The Case of the Entreating Woman


DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

KS: Here it is, chapter four! I'm very, very sorry again for the slow updates…my life is absolutely insane. The quality of this chapter probably won't be very good because my heart and mind are not fully into it right now, but I am trying! XDD

Enjoy!


A dirty, haggard man in a frogged jacket limped his way to a table in the seedy tavern. His nose was crooked from having been broken multiple times, and his gritty, scarred visage bespoke a rough life. He already smelled of alcohol, and he raised a hand that looked as if it had been mangled by a machine to signal that he wanted a drink. When one was brought to him he sat over it thoughtfully, thick eyebrows drawn together as he discreetly surveyed the other occupants of the establishment. Finally after a while another rough-looking patron came over, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously with the one eye that was not covered by an eye-patch.

"Ah hain't seen you 'ere before," he said slowly. "Don't fink Ah like th' way yer starin' round the place."

The crooked-nosed man smiled wryly, exposing worn and heavily tobacco-stained teeth. "Aye, 'm not from 'ere. 'M lookin' fer…somone 'oo ken do a… job fer me."

"Wh' sort o' job?" the other asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The first man glanced around cautiously, then looked back at the one-eyed man. "An impor'n't job…" his own brows raised expectantly as he stared at the other man. "It'll taike a good 'and. Know anyone what migh' be able t' 'elp me…?"

There was just enough discretion and suspicion in the man's voice to satisfy the one-eyed man, and he laughed, taking a seat across from the older man. "Haw haw…Ah might. Yer gonna haf'ta be a bit more specific, else Ah cain't help. Don't worry, Ah hain't no copper, and Ah hain't no squealer."

The haggard cripple glanced around a bit more. "I need som'one taken care ov…and I need somefin from th'r 'ouse."

"Ah…" the one-eyed man said, leaning closer to the other. "Ah know just wha' you need…You need that fella what don't got a name."

The cripple's brows drew together. "Don't got a name?"

"Aye, nobody knows 'oo 'e is. But 'e's good at fixin' fings up, y'know…'E can fix people, too, if ye know what Ah mean. Good a' gettin' stuff, too… All fer the right price, o' course."

"What sort o' price?"

"'Pends on 'ow 'ard th' job is…" The one-eyed man took out his worn tobacco pouch and pipe, proceeding to fill it as he cocked a brow at the man across from him expectantly.

"Jus' a normal bloke. Nofin' fancy. 'E's got a dog, but 'e's deaf as a clam."

The one-eyed man snorted. "Haw! Right, tha' won't cost ye much."

"Where can I find 'im?"

"Ah dunno... But ye can find blokes what knows 'im—or knows 'bout 'im—everywheres," the man replied around the stem of his pipe, looking slyly at the cripple. "Ah fink…possibly Ah could tell ye 'ow t' get in touch wif 'im if ye refresh mah memory…"

The cripple looked sourly at the one-eyed man. "'D rather deal wif 'im directly. I's 'n easy matt'r, but stiwl a deli…delicate one," he hiccoughed around his words, but quickly continued. "I don't want no tricks tha'll end up comin' back on me."

The other's breezy demeanour fell. "'S th' only way t' do business wif 'im, and 'e's the one ye want if ye don't want t' swing for it! 'E hain't been in the game long, but 'e's as good as any."

The cripple stood. "'M sure I ken find som'one else t' do it wifout so much trouble." He drained his mug and slammed it back down upon the table. He then fished a coin from his tattered pocket, left it beside the glass, and stumbled out of the noxious atmosphere of the tavern.

He limped down the street for a while, eventually turning into a dark side alley, where he stopped to cautiously look behind him. Certainly no one was following… The man straightened up and scratched carefully at his nose, muttering a quiet oath.

Blasted make-up… Sherlock Holmes thought, feeling carefully to make sure he had not damaged his disguise with his scratching. He had one or two other low criminal centres to check out still, and he did not want to arouse suspicion with a partially dislodged nose.

His nose was always one of the most difficult things to adjust in his disguises… Having it appear out-of-place was always uncomfortable; nearly as much as when he tried to make it look average. Usually he was too focused on his task for it to bother him, but it seemed as if to-night it was not quite right and was causing him extra difficulty. When he had satisfied that his scratched itch had not damaged his false nose, he hunched back over, taking six inches from his height and re-assuming his persona, and stumbled down the dark street toward the next disreputable public house.


"So, ye've heard o' this 'man wifout a name', 'ave ye?"

"Aye," said a half-drunken sailor over his glass. "'E's a tough bloke. Shouldn' get tied up wiv 'im unless yer willin' to risk yer own neck fer th' money. 'S good money, though…" he took another long drink, his watery blue eyes staring at the thin foam in the mug.

