Chapter 3: The Step of the Cat
It was an exceptionally cold night, even for the time of year. The Thames had taken on a sludgy hue only broken by the reflections of various lights along its length, one of which was a small handheld torch that flicked across the water as if searching for something. The torch's operator swore quietly under his breath as he scrambled nearer to the icy water, while kicking off his trainers and throwing his jacket to the ground. They could have picked somewhere with a beach, he thought ruefully.
Jaxx was known for being in the right place at the time. What he didn't already know, he found out through an uncanny knack of asking the right person in the right way to get exactly what was required. That was one of the reasons that Sherlock had consulted him over numerous cases over the past couple of years. Other reasons included that he was completely and utterly trustworthy and that Sherlock found him less annoying than most of the other goldfish out there.
Was it fortuitous to witness a beating and apparent murder by Thames water? Probably not. But less strange to the likes of Jaxx than you'd think. He chose to believe that it was relatively lucky and left it at that. Not so lucky to be the only one around to attempt a futile rescue attempt. Not so lucky that it was unseasonably cold for the time of year. Not so lucky to have a conscience.
For the second time in two consecutive nights, Mrs Hudson was woken by strange noises in her home. Having two house guests in residence did not lull her into a false sense of security nor dull her wits. She lay quietly in bed, straining her senses to the full. She could make out someone cautiously tiptoeing past her bedroom door; someone who wasn't trying to be considerate by not disturbing the other residents but someone who was being furtive and did not want to be disturbed themselves for nefarious reasons. She'd lived with the nefarious for long enough to know the difference.
Judging by the direction, they were headed for Darren's room. The weight of the steps communicated to her that it was not young Darren returning to bed after raiding her kitchen cupboards or fridge. She was a light sleeper in any case and would have awoken when he was on the way out. He'd not avoid that creaky floorboard while sneaking out and that would most certainly have alerted her to his presence. The door of the spare room was at an angle to hers and she would be able to see who the intruder was if she could get to her keyhole without them being alerted to her wakeful state.
She eased herself out of bed slowly, pausing to hear if the late night wanderer became aware he was not the only one out of bed. Silence. She glided over to the door, her years of dance training meaning that she could do so surprisingly quietly for someone of her age with 'a hip'. She smiled as she thought to herself; pas de bourrée, battement développé en avant, balancé, glissard - entrechat! Well, perhaps not the entrechat, not if she wanted to get to the door unheard.
Get a grip, Martha! She muttered under her breath as she reached the door. This was not like when she was an exotic dancer and young admirers came calling. This was not a jolly wheeze. Thinking of the ballet steps she had learnt before money became so tight she had to work at whatever was available, helped to take her mind off her creaky hip though and she made it to the door without alerting anyone to her presence.
She heard the floor board squeak out in the corridor and then the silence that comes when someone is listening out for other sounds; the silence that only comes late at night when someone is up to no good. And she could see the shadowy figure through her keyhole standing stiffly like he was holding his breath. And there was something in his hand. Something that you didn't carry around with you when you were a guest who was up in the night and lost on the way back from the bathroom.
Martha took a deep breath and wondered if she could save Spy-DA from the spectral presence. She should be thinking the same of Gums, or at least wondering if he could save them both. She would have been, had the figure not reminded her so undoubtedly of her sofa occupant. Presumed him to be a friend. Invited him into my home. Ungrateful little... She muttered vengefully and hoped that wasn't vengeance that would be required as retribution for a more serious misadventure.
She looked around for her frying pan before realising that she'd left it in the kitchen while treating Gums' injuries. Now she wished for the first time that she'd hit him a lot harder.
"Where the f*** is he?" she heard from inside Spy-DA's room and turned back to the keyhole as quietly as she could in time to see Gums' emerge from the room, his shoulders drooping more than before and what looked like John's gun hanging limply from his hand. What happened next made her hold her breath. He was suddenly looking alert again like an ugly meerkat who was on duty looking after the nursery. But he was doing no such thing. This man was dangerous and his attention was on Mrs Hudson's door and he was furtively heading her way.
She moved a little way back from the keyhole, ready to roll silently to her right and away from a bullet speeding through the door if need be. She could still make out his shadowy form as he approached, reminding herself that if he was certain that she was there listening, he was the one with the gun and so he'd not be so hesitant. And then he crouched down suddenly towards the door and she rolled away deftly just before the approaching eye reached the opposite side of the keyhole. She knew that the light was such that he'd not have been able to see her, but there was enough that he'd wonder what was obstructing his view and as a much younger person, he was likely to be able to keep still a lot longer than she was. Moving would have been all the proof that he needed.
She was not sure if she imagined hearing the breathing on the other side of the door, but she managed to keep hers in check while she waited to see what would happen. She glanced over at her bed and was glad of the ancient eiderdown quilt that she brought back from her last trip to see her sister. She remembered their slightly fraught conversation with some fondness - 'what do you want that old thing for? I was going to throw it out after the clear out.' It had bunched up convincingly in the half light through the curtains like someone was still sleeping there and probably had just saved her life.
After what seemed an age the breather moved away from the door and subdued footsteps retreated down the hallway. And then silence again. Martha stayed exactly where she was for some time afterwards and eventually moved hesitantly back to her bed when her hip threatened to give way and possibly alert Gums to her insomnious state.
Now where has that Darren got to? she thought as she pulled the still warm eiderdown over her shivering limbs.
Meanwhile, John was having a less exciting time of it out on the street, which was the problem really. The news was not flowing. No one knew anything and it wasn't the not knowing that comes from being too scared to speak either. This was a sincere lack of news of any kind. John wondered if the alert had been manufactured to get them out in the open for an ambush. Sherlock seemed unperturbed, which didn't reassure John at all. It was getting colder out and this was the second night they'd spent without sleep and out in the elements. At least he'd been eating. Sherlock hadn't touched the contents of last night's thermos or Mrs Hudson's protein bars, which meant he hadn't eaten since the last of the Chinese takeout leftovers on Tuesday. Too long even for Sherlock. It might all be transport, but transport needs fuel.
John wrapped his arms around himself and blew out grey vapour into the air. How did these people cope when the weather got like this? Admittedly most had taken up options offered by various charitable ventures, but there were still a hardy few out there with their cardboard boxes and balaclavas.
Eddie the Sparrow was one who chose not to go inside unless the snow was thicker than the steps of St Martin in the Fields, or so he said. Some of the older men had known him to slip in unobtrusively and spend the night sitting up in companionable silence with staff until slipping out again in the early hours. It didn't count if you didn't actually sleep in a hostel. They didn't offer or ask anything of him to save his pride. On nights like that he was honorary staff. He'd not done that for prolonged periods since the winter of '78-9 though. Surely this year he'd swallow his pride and go indoors once again for at least the worst of the nights.
He was just about to give in to temptation when he saw the strange procession down the street. Two youths were half carrying and half dragging a body, obviously frozen to death, down the street in front of him. Eddie melted back into the shadows. If there was any foul play then he didn't want to be involved; he didn't want to be involved if there was any philanthropy going on either. It wasn't that he was afraid of authority it was more that he was afraid of conversation. Eddie liked his privacy, thank you very much. Unless it was that Sherlock Holmes geezer. He knew how to treat a street gent. He didn't ask personal questions and didn't care where you slept nor whether you ate. That was class, that was. Maybe Mr Holmes would make the strange happenings disappear; and Eddie knew just where to find him on that particular night.