Disclaimer: See Part 1
*****
"A girl?" I asked the urchin who had come from the decorators', "Are you quite sure about that?"
"Well," replied the lad, "Either it were a girl wiv 'er 'air all chopped orf, or it were a boy in need of a trim. Dint 'ear 'er talk, so cain't say for sure."
"And were you able to get the name of the deliveryman in question?"
"Nosir, Mr 'Olmes. But he's the biggest bloke I ever seen."
"Thank you. Go back to your posts and await further instructions." They scattered like leaves. "What is this world coming to," I murmured, "When one cannot tell boys from girls on sight." I caught the amused look Miss Cartwright shot me. "I'm sure you know what I mean, Miss Cartwright."
"Of course," she said lightly, and dropped the subject in favor of one of less global importance, "The decorators' and the delivery service seem to be the two likeliest candidates for the stolen property to be stored until the thieves get rid of it. There's no telling how much we're looking for, though... unless of course you know of any fences."
"I've met poisoners, blackmailers, and petty thieves during my career," I replied, "but I happen to know that the London underworld is too vast for two people to check by themselves, especially if we do not know what it is we seek."
"You have a point there. So where to first: the decorators or the deliverymen?"
"Just offhand, I should think the delivery service would be a more logical choice, since a place such as they would use as their base would be filled with crates and packages of all sizes and shapes."
"But no one item for any length of time, I should think. Suppose the florist had a order for several bouquets, to be delivered to a certain address on a certain day."
"Well, of course perishables such as flowers would be delivered the same day, but there would also be parcels sent through the post and such - which would still need to be delivered within a reasonable timeframe."
"So, we just walk in the front door and ask to see whatever has been sitting there for a while?"
I smiled dryly. "A pair of street rats like ourselves? We'd be taken for petty scavengers."
***** An hour later found us inside the storage area of the delivery service, surrounded by other people's gifts, other people's belongings, and with any luck, a stash of other people's jewelry. Though the room was only about fifty feet square, the stacks of boxes and piles of parcels - some of them very bulky - made it difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction.
I had had to pick the lock to the back door, of course, after an attempt to gain entry to this same room via the front door failed as miserably as I had anticipated (indeed, I would likely not have tried it at all had Miss Cartwright not insisted) and we were ejected bodily. Miss Cartwright landed badly, scraping the heels of her hands on the pavement; the gesture she offered the closed front door, though very American, fit her current role as a mute street urchin, so I had no reason to chastise her for the unladylike quality of it, though I did wonder silently where she had learned such a thing as I helped her to her feet.
It was impossible to determine the most likely starting-place in our search - which by necessity would have to be made quietly and cautiously, to avoid alerting employees in adjacent rooms - so we each picked a row and worked our way through the chaos. It was a tedious process, and I estimate we must have checked a hundred bundles apiece before our respective searches converged upon a wardrobe, constructed of mahogany, elegantly carved, and beautifully finished, standing sentinel against the wall opposite the rear door, with a few parcels piled up against it on either side. Miss Cartwright ran a hand along the top edge of the wardrobe.
"This has been here for a while," she murmured, looking at her dusty fingertips, "Now who would just abandon a beautiful piece of furniture like that?"
"Who indeed?" I asked, matching her ironic tone and opening the wardrobe doors. The neglected hinge of the left-hand door screamed horribly in protest.
It was empty - but we had no time to be disappointed, as it was at that moment that we heard voices and footfalls approaching, no doubt alerted by the noisy hinge. There was only one place to hide. I piled myself and Miss Cartwright into the wardrobe as quietly as I could - which necessitated clamping my hand over Miss Cartwright's mouth lest she try to scream in surprise - and shut the doors. Just then the door to the storeroom opened to admit - judging by the footfalls - three men, one of them heavier than the other two and another walking with a slight limp.
I strained my ears to hear any conversation between the three men that might help in our search for the stolen jewelry, but all I was able to hear was Miss Cartwright's breathing, which was slightly shaky with fear or surprise. I held my own breath, hoping that those outside would not hear us in our hiding-place, only relaxing even marginally once I heard the footfalls heading towards the door. Miss Cartwright reminded me of her presence by biting my hand, compelling me to jerk it away from her mouth. It was impossible to read her expression in the pitch-blackness within the wardrobe, but her next remark indicated that at least she was taking the whole situation with good humour.
