low so his head was level with mine. ‘There are two doors, which I don’t believe you can see from your perspective, but they are in the far corner. One leads into the Turkish bath, quite the professor’s favourite. The other is to the laundry, where Jane has taken your clothes.’ His chest filled with pride. ‘I have to say, we have made quite an astonishingly economic use of the heat provided to the bathhouse, for the hot water pipes go into the room next to the mangles and they provide a wonderful way to dry the wet washing. Within the next month or two, we will be fitting cast-iron heating appliances imported from America and then we will be able to heat every room in this fine dwelling.’
I am unsure whether I fell asleep during that declaration or whether Mr Bailey sensed my lack of interest and simply wandered quietly away. But slept I did. Not for a long time, but sufficiently for the sludgy bathwater to have cooled and for the prescribed time to have expired.
When I awoke, the great domestic orator ushered me to the plunge pool and after the briefest of teeth-chattering dips, he provided me with thick white towels to dry myself. ‘You will find clean clothes in your room, sir, and Lady Elizabeth awaits you in the drawing room.’
‘Lady Elizabeth?’ I used the edge of the towel to wipe water from my face.
‘Yes, sir.’ He smiled. ‘It seems you have more than one lesson to learn today.’
15 Days to Execution
Newgate, 3 January 1900
Baker and Boardman took great delight in roughly bundling me back to my old cell. In truth, old red-beard and his chum all but dragged me there, as I still had problems with my right knee following the last assault.
Only when I was settled again did I remember how badly the old part of the gaol stank. My resting place must have been close to a service opening of Newgate’s sewers, and like some incontinent old drunk it was forever leaking the foulest of odours.
Peculiarly, I felt some satisfaction at being back in my original cell. A little familiarity apparently afforded considerable comfort. The blanket on the bunk had remained ruffled, exactly as I had left it, and I discerned the unique smells of my body as I settled beneath it and hoped to sleep away my pains.
It seemed that no sooner had sleep come than bright light and the noise of keys in the cell lock woke me. Crisp winter sunshine cast shadows of window bars across the floor, slim soldiers of Dark and Light standing side by side for inspection.
Boardman was still on duty and yawned out the reason for his appearance. ‘You have a visitor, Lynch. Move your sorry bones.’
My attention drifted past him to the man a pace behind, a fellow holding a handkerchief to his face to mask the smells.
Sherlock Holmes.
‘Mr Holmes here has come to interrogate you,’ continued Boardman. ‘Ain’t that so, Mr Holmes?’
The detective stepped forward. ‘The keeper has requested that I ascertain the facts behind this
He stopped beside a cast-iron tub that brimmed with foul-smelling green-black water. ‘You won’t be needing that robe, sir.’
I took it off and handed it over.
‘Thank you.’ He extended an arm for me to steady myself as I raised a leg and stepped in.
‘Lower yourself slowly now, sir. Enable your flesh to become accustomed to the temperature.’
The water was surprisingly hot. I inched down until my back rested on the rear of the tub and I managed to stretch.
Bailey bent low so his head was level with mine. ‘There are two doors, which I don’t believe you can see from your perspective, but they are in the far corner. One leads into the Turkish bath, quite the professor’s favourite. The other is to the laundry, where Jane has taken your clothes.’ His chest filled with pride. ‘I have to say, we have made quite an astonishingly economic use of the heat provided to the bathhouse, for the hot water pipes go into the room next to the mangles and they provide a wonderful way to dry the wet washing. Within the next month or two, we will be fitting cast-iron heating appliances imported from America and then we will be able to heat every room in this fine dwelling.’
I am unsure whether I fell asleep during that declaration or whether Mr Bailey sensed my lack of interest and simply wandered quietly away. But slept I did. Not for a long time, but sufficiently for the sludgy bathwater to have cooled and for the prescribed time to have expired.
When I awoke, the great domestic orator ushered me to the plunge pool and after the briefest of teeth-chattering dips, he provided me with thick white towels to dry myself. ‘You will find clean clothes in your room, sir, and Lady Elizabeth awaits you in the drawing room.’
‘Lady Elizabeth?’ I used the edge of the towel to wipe water from my face.
‘Yes, sir.’ He smiled. ‘It seems you have more than one lesson to learn today.’
15 Days to Execution
Newgate, 3 January 1900
Baker and Boardman took great delight in roughly bundling me back to my old cell. In truth, old red-beard and his chum all but dragged me there, as I still had problems with my right knee following the last assault.
Only when I was settled again did I remember how badly the old part of the gaol stank. My resting place must have been close to a service opening of Newgate’s sewers, and like some incontinent old drunk it was forever leaking the foulest of odours.
Peculiarly, I felt some satisfaction at being back in my original cell. A little familiarity apparently afforded considerable comfort. The blanket on the bunk had remained ruffled, exactly as I had left it, and I discerned the unique smells of my body as I settled beneath it and hoped to sleep away my pains.
It seemed that no sooner had sleep come than bright light and the noise of keys in the cell lock woke me. Crisp winter sunshine cast shadows of window bars across the floor, slim soldiers of Dark and Light standing side by side for inspection.
Boardman was still on duty and yawned out the reason for his appearance. ‘You have a visitor, Lynch. Move your sorry bones.’
My attention drifted past him to the man a pace behind, a fellow holding a handkerchief to his face to mask the smells.
Sherlock Holmes.
‘Mr Holmes here has come to interrogate you,’ continued Boardman. ‘Ain’t that so, Mr Holmes?’
The detective stepped forward. ‘The keeper has requested that I ascertain the facts behind this
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