"Well, so much for that case."
A faint grumble answered my sarcasm, nearly hidden behind the heavy footsteps outpacing me on the stairs. His bag thumped the landing floor.
"Are you going to sulk all day?"
Probably not, that louder grumble said, but he would for a while. Few things frustrated my friend more than a snipe hunt of a case. The intricate counterfeit operation he had suspected at Inspector Hunt's note had become simply a group of children with a penchant for storytelling. The town's inspector had flushed a brilliant shade of red when Holmes led him to the young ones' shack. We did not often find ourselves called to investigate a children's game.
Though I preferred even that over a week of boredom. The fortnight prior to Inspector Hunt's note had passed slowly, with many worried hours on my part as I watched my friend sink deeper and deeper into ennui. I hoped he found another case soon. The languor that plagued my friend on the slower days sapped his interest in anything but another puzzle—and affected my own mood as well, for all that I would never admit it. Perhaps I could convince him to play me a game of chess.
Or maybe the Irregulars had found us a case. My cursory flip through the pile of mail halted on sight of a familiar scrap of paper.
"Kidnapping ring on Montague St. North end. Manor set back from street. Will have more info' in morning."
Interesting. The Irregulars usually avoided Montague, mostly due to the gangs that roamed that area. Holmes had mentioned the first Irregulars refusing to go to his former flat unescorted because the street was so dangerous. What would have taken them there this week?
I would probably find out soon enough, and careless movements skimmed the other letters on the way to my chair. I apparently needed to refresh my knowledge of Mycroft's preferred code, as I rather doubted he wished Holmes to procure a dozen apples. Lestrade promised to bring a cold case by the flat in a day or two. Four women and three men had telegrammed about possible cases—all of which I knew Holmes would refuse. Someone had cut themselves on a sharp pen, as evidenced by the drop of blood on a possible kidnapping case.
Wait a minute.
My valise missed the settee as a second glance found myself back at Tim's note. The Irregulars did not have sharp pens.
"Holmes!"
No answer. He ignored me from the back of his bedroom, too deep in his sulk to note my tone. Only intense effort tore my concentration from the rusty brown stain wrinkling the corner and smearing across the text.
"Holmes, did you send the Irregulars to Montague Street?!"
That caught his attention. The rustling paused, then hasty footsteps strode out of his bedroom.
"I did not. What is it?"
I shoved the note iton his hand and started rapidly inventorying my medical bag. The Irregulars could find trouble anywhere, but trouble in that area was far more dangerous. "Have you had any cases on that street? Tim did not go home before writing that."
My friend slowly shook his head, that keen gaze picking far more from the scrap than I could ever hope to find. "The only manor I have seen on Montague is on the south end, near my old rooms." He flipped the note over. "They were in a fight just before this, but the blood likely came from a cut on his hand. George was with him at least. Probably another boy as well."
No matter how many years I tried to learn, I still had no idea how he did that, but some of my worry faded at the confirmation that Tim had not walked into trouble alone. "How long should we give him before we go to the courtyard?"
One hand pulled his watch from its pocket. "Another hour."
My silent nod sent him back to his bedroom, though now he puttered rather than sulked. Just as concerned as I, Holmes would have preferred to leave immediately, but Tim knew our travel plans. Leaving now risked missing him on the street, especially if he came from Montague rather than the courtyard.
The knowledge did nothing for my restlessness, however, and with my bag fully stocked, I found myself unable to sit still. The various missives offering a new case landed on Holmes' chair. Two letters for me joined the stack of notes on my desk. Mrs. Hudson's letter went on a side table to take back downstairs, and still Tim had not arrived. Every Irregular since the Wiggins siblings had avoided Montague Street—with good reason. Those few blocks had more muggings than any place in the East End, and more than one person—adult or child—disappeared there each year. I did not like the idea of even the oldest boys wandering that street.
Silence still reigned below, however, and my watch said barely ten minutes had passed. I finally dug Holmes' map of London out of the back of his desk. Perhaps I could find this manor that my friend had never noted.
A tailor. A pub. A diner. That club that everyone knew was a cover. Several establishments specializing in a different sort of drink. I slowly ran my finger down the street, searching for anything that Tim could be referencing.
There. An unlabeled building sat far back from the road, apparently hiding between the museum and a line of trees, but Holmes' pen marked it abandoned. Could that be what Tim meant?
Maybe. Holmes had not updated this area in a few years, and he would have gone in daylight when he did. We both knew that a building abandoned in daylight did not always stay abandoned after dark. I refolded the map to display that spot but went back to my desk. Did I have any patient notes referencing that address?
No. I had not even gone to Russell Square in recent months, and Holmes' case notes did not help, either. What about—
Urgent knocking interrupted my fruitless search for more information. Holmes darted from his room and down the stairs, though grabbing my bag meant I reached the landing just before the lock clicked.
"Finally!" The word emerged at once a breathless plea and expression of frustration. Tim had tried our door more than once this morning. A large step put him halfway into the entry as if he feared Holmes would shut him out of the flat. "Fernsby's Haven. It's in that manor on the north end of Montague. You have to stop them!"
"Slow down." Holmes' hand on his shoulder guided him far enough inside to close the door. "Who is Fernsby?"
