Life, please take a vacation and butt out of my personal affairs. It's affecting my writing, as demonstrated by this insanely long delay in updates and the quality of the material.
Disclaimer: Do I actually own anything? I've been away so long I feel as if I don't. I think Ruth might be mine. And Edgar.
Chapter 14
Ruth had several virtues, but patience while waiting for something important to happen would never be one of them. That's not to say she didn't still try. She fared well enough on Saturday by visiting Charlie, and church had been her major distraction on Sunday, but by Monday afternoon, she was about as close to stir-crazy as a person could get. Lacking anything better to do, she'd gone over her room with a fine-tooth comb, cleaning and organizing everything in sight. When she'd finished that, she'd taken to pacing, fidgeting, and going from window to window in search of nothing in particular. She couldn't sit still long enough to sketch, and she'd decided against sewing on a dress that needed repair for fear she might inadvertently stab herself with a needle in her agitation. Finally, she'd plopped down in a chair by the fireplace, replaced the strings on her guitar, and then proceeded to tune the instrument.
Holmes tried to ignore it. He quickly found himself fighting a losing battle.
Although Ruth was, admittedly, a decent musician, tuning was a tedious process which lacked melodic appeal, regardless of the player's prowess. When she'd finished the exercises, she took to strumming various songs and melodies that sounded more appropriate for a campfire by a wagon train instead of a London flat. After a particularly twangy rendition of "The Yellow Rose of Texas," Holmes found himself checking the clock on the mantle by the minute.
"Mr. Morris should be here within the hour," he observed.
Ruth looked up sharply, as if suddenly aware of his presence.
"I only thought it best to give you some kind of warning," he continued. "You would be of little use to us if you were unprepared when he arrived."
"I'm sure you'd find that terribly amusing," Ruth remarked, placing her guitar aside.
"Well, watching you dash about in a mad flurry to get yourself prepared for our little evening excursion could prove entertaining."
Ruth gave a snort. She grabbed her guitar again, and left the room in a swish of skirts. Watson looked up from his novel.
"Does Lestrade know she's coming?"
"Lestrade knows we are being assisted by two American Pinkertons to whom I was told to give my complete cooperation. I might have neglected to mention that one of them is a cross-dressing young woman who, apparently, couldn't shoot a fish out of the proverbial barrel."
"What does that mean?"
"She herself has admitted to shooting one of her own colleagues in the leg, which inadvertently led to his untimely demise," Holmes pointed out. "A few other inquiries of my own have revealed that she has come close to shooting others on more than one occasion, and managed to miss a grizzly bear from a distance of twelve feet.
"Is that bad?"
"Grizzly bears are quite large. It would be like you missing an elephant at the other end of this room."
Watson eyeballed the distance from his chair and winced. "That is terrible," he conceded. "Why are you letting her come along?"
"I should like to see you stop her, Watson."
"I could probably reason with her," the doctor mused, half to himself.
"Do it then," Holmes dared. "Go up there, and tell her she can't go."
Watson's eyes went to the ceiling, and then to Edgar, who was lurking malevolently in the shadows by the door. "No," he decided, "I think not."
"In that case, doctor, you should concern yourself less with the affairs of mad American women, and more with remembering your revolver."
"I never forget my revolver," Watson told him, miffed. "You, on the other hand, would do well to shut off that Bunsen burner you've left going all afternoon before it burns something and Mrs. Hudson evicts us."
"She wouldn't dare." Holmes sounded quite sure of himself. "Nanny enjoys having someone to boss around."
After it became evident that the detective was not going to move, Watson got up and shut off the burner himself. He was just returning to his chair when Ruth appeared in the doorway. She was back in her Pinkerton garb, her Stetson tucked under her left arm. In her right hand, she carried the LeMat. Holmes watched as she gently wiped it down with a handkerchief and stuck both in her pocket.
"Just how good is that revolver?" he asked.
"Good enough that the Rebs decided to use it. Pa kept his after his discharge in '62. I got it after he passed on."
"Is it loaded?"
"It's always loaded," she said. "Except when I'm cleaning it."
"Would you care to give us a demonstration?"
"What, inside?" She stared at Holmes incredulously. "Are you off your rocker?"
"Certainly not." He pointed to a target he'd left pinned up on the wall from a previous case. "If you'd be so kind."
Ruth sighed with resignation, raised the LeMat idly, and fired. After the report had nearly deafened them and room was filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder, Holmes stood to inspect the shot. It was a good six inches to the left of the target.
"Yes," he said dryly. "Very good, I'm sure."
Ruth closed her left eye, took aim this time, and fired again. The shot narrowly missed Holmes, but it didn't miss the target.
"I've been practicing," was all she said.
The door to the sitting room suddenly flew open. Joe Morris hurried inside.
"Did I hear shooting in here?" he demanded. "What's going on?"
"Just a little target practice," Ruth informed him, idly twirling the revolver. "Nothing for you to go getting yourself worked up over."
Morris stared at the target and the whole in the wall next to it. Watson suspected his own face must have looked like that the first time he caught Holmes engaging in indoor pistol practice.
"You're hopeless," he finally said.
"No more than most," she replied. She turned to face Holmes. "All right, you said you'd go over the whole plan tonight. Start talking."
"After we meet with Lestrade," the detective assured her. He consulted the mantle clock. "Who, at this moment, is probably fuming over the fact that we are not in Great Queen Street right now. I already have a cab waiting. Shall we?"
