Chapter Nine
On the Economy of the Moneyless
I woke to find the sun streaming in the window, accompanied by the noises of the City waking. I rolled over and cursed feelingly into my pillow.
I dressed in the unfamiliar clothes and was about to take myself downstairs in search of breakfast, or at least coffee, when there was a knock at my door. I opened it, expecting Holmes and finding Stiggins, who was accompanied by a younger street urchin. I invited them in and they both stood uneasily just inside the door, refusing offers to sit down.
"This 'ere is Mikey." Stiggins said. Mikey removed the bowler hat which threatened to engulf his entire head and held it nervously in front of him. He was dressed like Stiggins, in an assortment of cast-offs and hand-me-downs, none of which quite fit or matched.
"You can get me the newspapers I need?" I asked Mikey.
"Yessum." He said in a small voice.
"And there's something I can help you with in return?" I encouraged.
Mikey cast a desperate look at Stiggins, then summoned up his courage to say, "Yessum."
"Oh just tell 'er Mikey." Stiggins snapped. I couldn't tell if the boy suffered from some speech impediment or was merely shy to the point of terror around strangers. It took several stops and starts while Mikey gathered his thoughts or his courage to continue, but I got the story eventually.
"Me brother is in India in the army." Mikey explained. "He sends our Ma letters every month and me sister would read them to Ma 'cause her sight's gone all foggy. But me sister's family what that she works for moved away for the summer, so now there's no one to read Ma her letters."
I sat back in my chair. Frankly, I had been expecting something a bit more, well, complex than reading a soldier's letters to his family. I was asking for a great deal of newspaper, which wouldn't be at all easy to find and would cost quite a bit by the standards of the Irregulars. Stiggins must have seen the doubt on my face, because he explained.
"Mikey's ma is always good t' us." By "us" I assumed he meant the Irregulars. "Allus a good word and somfing to eat if we want it. She took care of Sparrow and 'is sister when they took ill."
I was momentarily taken aback by this glimpse of the complex economics and loyalties of London's lower classes.
"Mr. Holmes and I are going to Oxford today," I said. Stiggins suddenly smacked himself on the forehead with his open palm. Mikey and I stared.
"Clean forgot, missus. The guv'nor told me to give you this." He fished a scrap of notepaper from one of his many pockets.
Sauvignon did not keep. Apologies. Call at 221B Baker Street if you wish. Will send word at first opportunity. -Holmes
I scowled. Even his letters sounded like telegrams. Holmes' usually precise script was a bit untidy. Whatever had happened with Monsieur Sauvignon must have been urgent. I should have been upset at being dismissed out of hand, but in truth I was relieved. If Jensen was in Oxford, he was not likely to go anywhere in the next twenty-four hours, and this gave me the opportunity to follow my own line of inquiry.
"Well, Mikey. It appears that I can help you today."
Mikey, whose last name was revealed to be Stephenson, and his mother lived only seven blocks from the hotel, in an area of town which was losing the battle against the encroaching slums. The residents wore their respectability like a badge of honour, or perhaps a shield against the pimps and thugs who ruled the adjacent streets. It was most certainly not an area for an unescorted young female.
Mikey trotted ahead of me, while Stiggins and another Irregular strolled along behind. Apparently the Irregulars' orders consisted merely of keeping track of me and not actually confining me to the hotel. They were toeing the line between obedience and insurrection, but if anything, they seemed amused by this turn of events.
We arrived at the Stephenson household, a three room flat on the second floor of a tenement complex, unmolested. Mikey called out a greeting and was answered from the kitchen.
"Who is that with you Michael?"
"Miss Mary, Ma!" Mikey called back, without stumbling over the alliteration. His voice returned to him on his home ground, though he still spoke with an odd, halting lisp. Stiggins and the other Irregular had vanished as soon as we were safely delivered to the Stephenson's door, hopefully to unearth the requested newspapers.
"Miss Mary?" Mrs. Stephenson emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel. I could see the milky white of the cataracts which now obscured her vision, but it did not prevent her from sensing that I was rather taller than her son's usual friends. Despite the loss of her sight and her relatively small stature, she moved without hesitation and dominated the household with the sheer weight of her personality.
I quickly explained that Mikey had guided me to my hotel yesterday and I had promised to read the letters by way of payment. Mrs. Stephenson's expression went from suspicious to misty in an instant.
"Such a good boy." She murmured and Mikey's ears turned red.
It was not the first time I had been in such a position, although before I was reading family letters to soldiers during the War, when the local hospital was inundated with gassed and limbless soldiers. Mail call was inevitably a bittersweet experience, and I often returned home near tears.
Fortunately, Mrs. Stephenson's eldest son was not in active combat and his letters reflected a rather bored young man looking forward to the end of his tour of duty. There was three months accumulation of letters and it took the better part of two hours to finish reading them, and of course I had to stay for tea afterwards. Mrs. Stephenson talked non-stop about her brood, which seemed to include, by unofficial adoption, half the Irregulars. Mikey shrugged apologetically; no doubt he'd heard it all a dozen times before.
Stiggins reappeared as we finished our tea. Mrs. Stephenson extracted a vague promise of a return visit and we left, Mikey positively skipping and Stiggins looking excessively pleased with himself.