"Well," she said sardonically in the barest whisper from somewhere adjacent to my left shoulder, "This is cosy, isn't it?" 'Cosy' was not the word I would have used. I had chosen the wardrobe in a split-second decision, basing my choice upon the knowledge that an average wardrobe is three feet deep, to accommodate the shoulders of the garments hung within. It seemed I had overestimated the depth of this particular specimen by about a foot, causing the two of us to be wedged together face- to-face, closer than we really had any right to be outside the boundaries of Holy Matrimony, with little room to breathe, and certainly no space left over for comfort or even politeness. Moreover, the inside catch of the door was digging into the small of my back, and there was no courteous way to relieve the resulting discomfort.
"It was the best I could do on such short notice, Miss Cartwright," I replied stiffly.
She chuckled softly in the darkness. "I think, considering the situation, that you have earned the privilege of calling me by my Christian name."
The wardrobe abruptly felt very stuffy. "Very well... Emily."
"May I call you Sherlock?"
"You may not," I said, a bit sharply I fear; I had my comfort zones, after all.
"Very well," she acquiesced, sounding a shade disappointed. This was no concern of mine, of course; my role here was to find out the culprit in the robbery, not succumb to her whims.
I heard the floor creak outside a bare heartbeat before the wardrobe door was flung open from without, causing the two of us to tumble out in an awkward tangle of limbs, with Emily sprawled atop me. I looked up and found that we had landed at the feet of a large man. It took only a matter of moments to recall the description Watson had given of his pickpocket. That, paired with the Irregulars' report, led me to the only logical conclusion - that we were in serious danger.
The man grabbed Emily roughly by the arm and dragged her to her feet. I felt a surge of outrage at this treatment of her, which was not at all tempered by the possibility that her assailant probably didn't even know that it was a woman he was manhandling. I got to my feet even as Emily was kicking him in the shin. He threw her aside like a rag doll, and I seized my opportunity to retaliate.
I was fairly blistering with righteous anger now, and I expect I must have seemed like a madman, attacking someone who outweighed me by a factor of three. We exchanged blows, my sharp pugilism versus his less cultured brawling. I am no action hero, however, like such as one might find in the pulps or some of the more insipid novels nowadays, and I fear I came away the worse for the encounter. Although I am certain I left my mark on him, he also left his share of bruises on me, and in the end he grabbed me by my coat and threw me back against the rear wall of the wardrobe, where I must have struck my head. The last thing I recall with any clarity is a vision of Emily jumping on the man's shoulders and scratching at his face.
***** End Part 11.
*****
"A girl?" I asked the urchin who had come from the decorators', "Are you quite sure about that?"
"Well," replied the lad, "Either it were a girl wiv 'er 'air all chopped orf, or it were a boy in need of a trim. Dint 'ear 'er talk, so cain't say for sure."
"And were you able to get the name of the deliveryman in question?"
"Nosir, Mr 'Olmes. But he's the biggest bloke I ever seen."
"Thank you. Go back to your posts and await further instructions." They scattered like leaves. "What is this world coming to," I murmured, "When one cannot tell boys from girls on sight." I caught the amused look Miss Cartwright shot me. "I'm sure you know what I mean, Miss Cartwright."
"Of course," she said lightly, and dropped the subject in favor of one of less global importance, "The decorators' and the delivery service seem to be the two likeliest candidates for the stolen property to be stored until the thieves get rid of it. There's no telling how much we're looking for, though... unless of course you know of any fences."
"I've met poisoners, blackmailers, and petty thieves during my career," I replied, "but I happen to know that the London underworld is too vast for two people to check by themselves, especially if we do not know what it is we seek."
"You have a point there. So where to first: the decorators or the deliverymen?"
"Just offhand, I should think the delivery service would be a more logical choice, since a place such as they would use as their base would be filled with crates and packages of all sizes and shapes."
"But no one item for any length of time, I should think. Suppose the florist had a order for several bouquets, to be delivered to a certain address on a certain day."
"Well, of course perishables such as flowers would be delivered the same day, but there would also be parcels sent through the post and such - which would still need to be delivered within a reasonable timeframe."
"So, we just walk in the front door and ask to see whatever has been sitting there for a while?"
I smiled dryly. "A pair of street rats like ourselves? We'd be taken for petty scavengers."
***** An hour later found us inside the storage area of the delivery service, surrounded by other people's gifts, other people's belongings, and with any luck, a stash of other people's jewelry. Though the room was only about fifty feet square, the stacks of boxes and piles of parcels - some of them very bulky - made it difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction.
I had had to pick the lock to the back door, of course, after an attempt to gain entry to this same room via the front door failed as miserably as I had anticipated (indeed, I would likely not have tried it at all had Miss Cartwright not insisted) and we were ejected bodily. Miss Cartwright landed badly, scraping the heels of her hands on the pavement; the gesture she offered the closed front door, though very American, fit her current role as a mute street urchin, so I had no reason to chastise her for the unladylike quality of it, though I did wonder silently where she had learned such a thing as I helped her to her feet.
