"Hello?"
A small whimper carried from beneath several oversized pallets, and Arthur glimpsed one small shoe deep in the cavity. He moved to face the altercation then slowly knelt. The young boy curled into a tighter ball.
"You're safe," Arthur promised softly, the boy's wide, frightened eyes reminding him of every Alpha Protocol he had ever run. "Are you alright?"
Another whimper. Trash slid down the other side of the mound as the boy inched further away.
"Your father's still beating up the man that grabbed you," Arthur tried again. "He'll be over in a minute. Did that man hurt you?"
Silence but for yet another whimper. Arthur slowly changed from kneeling to sitting. "I won't come any closer unless you say. I know a bit of medicine, and my friend Tim knows even more. Are you hurt?"
Fear still shone from a face no older than five or six, but a faint reply barely reached Arthur's ears over the noise of the increasing fight. "No."
"I'm glad he didn't hurt you. My name's Arthur. What's yours?"
More rustling, followed by a better view of nice clothes torn in the struggle. A yell from his father put a tremor into the word. "Max."
"Oh, no you don't!"
Arthur peeked through the pallets in time to see Max's father grab the blackguard's shirt to pull him back into reach. More interested in escaping than fighting back, the ruffian had two black eyes, a still-bleeding nose, and a strong limp. George's lopsided brass knuckles had appeared from somewhere, and Tim held a broken piece of glass in one hand. That explained the large rip in the man's trousers.
"They're beatin' him up good." A small smile tried to calm the boy. "He won't be able to touch you again. Can you tell me what happened?"
Mr. Holmes would want to know about this—as would Doctor Watson—but Max quickly shook his head.
"Alright," he said evenly. "Can you tell me your father's name?"
"Paul Thatcher."
"Paul," he repeated. "Max Thatcher, son of Paul. Do you have a Mum?" Max nodded. "What's her name?"
"Ivy." Some of the fear drained at the thought of his mum. "She likes plants. Big garden."
"What does she grow?"
"Everything." The scuffle abruptly quieted, but Arthur ensured only that the lowlife did not come towards them. "She has flowers and veggies and berries, and I really like the strawberries."
"Strawberries are good," Arthur agreed. "I like 'em mixed with blueberries and covered in cream. Have you had that?"
"That was my birthday breakfast—"
"Oi!" George and Mr. Thatcher lunged simultaneously, but the blackguard managed to evade them both and disappear deeper into the alley. Mr. Thatcher scowled but refrained from following, scanning the walls instead.
"Over here!" That frantic gaze still searched the shadows, so Arthur sat up to let Mr. Thatcher see him on the other side of the pile. Long, running strides brought the adult rapidly closer.
"Max!"
The older man hit the cobblestones hard enough to bruise his knees, and Arthur backed out of the way as Mr. Thatcher spotted his son. Strong arms easily reached the boy that had already started to crawl out, pulling him into a relieved embrace. "My boy. Oh, my boy. I turned around and you were gone. I thought I'd never find you!"
"Grabbed me from behind." Max's reply emerged rather muffled, though he obviously had no intention of pulling his face out of his father's disheveled jacket. "When we passed that alley. Hand over my mouth kept me from screaming, but I fought him. I fought him good, Father, like you taught me, but we was still movin' too fast 'til Arthur and his friends jumped in. He wanted to take me to a haven." The stream of words paused. "What's a haven?"
Max's story flicked his father's gaze to where Arthur quietly relayed what he had learned, but Mr. Thatcher's grip merely tightened. "I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to know. Not if it would have taken you away from me. He didn't hurt you, did he?"
A silent negative etched stark relief into Mr. Thatcher's face. He breathed something like a prayer before finally addressing Arthur.
"Thank you."
"I am glad we were close enough to help," Tim replied, introducing each of them. "Do you live near here? We would walk you home, if you like. Montague Street is safer in numbers."
Something in the offer made Mr. Thatcher clutch his son even tighter. "'Safer?'" he repeated as Max squirmed. "I took him to a dangerous neighborhood?!"
