Chapter 7
Author's Notes: I bet you all thought I was dead. I am not, but my creativity seems to be. This chapter had me stumped; I can't tell you how many times I wished we could just move on to the next bit! Thank you to my reviewers, Silverthreads, Elsie Cubitt, Haley Macrae, and Hermione Holmes (I can't believe I've been compared to Toni Morrison! Thank you so much!). As per the last chapter, by the way, James Bryce was a real person. However, I don't actually have any idea how long it would take to get from Washington to Chicago by train in 1911.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass windowpane of the rag shop he had just exited. Gone was the groomed, urbane Englishman known as Sherlock Holmes; in his place was a bearded old man, whose face and clothes displayed all the misery of his existence. The beard had made his eyes appear fierce. He fancied that he resembled Uncle Sam.
Painful though it had been to his usually-scrupulous personal habits, the disguise carried down to his fingertips. Holmes touched his jacket with his greasy, blackened fingernails. The jacket, along with the rest of his clothes, had been obtained from second-hand sources all over Washington, from money he had made after pawning his own clothes. This had been a source of additional consternation; without his usual attire, he could not take on a respectable appearance if necessary. On the other hand, the thieves and scoundrels he expected to meet with would think nothing of going through his belongings. To explain his rags and tatters when he had a suitcase full of bespoke tailoring would no doubt destroy all his efforts at deception.
Thus satisfied with his disguise, Holmes made his way to the train station in the centre of town. He arrived on the platform, his shoes spattered with mud from the streets and sat on his suitcase by the wall, waiting for the train. There were many like him, dirty men of varying ages and descriptions, lined up against the wall. Although they weren't loitering, their disaffected stances suggested otherwise. There was only one who was occupied with something, and it was beside him that Holmes seated himself. The man, although in attire no different than the rest, was reading a newspaper. While he read, he chewed on tobacco, and paused to spit on the ground as he turned the pages.
Holmes considered his target carefully. The tobacco was cheap, judging from its smell. The paper was not a larger, respectable publication, but one that enjoyed some popularity amongst the working classes. The man's hands showed sings of work, but his dress did not. Although he had money to spare for newspapers, he clearly had not recently earned it through manual labour. Literate, and without any obvious occupation, he was just the sort of liminal person Holmes expected. As the engine chugged up to the platform, and all the men hoisted themselves into the third-class carriages, Holmes followed his prey closely. Careful to never be too far from his luggage, he sat down across from his neighbour. While the cabin was filling up, he read the headlines on the pages facing him, and waited. Soon, his opportunity would come, and he had many hours to spare.
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Beatrice locked the cottage door behind her and sank into the sofa beside the cold, empty stove in the centre of the room. Pulling out the pins from her hat, she flung it down beside her and let out a sigh of frustration. Eyes closed, leaning her head back against the cushions, she breathed in the stale smell of tobacco. The scent seemed to give her strength and she opened her eyes and lifted her head.
She had come here seeking solitude; but in truth, she was more alone than ever. Her uncle, Sir Edgar, had died some years earlier, and Manor Farm was now emptier and darker than ever before. He was the last link with the past, to her parents, and her life before the Italian exile. Holmes was – well, she didn't really know where he was. Somewhere in the wilds of America, she supposed, hunting criminals and revolutionaries. Mycroft, having accommodated her requests for an occupation, had left her at the mercy of Sherringford. The latter preferred office drudgery to drawing-room politics, and although he grudgingly arranged her presence at all the Cabinet house-parties, he himself sullenly skulked in corners.
It was from such a house party that she had just returned. It was all the usual ministers, puffed up in their tuxedoes and tweeds, vapid wives on their arms. She was vividly reminded of the Anglobeceri in Florence, whose lives continued in a hazy whirlwind of cigarettes and champagne, oblivious to the world beyond their immaculately groomed croquet lawns. And these, she thought bitterly to her self, were the men who were supposed to protect England from the dark clouds on its horizon?
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Holmes did not have to wait long. As the train shuddered into motion, his travelling companion folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. Looking around him, his eyes at last came to rest on Holmes. He nodded, slightly, more with a movement of his eyebrows than his head; Holmes echoed the gesture. Removing the paper, he offered it to Holmes.
Taking the proffered paper, Holmes smiled in gratitude and said, "Thank you." The words came out in a slight lilt. Much to Holmes' satisfaction, his little aural ploy worked; the accent registered and caught the other man's attention.