Watson and Morris started to follow him out the door. Ruth lingered behind, her father's revolver still in her hand.
"Maybe I shouldn't take the gun," she said abruptly. She shifted uncomfortably when all three men turned to look at her. "It's just that…" She hesitated, clearly at war with herself. "I don't… want to repeat what happened in Chicago."
Morris stumped over to the girl and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.
"Ruth Henley," he growled, "I'm gonna say this just one last time, you hear? Shootin' Jim in the leg wasn't your fault. You know just as well as I do that bullet could've gone anywhere. That was an unlucky shot, and your aim ain't got a thing to do with it. Jim Simpkins is dead, it wasn't your fault, and if you don't get that through your head tonight, I don't reckon you ever will. Now, buck up so we can get this over with."
Ruth returned the revolver to her pocket, tugging her jacket down to straighten it and squaring her shoulders.
"Yes, sir."
The ride to Great Queen Street was a tense one. Aside from the clatter of hooves and wheels against the cobblestones, there was no sound. No one spoke. The cab pulled to a stop in an alleyway across from the Freemasons' Hall where Lestrade was waiting for them, along with Constable Clarke and five others.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Holmes," the inspector sighed.
"Certainly, Lestrade," Holmes replied breezily. "Don't I always? You have the whistle, I presume?"
"Here, sir."
Clarke produced the whistle from his pocket, and handed it to Holmes, who placed it in Ruth's hand.
"Miss—ter Henley will be in possession of the whistle. At the appropriate time, which will be after I give him leave to do so, he will give three long blows to signal too you that you may come and collect Davis and his associates. Is that clear?"
Lestrade nodded grudgingly. It wasn't as if he had another option.
"Are you armed?" he asked.
"Of course we are. Now, Lestrade, if you will excuse us, we have a serial killer to catch."
Holmes strode past the inspector toward the street and halted on the corner, just out of the flickering light of the gas lamps. Watson came to stand beside him.
"Holmes," he said, "just how, exactly, do you intend for us to enter the Freemasons' Hall without being spotted?"
"You're standing on it, Watson."
Alarmed, Watson looked down at his feet. He was standing on a manhole cover. He fought back exasperation.
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Do you mind?"
The doctor stood back as Holmes waved him away. The grating sound the cover made as it was removed seemed to amplify with each echo it created in the empty street. Watson found himself checking to make sure no one had heard, even though he knew the area was deserted except for the police constables. Morris was keeping his face devoid of expression, but Ruth's showed great consternation.
"You are loony!" she exclaimed, keeping her voice at a whisper to avoid Lestrade's notice. "You're going to crawl through a storm drain to get across the street?"
"Have you a better idea?" Holmes inquired. "I should love to see the Pinkertons' methods in action for once." Her stony silence indicated her lack of inspiration and her baleful glower indicated her displeasure, or would have if the shadow cast by brim of her hat hadn't obscured her face. "I thought not," Holmes said, gesturing to the hole. "Shall we?"
"I really don't see why this is necessary," Ruth argued.
"You don't know my methods, otherwise you would understand instantly."
"Holmes," Watson put in, "I know your methods and I don't understand, either."
"That is inconsequential." Without further ado, Holmes jumped down into the darkness. There was an unpleasant squelching sound as he landed, and his voice echoed back up through the hole. "When you're ready, Doctor."
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Watson allowed Morris, who declined any assistance, to go first. Ruth also refused help, preferring to simply throw herself down the hole feet first. The sound of boots sliding on the slick stone and a muffled thud followed some choice words suggested the reward for her choice. Watson lowered himself carefully down into the blackness.
The air was warm and dank, with the distinctive odor one expected to find in a tunnel beneath the streets of a metropolitan area. That didn't make it any less unpleasant. The only light came from the gas lamps above, dimly illuminating a patch every so many feet where a storm drain was located. Watson, Morris, and Ruth found themselves along behind Holmes in single file, completely at his mercy. Occasionally, the detective would give some kind of order or warning like "Watch your step," but for the most part, these came too late. It was so dark it wouldn't have made a difference anyway.
The however many yards walk across the street seemed to take twice as long underground with no landmarks. Even Ruth, who was normally comfortable with dark and enclosed spaces, felt herself growing progressively uneasy. Her anxiety increased when Holmes abruptly turned to the left, and the group found themselves bent nearly double in a low-lying tunnel that was clearly not part of the drainage system. She fumbled around in the shadows until her hand came in contact with Watson's coat sleeve. She pulled herself up alongside him and whispered, "How does he know about these places? Why does he know?"
"I haven't a clue," Watson admitted. "I've realized it's better not to ask questions. Half the time he doesn't answer."
"And the other half?"
"He makes you wish you never had."
"I'm already beginning to."
"Stop!" Holmes ordered. They froze. "Here."
"That's a wall, Mr. Holmes," Ruth pointed out, clearly not impressed.
"Thank you for demonstrating your firm grasp of the obvious, Miss Henley. I, however, am more interested in the obscure. The obvious is the best place for keeping something hidden."
The darkness of the tunnel disguised Holmes's movements, but a dim shaft of light suddenly appeared on one side, growing steadily larger as the wall apparently moved away. It finally stopped, leaving a human-sized hole which Holmes stepped through. After determining that he had not been observed, he motion for Watson and the two Pinkertons to follow.
They crawled through the wall and into a dimly-lit room. It was the basement of the Freemason's Hall.
They had infiltrated Davis's clandestine meeting place.