Read Online The Star of India by Carole Bugge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carole Bugge
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deep breath and followed Holmes into the tavern.
If any of the clientele in this charming establishment actually had no criminal record, it wasn’t immediately obvious. One would be hard pressed to find a more hardened, depraved, or menacing crew than the one gathered at The Drowned Rat. Holmes and I were so clearly an anomaly among this crowd—just by virtue of the way we were dressed, if nothing else—that I feared for our safety. Several rough-looking fellows stared at us when we entered, but Holmes strode straight ahead with his usual confidence and they left us alone. Evidently they felt we weren’t worth bothering about. We made our way through the cloud of tobacco smoke to the bar, where the huge and unkempt bartender ignored us for as long as he possibly could before finally asking us what we wanted. Holmes gazed at him calmly.
“Freddie Stockton,” he said evenly.
The bartender blinked, and then he laughed, showing his large, discolored teeth.
“Now what would fine gentl’men like you be wantin’ with the likes o’ Freddie?”
Holmes did not smile; not a muscle moved on his taut face. The bartender fidgeted with his filthy rag, and then he frowned.
“Freddie’s not ’ere right now.”
“Then find us someone who can tell us where he is.”
The bartender looked as if he were about to say something, and then he shrugged.
“Well, I s’pose Wickham would know.”
“And where can I find him?”
“’E’s in t’ back room.”
Without a word Holmes turned and walked in the direction the bartender had indicated, through a corridor which led to a dark and foul-smelling back room. A dozen or so men were seated on benches around a pit in which a small white terrier was shaking a rat that it held between its teeth. The pit was littered with the corpses of rats who had already met their fate in the fangs of this ferocious beast. The men were laughing and egging on the terrier with cries of, “Go, Billy!” and “Come on, finish him off!”
The stench in the room was vile, a disgusting combination of stale smoke, sweat, sawdust, and death. A couple of the men looked up at us as we entered.
“Is Wickham here?” Holmes said loudly.
Several of the men snickered. A fat, hairy-armed man shoved a tattooed elbow into the side of the fellow sitting next to him.
“Oi, Wickham, didn’t you ’ear the gentl’man—yer wanted !”
His companion was a tall, thin, bespectacled man—singular among this crowd—with a look of corrupted respectability. He peered nervously at Holmes and myself.
“Are you Wickham?” said Holmes sternly.
“What if I am?” he replied with an attempt at a sneer that came off as a sulk.
Holmes walked up to Wickham and grasped him by the collar, practically lifting him up off his seat.
“Then I hope for your sake you can tell me what I need to know,” he said, pulling the man’s face close to his.
Wickham’s face reddened, though I could not tell if it was from fright or from the fact that Holmes was cutting off his air supply. In any event, he managed to choke out a reply.
“All right; all right, guv’ner—what do you want to know?”
Holmes released his grasp on Wickham.
“Just this: Where is Freddie Stockton?”
Wickham rubbed his throat and looked around for help, but his comrades were enjoying the spectacle of his interrogation more than the efforts of the energetic Billy, who had just sent two more rats off to meet their maker.
“Well, I—I suppose you might find ’im at Penny Annie’s about now,” Wickham said, his voice shaking. “It’s in Lambeth—just ask anyone.”
Holmes stared at the man as if assessing the veracity of his statement. Then, evidently satisfied, he turned around and, without a word, left the room. I followed after, hearing as I went the taunting voices of Wickham’s comrades: “Oo, what ’a ya done now, Wickham, my boy?” and “Good thing you told ’im or ’eed ’a turned you into terrier meat!” followed by
If any of the clientele in this charming establishment actually had no criminal record, it wasn’t immediately obvious. One would be hard pressed to find a more hardened, depraved, or menacing crew than the one gathered at The Drowned Rat. Holmes and I were so clearly an anomaly among this crowd—just by virtue of the way we were dressed, if nothing else—that I feared for our safety. Several rough-looking fellows stared at us when we entered, but Holmes strode straight ahead with his usual confidence and they left us alone. Evidently they felt we weren’t worth bothering about. We made our way through the cloud of tobacco smoke to the bar, where the huge and unkempt bartender ignored us for as long as he possibly could before finally asking us what we wanted. Holmes gazed at him calmly.
“Freddie Stockton,” he said evenly.
The bartender blinked, and then he laughed, showing his large, discolored teeth.
“Now what would fine gentl’men like you be wantin’ with the likes o’ Freddie?”
Holmes did not smile; not a muscle moved on his taut face. The bartender fidgeted with his filthy rag, and then he frowned.
“Freddie’s not ’ere right now.”
“Then find us someone who can tell us where he is.”
The bartender looked as if he were about to say something, and then he shrugged.
“Well, I s’pose Wickham would know.”
“And where can I find him?”
“’E’s in t’ back room.”
Without a word Holmes turned and walked in the direction the bartender had indicated, through a corridor which led to a dark and foul-smelling back room. A dozen or so men were seated on benches around a pit in which a small white terrier was shaking a rat that it held between its teeth. The pit was littered with the corpses of rats who had already met their fate in the fangs of this ferocious beast. The men were laughing and egging on the terrier with cries of, “Go, Billy!” and “Come on, finish him off!”
The stench in the room was vile, a disgusting combination of stale smoke, sweat, sawdust, and death. A couple of the men looked up at us as we entered.
“Is Wickham here?” Holmes said loudly.
Several of the men snickered. A fat, hairy-armed man shoved a tattooed elbow into the side of the fellow sitting next to him.
“Oi, Wickham, didn’t you ’ear the gentl’man—yer wanted !”
His companion was a tall, thin, bespectacled man—singular among this crowd—with a look of corrupted respectability. He peered nervously at Holmes and myself.
“Are you Wickham?” said Holmes sternly.
“What if I am?” he replied with an attempt at a sneer that came off as a sulk.
Holmes walked up to Wickham and grasped him by the collar, practically lifting him up off his seat.
“Then I hope for your sake you can tell me what I need to know,” he said, pulling the man’s face close to his.
Wickham’s face reddened, though I could not tell if it was from fright or from the fact that Holmes was cutting off his air supply. In any event, he managed to choke out a reply.
“All right; all right, guv’ner—what do you want to know?”
Holmes released his grasp on Wickham.
“Just this: Where is Freddie Stockton?”
Wickham rubbed his throat and looked around for help, but his comrades were enjoying the spectacle of his interrogation more than the efforts of the energetic Billy, who had just sent two more rats off to meet their maker.
“Well, I—I suppose you might find ’im at Penny Annie’s about now,” Wickham said, his voice shaking. “It’s in Lambeth—just ask anyone.”
Holmes stared at the man as if assessing the veracity of his statement. Then, evidently satisfied, he turned around and, without a word, left the room. I followed after, hearing as I went the taunting voices of Wickham’s comrades: “Oo, what ’a ya done now, Wickham, my boy?” and “Good thing you told ’im or ’eed ’a turned you into terrier meat!” followed by
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