Leaning back with his body, the man nodded at the paper with his chin. "More strikes yesterday. The bosses don't know what to do."
Smiling inwardly, Holmes replied, "They don't know the power of the men who work for them. But who but a strong man could slave in those factories?"
The other man nodded and looked out the window. Looking back, he quirked his eyebrow up at Holmes. "You Irish?" he asked.
"Born in County Cork," Holmes lied, not taking his eyes off the headlines.
The man leaned forward suddenly. "My folks were from Mitchelstown," he shared.
"My sister's family is settled there," answered Holmes coolly.
"How come you left?" inquired the younger man, who under close inspection appeared to be no more than thirty.
"Couldn't stand the bloody English," Holmes replied, injecting venom into his Irish accent. "Killed the priest, they did. Old man never saw it coming. We tried to run 'em out o'town after that, but they had too many men. I had to leave, or else they'd have come for me."
His companion let out a low whistle of amazement and extended his hand to Holmes. "Name's James. Ollie James." Returning the handshake, Holmes introduced himself as George Altamont. "Pleasure, Mr Altamont. Say, would you mind it if I introduced you to some friends of mine in Chicago? They're real keen on the Irish cause, and your story s just what they want to hear!"
"If you think they will want to hear an old man's stories," Holmes said. "I don't know many people in Chicago. I'm just going to check up on my sister's boy, but who knows how I'm going to find the lad?"
"You don't have anywhere to stay?" James asked, amazed. "Well, that's just great! You can come stay with me! The wife and kids won't mind, they're used to visitors!"
Are they, indeed? thought Holmes as he accepted the invitation. He thought so again, as James ushered him toward his dwelling in Chicago. They had talked for most of the day, and Holmes shared Altamont's story, compiling it from the files he had read in Japp's office of arrested Irish rebels, and adding details from his own experience with London's criminals. James was by now utterly convinced that Altamont was a true Irish patriot, and was determined to share him with his compatriots. Through the conversation, Holmes had gleaned that James belonged to some loose association of petty criminals, bound together by their allegiance to the Irish cause. He had been in Washington on a job, and was returning home successful.
The house where James lived, if it could be called that, was a ramshackle terraced house in what was obviously a slum. Though it was midday, and the sun shone brightly, little of it fell to the streets between the tenements. As they stepped inside, darkness covered them, and Holmes was temporarily disoriented. No light filtered through to the staircase, so tightly packed was this dwelling; but the foetid smell that assaulted his senses suggested its inhabitants with terrifying clarity. Over the lingering essence of linoleum and turpentine was the smell of human sweat, sickness and decay. It was an airless, hopeless place, the likes of which London had tried to eradicate thirty years earlier. Such cesspools of humanity, it seemed, existed everywhere, and bred the miasma of revolution.
Following the sound of James' footsteps, Holmes stumbled onto a landing. Fumbling with the lock, James swung the door to his rooms, and the light hit Holmes, making his eyes sting. He stepped inside, though, in truth, there was little room. The walls were hung with the baskets, linens, utensils and furniture for which the floor no longer had space. The smell of meals cooked long ago hung in the air. Two small urchins rushed past Holmes and towards James, who indulgently patted their heads, laughing that they were his youngest. Holmes followed his gaze to their mother, who stood up from her chair by the fire. He had to stop himself from coming to her aid, so shaky were her movements. Her eyes were sunken, and her hair hung in sad strings around her face. She clutched her belly – she was with child again.
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It was hard to ignore the fear in her eyes. She clutched her belly, though it was not yet swollen. "I did not expect this," she said, her tone pleading with him to understand and forgive. "Not at my age – not at your age!"
Seeing her like this, knowing it was his child in her womb, he could not explain to her that it was a logical consequence. He sat down beside Beatrice. Placing his hand over top of hers, he fixed her eyes with his. Her body seemed to relax with the gesture. "You are the same age as was my mother when she bore me," he said, and it was true. Though she had been a young bride, she had given birth to three sons in fourteen years, and Holmes had been her last, born when she was nearly thirty-five.
Beatrice buried her head in his shoulder and let out a deep sigh. "This is what comes," she said, "of being the children of Eve."
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As Holmes settled down for the night in a corner of the tiny room James shared with his wife and five children, he determined to get lodgings of his own. No matter how noble the cause, he reflected, he was too old for such sacrifices.
A/N: Please don't beat me!