It was impossible to determine the most likely starting-place in our search - which by necessity would have to be made quietly and cautiously, to avoid alerting employees in adjacent rooms - so we each picked a row and worked our way through the chaos. It was a tedious process, and I estimate we must have checked a hundred bundles apiece before our respective searches converged upon a wardrobe, constructed of mahogany, elegantly carved, and beautifully finished, standing sentinel against the wall opposite the rear door, with a few parcels piled up against it on either side. Miss Cartwright ran a hand along the top edge of the wardrobe.
"This has been here for a while," she murmured, looking at her dusty fingertips, "Now who would just abandon a beautiful piece of furniture like that?"
"Who indeed?" I asked, matching her ironic tone and opening the wardrobe doors. The neglected hinge of the left-hand door screamed horribly in protest.
It was empty - but we had no time to be disappointed, as it was at that moment that we heard voices and footfalls approaching, no doubt alerted by the noisy hinge. There was only one place to hide. I piled myself and Miss Cartwright into the wardrobe as quietly as I could - which necessitated clamping my hand over Miss Cartwright's mouth lest she try to scream in surprise - and shut the doors. Just then the door to the storeroom opened to admit - judging by the footfalls - three men, one of them heavier than the other two and another walking with a slight limp.
I strained my ears to hear any conversation between the three men that might help in our search for the stolen jewelry, but all I was able to hear was Miss Cartwright's breathing, which was slightly shaky with fear or surprise. I held my own breath, hoping that those outside would not hear us in our hiding-place, only relaxing even marginally once I heard the footfalls heading towards the door. Miss Cartwright reminded me of her presence by biting my hand, compelling me to jerk it away from her mouth. It was impossible to read her expression in the pitch-blackness within the wardrobe, but her next remark indicated that at least she was taking the whole situation with good humour.
"Well," she said sardonically in the barest whisper from somewhere adjacent to my left shoulder, "This is cosy, isn't it?" 'Cosy' was not the word I would have used. I had chosen the wardrobe in a split-second decision, basing my choice upon the knowledge that an average wardrobe is three feet deep, to accommodate the shoulders of the garments hung within. It seemed I had overestimated the depth of this particular specimen by about a foot, causing the two of us to be wedged together face- to-face, closer than we really had any right to be outside the boundaries of Holy Matrimony, with little room to breathe, and certainly no space left over for comfort or even politeness. Moreover, the inside catch of the door was digging into the small of my back, and there was no courteous way to relieve the resulting discomfort.
"It was the best I could do on such short notice, Miss Cartwright," I replied stiffly.
She chuckled softly in the darkness. "I think, considering the situation, that you have earned the privilege of calling me by my Christian name."
The wardrobe abruptly felt very stuffy. "Very well... Emily."
"May I call you Sherlock?"
"You may not," I said, a bit sharply I fear; I had my comfort zones, after all.
"Very well," she acquiesced, sounding a shade disappointed. This was no concern of mine, of course; my role here was to find out the culprit in the robbery, not succumb to her whims.
I heard the floor creak outside a bare heartbeat before the wardrobe door was flung open from without, causing the two of us to tumble out in an awkward tangle of limbs, with Emily sprawled atop me. I looked up and found that we had landed at the feet of a large man. It took only a matter of moments to recall the description Watson had given of his pickpocket. That, paired with the Irregulars' report, led me to the only logical conclusion - that we were in serious danger.
The man grabbed Emily roughly by the arm and dragged her to her feet. I felt a surge of outrage at this treatment of her, which was not at all tempered by the possibility that her assailant probably didn't even know that it was a woman he was manhandling. I got to my feet even as Emily was kicking him in the shin. He threw her aside like a rag doll, and I seized my opportunity to retaliate.
I was fairly blistering with righteous anger now, and I expect I must have seemed like a madman, attacking someone who outweighed me by a factor of three. We exchanged blows, my sharp pugilism versus his less cultured brawling. I am no action hero, however, like such as one might find in the pulps or some of the more insipid novels nowadays, and I fear I came away the worse for the encounter. Although I am certain I left my mark on him, he also left his share of bruises on me, and in the end he grabbed me by my coat and threw me back against the rear wall of the wardrobe, where I must have struck my head. The last thing I recall with any clarity is a vision of Emily jumping on the man's shoulders and scratching at his face.
***** End Part 11.