"A dangerous street," Tim corrected gently. "The area around the museum is safe enough, as is Russell Square and the university, but even we avoid Montague Street. Something about these few blocks attracts trouble worse than the East End. This isn't the first interrupted kidnapping."
Mr. Thatcher forcibly loosened his grip, but a long moment passed as he fought off the many ways this afternoon could have gone differently.
"We are staying at the Ivanhoe," he finally replied. "Is that a bad area, too?"
Arthur shook his head. "No, sir. That's close enough to the museum entrance that the guards run off the worst of Montague's lot." A glance at Tim produced a nod, and Arthur pulled his map from its pocket. "We're here," he started, pointing at the crooked bend in the alley maze, "and the Ivanhoe is here. You could follow these alleys over to the museum instead of going out to Montague and around."
"But the travel guide said the alleys hide the city's criminals."
George's scowl briefly pushed its way free. He knew as well as Arthur that the protest stemmed from lingering fear for his son, but that would not prevent George's tone creeping into irritated—nor could an elbow from Tim halt a mild rebuke.
"Depends on where you go." George's shrug affected a carelessness his words failed to match. "Today, you found a kidnapper on a well-traveled road and three helpful street kids in an alley."
His reproach sparked surprise, realization, then remorse. "My apologies. You are correct. May I see your map again?"
Arthur obliged, and Tim gave the man several seconds to study the lines before voicing a different question.
"Would you be willing to trade contact information, sir? That nosebleed you gave him is bound to leave a trail, and I'm sure Mr. Holmes will want to talk to you if we find something. He doesn't take kindly to kidnappers."
A fingernail carefully traced Arthur's route before Mr. Thatcher looked up, something between curiosity and recognition in his question. "You mean the detective?"
"Yes, sir. We're part of the Irregulars. We help with his cases, gathering info' and whatnot. He can probably find the man that grabbed Max, but even if he can't, the 'haven' that Max mentioned means there might be something more to this than just a creeper trying to take a kid. He'll run this case as far as it will go searchin' for any sign of a kidnapping ring."
Mr. Thatcher stared at them for a long moment before digging in his pocket. "I have work at the museum for a couple more days, but he can find us here after that." He passed a calling card to Tim before pulling himself to his feet, Max's face still buried in his shoulder. "I cannot thank you enough. To have my boy safe…"
He trailed off as Max's fingers whitened on his collar, but several more thanks and a grateful handshake saw them down the alley towards the Ivanhoe. Arthur stashed his map back in a pocket to search for the blackguard's trail. Finishing their task could wait. Blood trails always got hard after the stains had a chance to dry.
"Arthur, I think he left this for you."
Tim's comment tore his concentration from the alley's far wall. He stood to take the offered newspaper article, a distant thought wondering at Tim's wide smile.
"Leading cartographer congratulates museum on rare find," read the headline. "Paul Thatcher works in conjunction with a local office this week to study two rare maps located by children playing in an abandoned castle…"
Cartographer? Arthur skimmed the article once, then twice to be sure. Out of everyone in this city, they had somehow run into a well-known map maker?!
"That office might just know about you soon." Tim's voice still had not lost that grin. "You should take them your map."
"Maybe." Arthur could not halt his own growing smile, but he shoved the paper into a pocket and kept hunting. Even if Tim's supposition was correct, Mr. Thatcher would need a day or two to mention him to the local mapmaker, and they needed to find that man today. His excitement could wait.
"Here."
George waved them further down the alley to where red streaked one wall. A nosebleed left blood everywhere, and with the first spot to guide them, they easily followed the trail west to a narrow path, then on a winding route northward to the back side of a semi-hidden mansion. The rear gate swung in a gusting breeze. Empty grounds led to a silent manor. Moss grew on the roof and circled the chimney. If not for the bloody handprint on that rusty gate, Arthur would believe the place abandoned.
"I don't like this," George murmured. "Where is everyone?"
Arthur quietly agreed. Someone should be out at this time of day—even if only the groundskeeper carrying water for the many neatly trimmed bushes and trees between the manor and the trash-littered alley. No one moved behind the upstairs windows, and the lowest windows remained securely shuttered.