Holmes scratched absently at a speck of God-only-knew-what that was encrusted on the outside of his own glass, and looked back over at the man when he had finished his draught. He would have to get the rest of his information quickly but carefully…The poor sailor's face was already an interesting shade of red, and he would be completely useless in a short amount of time at the rate he was drinking. "I don't wan' ta work for 'im, I just need a job done fer me," he said simply. "I been askin' round te see 'ow good 'e is."

"Mm…'E's got a devil's temper…Shdn't…" the sailor slurred, stumbling over his words, "Shouldn' get tied up wiv 'im."

The great detective sighed inwardly, but showed no sign of his impatience on his carefully-crafted exterior. "Ye work fer 'im, then?" he could not help but ask.

The sailor's glass lowered quickly, his reddened eyes fastening upon the disguised detective suspiciously. "'Oo told ye that?"

Holmes instantly recognised the situation and knew he would have to tread carefully to avoid a drunken conflict. "Nobody did, I was j'st askin'. I need somone 'oo knows this fella, or knows 'bout 'im."

The young seaman's glass slammed down onto the table, but the act was one of awkward movement and not hostility. "Oh…right, then… Better be carful, though…" his voice lowered, and in the process became more unintelligible. He leaned toward the detective, and Holmes fought to keep himself from gagging on the fumes on the man's breath. "Y'start askin' aft'r 'im, 'nd y' find tha' y' mighn't live very long. 'A's a warn'n' t' ye t' be car'fl.."

"Ah, tha' kind, is 'e? I'll keep tha' in mind. Thank 'ee…"

The sailor took a long drink from his next glass—Holmes was not sure how many that was for him. His next words were so absently said that the detective could barely make them out. "Mm… Go t' th' docks if y' still need tha' job… The Weston ware'ouse. Th're'll be somebody there tha' ken help ye."

Finally, a location. Excellent. Holmes stood and paid for his drink, which he had only drank enough of to keep up appearances. He noted that the sailor was paying more attention to the glass before him than to his surroundings, which might be dangerous if anyone had overheard his words and wanted to make him pay for his loose tongue. Holmes quietly made his way out and went on his way.

He stumbled along, giving the thorough appearance that he was inebriated and lame. The streets were dark by this time and there was a thin fog that diffused the light from the street lamps, making strange ghostly halos and giving a palpable depth to the shadows. In such an eerie atmosphere it would be easy to grow paranoid and fear for your neck, but Sherlock Holmes was not subject to such fancies…unless they had a basis in reality.

After a while his ears perked at a faint noise growing closer: cautious, steady footsteps. His senses were instantly on high alert, and when the noise only grew louder instead of disappearing, he developed a feeling deep in his mind that he was being followed. It was possible that he was being overly wary. Then again, it was also possible that another of Hughes's men had heard his inquiries… A close crime ring like that cannot afford to be too free with its information, and of course every inquiry must be investigated and meddlers severely punished.

Holmes kept his swaggering gait steady for a while, not wanting to arouse his possible pursuer's suspicions, and kept his mind and ears open for sure signs of danger. After he had reached a familiar side alley, he dodged into it, straightened up, and broke into a full run. Over the steady beat of his own boots against the cold street he heard the others—at least two—thudding at a strong pace behind. Holmes wished his shoes were of a better quality, for there was a bit of water leaking into them, and they almost did not feel as if they were going to hold together. He knew they would—he had made sure of that before he donned them at Baker Street—but their somewhat ill fit was making it difficult to run. Holmes was now counting on his great stride, stamina, and thorough knowledge of the London backstreets to save him. Certainly it had done so innumerable times before…

An indirect, tortuous route would naturally be best, and the great detective knew just the way to take. He was a good distance ahead of his pursuers, and at the last second he veered into another street. Rushing on ahead, he took the next turn that presented itself. If he just stayed far enough ahead and took enough detours, he could get out of their sight…


Holmes leapt over a discarded crate and paused, his breath coming quickly and heavily. He listened closely over the blood pounding in his ears… Finally, it appeared as if he had lost them. He would continue to be cautious, however, and take the long way back to Baker Street.


Mrs. Hudson was roused from her bed when he returned, but it was nothing to Sherlock Holmes. He was simply glad to be rid of the dingy costume. After he had cleaned up the various London soot and grime from himself he gratefully pulled on his dressing-gown and took up one of his pipes to ponder his next move. Watson was still absent, so he could not go to the warehouse. First he must check the building out on his own…he did not want to risk taking Watson into danger without knowing what sort of danger it may be. He drew on his pipe thoughtfully. Hughes was proving rather difficult to track, but he knew himself to be on the right scent somehow, even if there was little to show for his busy inquiries.

He leaned back and sighed, drawing deeper into his chair as he drew deeper into his mind, letting his dressing-gown envelop him. His day had been busy, but he knew to-morrow would be much more so.


KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review! It may not be perfect, but I tried. XD Now I must see if I can make any progress on Two Suspects...I am apparently stuck...XD