Tim shook his head. "I don't know, but he must be horrible to have a place like that. I'll run for the Yard if you need me to, but you have to rescue them. Today. Please! They haven't even hit the change yet!"
"Hold it." I finally reached the base of the stairs, and my medical bag thumped the ground to let me stand beside Holmes. "Start at the beginning, Tim. Why do you have blood on your clothes, and what did you find?"
A rather sheepish glance finally noted the red staining both trousers and shirt, only a portion transferred from the small bandage wrapped around one hand.
"Arthur asked George and me to guard while he updated his map of Montague," he started, the story still fragmented but at least coherent. "We stopped a man from kidnapping a young boy, but the man got away. His nosebleed left a trail, though, which we followed to the manor on the north end of the street. The front of the building looks a lot older than the back, all the groundskeeping is between them and the alley, and what orphanage looks abandoned during the day?"
"Orphanage," Holmes halted him. "What labels it an orphanage?"
"A tiny sign on the decrepit front door," was the reply. "'Fernsby's Haven for Homeless Waifs.' You said you wouldn't be back til today, so five of us went back last night to watch, and—" The word broke behind clear horror. "That's no orphanage, Mr. Holmes. There's at least twenty kids in there, and we counted fifteen men and women in and out of that building in the space of an hour, starting thirty minutes after sundown. The kids never stopped screaming."
I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Holmes. Twenty children, spending the days silent and the nights crying. I did not like how this appeared.
"How long did you stay last night?"
"Just under two hours," he told me. "We had to disappear when one of the clients drunkenly stumbled into our alley. Arthur and I tried to get close enough to see in a side window at dawn, when they should have been sleeping, but we stumbled over a mound in the half light. Arthur wouldn't go any further for fear one of us would trip and make too much noise."
"How big was the mound?" Holmes asked, his tone the steel of a connection I had not yet made.
"Not big enough." Tim had made the same connection, and his next words brought a horrible realization. "I made him hide where we could see that side yard, and the rising sun revealed three fresh mounds, four dirt spots, and five small sink holes. None were longer than Timothy—I mean Middle Tim."
Graves. Twelve graves less than a year old, and no way of knowing how many other children lay buried in that patch of earth. Those animals—
"Go to the Yard." Holmes kept his eyes on Tim, but his voice had hardened beneath the fury he only displayed when someone endangered a child. "Tell Inspector Lestrade everything you just told me, and have him and every available officer meet me on the northwest corner of Russell Square at sunset. I will bring as much proof as I can gather today, but if he hesitates, remind him of the Bachelorwood case. This evening, station yourself and anyone over twelve willing to help on the southern corner of the Square just north of Montague. Once you see us pass, form a loose ring around the manor. We will rely on you to intercept any of the children that try to flee. Do not confront an adult without an officer nearby."
"Yes, sir." A sudden thought made him dig in his pocket. "This is the father of the boy we saved yesterday," he said, passing Holmes a calling card. "His son is Max, his wife is Ivy, and they're staying at the Ivanhoe until tomorrow. I thought you might want to talk to him before I realized what was happening in that orphanage."
"I still want to talk to him," Holmes answered, pocketing the card. "How old is Max?"
"No more than five or six. The adult called him and us 'fresh prey.'"
Which provided another indication of just what those despicable excuses for humans were doing. I opened my mouth, intending to demand we go after those children now.
"Stay close to the courtyard as much as possible until you leave for the Square," Holmes finished. His arm jostled mine in a clear wait. "If the wrong person hears you discussing tonight's plan, you will endanger every child in that house."
"Yes, sir."
"And Timothy?" Tim stopped halfway out the door, but Holmes said nothing for a long moment. "Those children will need a place to go tonight."
Well done, that said with different words. Tim's relieved smile confirmed he understood. "We never turn anyone away."
My friend barked a startled laugh, the words obviously a quote for which I had no reference, but I left the question for later. My own "well done" followed Tim out the door before I focused on Holmes.
"Why tonight?"
Why not now? I truly asked, and the mirrored fury in Holmes' eyes announced a similar wish. His decision did not waver, however.
"Such a cesspool will be at its busiest just after sundown." One hand retrieved the thin overcoat he had tossed in the corner when we arrived. "We also do not have to worry about the children during the day. The Haven will not risk legitimate shoppers on the street hearing the screams."
He wanted to catch the clients as well, that said, not just rescue the children and jail Fernsby. Some of my irritation faded.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Stay here." The calling card slipped into his wallet. "We cannot risk them learning of our raid, but I want to speak with this Paul Thatcher. We will also need more than one doctor tonight. Would you prefer Agar or Thompson?"
"Agar," I said firmly—more firmly than Holmes had expected, by the flicker of surprise. "He is more discreet, and the children will trust him more than they would Thompson's brusqueness."
Holmes nodded. "I will return in a few hours. You might find us an early supper. I doubt we will finish before midnight."
He slipped out the door without waiting for a reply, and my bag dropped beside the door on my way to the kitchen. Aside from supper for us, I would also set aside anything I could send with the Irregulars. Their stores would be hard-pressed to add twenty more mouths in a single night.
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