Tim's frown displayed his own thoughts well enough. "Let's check the front."
Backtracking found an indirect path to reach the street, but the Montague side looked even more unusual. Set well back behind a thick stretch of trees, "Fernsby's Haven for Homeless Waifs" decorated a sign nailed to a neatly painted door. The rest of the building showed more signs of age, however. The owners had not maintained the front anywhere near as well as they had the back, and all the groundskeeping remained between the manor and the alley. They obviously used the back as the main entrance.
"An orphanage should not be this quiet."
George slowly nodded, but a glimpse of Tim changed whatever he had been about to say.
"You're bleeding."
Arthur spun as Tim waved the comment aside, attention still on the manor. "Cut myself on the glass," he said shortly. "It's shallow. I just don't want to use the water over here." He scanned the manor grounds again. "Are you both available tonight?" They nodded. "Good. I think we need to watch this place for an hour or two before we go to Mr. Holmes. The headquarters for one of Mr. Holmes' smuggling rings appeared abandoned during the day because they kept opposite hours. I don't like what that might mean for an orphanage."
Opposite hours? Arthur looked at the large house with a new kind of horror. "You think they're doing that?!"
"Maybe. Why else would they take a kid from his father? An orphanage wants to have fewer kids, not more, and kids want to play." Another wave referenced the empty grounds. "What happens every night if the children prefer to sleep during the day?"
George's expression mirrored Arthur's increasing revulsion. "Let's go to Mr. Holmes now."
Tim shook his head. "He and the doctor won't be back until tomorrow, and Mrs. Hudson is on holiday until the next day. I'll leave a note in their mail slot to keep them from leaving again, but we'll have to handle this alone tonight. Mr. Holmes can take over in the morning."
Fine. Arthur liked that almost as much as a nocturnal orphanage, but they could hardly wait for morning to start gathering information. Provided they did nothing but watch…
"Mr. Holmes will have your hide if you try to raid the place," Arthur warned.
"Stakeout only," Tim promised, his eyes still on the frighteningly silent manor. "We can set up in that smallest alley with Jones and Charles watching behind us. An hour or two after dark should reveal enough about this 'haven,' and Mr. Holmes will have a place to start."
Five of them. Alright. They did not need to navigate Montague to reach that alley, and they would be safe enough in the shadows. Arthur quickly dug out one of the scraps he always carried.
"Here. Write your note on this, and we can detour to drop it now instead of going all the way back to the courtyard first."
A note also ensured someone knew where they went so that if something went wrong, Mr. Holmes would start tracking them as soon as he returned. Faint relief bled into Tim's thanks, but the following grimace recalled the nick on his hand.
"You want me to write it?"
Tim shook his head. "I can get it. I just hate cutting the base of my finger. It's the only place worse than your palm for accidental movement."
Yes, it was, but Tim needed only a moment to scribble what they had found. Arthur pulled out his map when Tim returned the pencil.
"Will your hand let me finish? I needed one more building footprint north of the hostel."
"Of course."
"Just a moment."
George's comment halted Arthur's attempt to leave, and he crept to the front of the alley, carefully peering up and down the street and into the trees shrouding the manor. Less than a minute passed before he rejoined them.
"I bet no one notices it during the day because o' those trees," he answered their silent question. "Wanted to make sure I would be able to find it again. The tailor is on one side, a men's club on the other, and I don't see any business signs on each side of us."
Another scrap noted those details—because George had a point—then they ducked out the other side of the alley to take a winding route toward that former construction site. One building did not warrant walking such a street.
One building would bring them back tonight, however. If the adults used that manor the way Arthur thought they might, Mr. Holmes needed to get the Yard involved quickly. No one should have to live like that.
This story will be a lot more Irregular-centric, if you hadn't figured that out, though Watson and Holmes will join the action next chapter. Hope you're enjoying, and don't forget to drop your thoughts below :)
Fireguardian22: Thank you very much for the many reviews! The story you referenced is Choices, if you were wanting to find it again, and lol on the teething toy :D