Stiggins had good reason to be pleased with himself. When we returned to the hotel room the third and still unnamed Irregular was sitting in front of the door next to a stack of newspapers more than a foot high.
"We couldn't get all the newspapers you wanted." Stiggins said apologetically.
"This should be fine." I assured him, a bit stunned by the size of the stack. I had forgotten how many newspapers there were in London. The Irregulars returned to their street corners and I hauled the pile of paper inside.
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Several hours later the floor of the room was covered in newsprint. I had been relieved to find that I could throw away half the pile in one go, since any news about a strange man in Oxford was not likely to be in the business and financial papers. I closely examined the agony columns and the crime sections for any hint of a man resembling Professor Jensen.
It was tedious work, although I was briefly amused by a notice in the agony columns for any friends or relations of Mary Russell to apply to Baker Street. I ordered a pot of coffee from the maid to help my focus, but not even half the pot could keep the lines of newsprint from running together. The papers themselves did not help, since many were two or more days old and had been salvaged from rubbish bins. Finger smudges and food stains blotted out a great many articles.
By the time I turned an old copy of The Guardian, I was merely scanning the headlines of articles. I cast a brief glance over the police blotter and was about to turn the page when something caught my eye. It took a very close reading before I found the relevant sentence again, buried in the middle of a column.
It was brief, a mere handful of sentences describing a man found wandering in Oxford the previous day, and a request for anyone with information to contact the Oxfordshire constabulary.
Holmes arrived a little after noon to find me awash in a sea of newsprint, my eyes on the tastefully bland watercolour and my mind miles away.
"Doing your own research?" He asked. I pulled the relevant paper from the flotsam.
"I circled the article. The man fits the description of Professor Jensen and he appeared on the same day the professor disappeared."
"Hmm. If the police have laid hands on him, it will make our task much easier."
"Speaking of tasks, have you caught Monsieur Sauvignon yet?" It was by no means an innocent question, and Holmes looked up sharply.
"I suppose you are going to claim some knowledge of his activities due to your futuristic providence?" I thought that was a terribly bombastic way of putting it, although he was partly right. I had come across a newspaper article regarding a con man which had triggered the memory.
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We had been lingering over coffee at Simpson's during what Holmes insisted on calling our First Anniversary Dinner, so that I could almost hear the capital letters sliding into place. Holmes had never been one for conventional formalities, and in any case the actual anniversary had been a few weeks previous, but due to a case we were in no position to celebrate. I was sure that he was doing it just to annoy. It must have been the recent case which had triggered the reminisce, which came quite out of the blue.
"One must always beware the determined amateur, Russell." He said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, when it became apparent that he was not going to elaborate on this apothegm.
"I am reminded of a case from the Baker Street days. A man named Sauvignon, an average con man, who made his living preying off the gullible. His favourite ploy was to present himself to some middle-class lady as the Comte de Beauxbaton, a down-and-out French nobleman. He would swindle the lady out of her money with a slick accent and false tales of a huge estate back in France embroiled in probate court, which he could easily get back if only he had the money for solicitor's fees."
"Dear me," I had murmured, shocked at the naïveté of those women.
"Indeed. The sums were never large enough for anger at being swindled to overcome the shame of it, until one lady was recommended to me by a friend who had been a client. Once the man got wind that I was on his trail he fled, leaving a good portion of his ill-gotten gains behind in a safe deposit box. The money was eventually split between the victims who came forward."
"The man was an amateur at swindling, but he proved to be a natural at disappearing. It took nearly three years before I finally ran him to ground in the East End." Holmes gave a short, unamused laugh. "Do you know he had been London the entire time I watched the ports for him? He convinced a factory girl to claim him as a cousin and worked a variety of odd jobs before one of the Irregulars caught sight of him."
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I gave this Holmes part of the truth.
"No, I merely have a newspaper describing an attempted arrest a few days ago. Since no mention was made of a capture in a later edition, I assume that you have not found him yet."
"And the newspapers?"
"The Irregulars." Holmes scowled at the irresponsibility of his army of street arabs and I hastened to explain. I would hate for Stiggins and his friends to be suspected of colluding with a possible enemy. Holmes' scowl faded as I explain how I had cornered Stiggins with my request for newspapers and the subsequent bargain.
"The economy of the money-less." Holmes muttered, then said in a louder tone, "I shall have to remind them how to watch without being seen."
"I wouldn't have seen them if I hadn't been looking." I offered. Holmes grunted, as if this was no excuse.
"You want proof." I said. Holmes paused, a lit match halfway to the bowl of his pipe.
"You know where Sauvignon is?" He asked.
"In a general sort of way." I said, my eyes on the flame which was creeping steadily towards Holmes' fingers. "I couldn't give you a street address."
"What can you give me?" Holmes shook out the match, lit another and applied it to his pipe.
"He won't try and flee the country. He'll go to ground in the East End. Whitechapel or thereabouts. I'm sure your Irregulars will be able to pick him out."
"That is precious little to go on." I shrugged. I could tell him that it was a minor case thirty years ago, so it was a miracle that I had heard of it at all. But I sensed the next question would be how I knew it at all, so I cast about for a change of topic.
"I suppose this means Oxford is out of the question for today."
"Nonsense. We may still catch a train headed north. If Sauvignon is where you say he is, then he may remain there a bit longer."
"And if not?" I couldn't help but asking.
"There is a watch set on the ports. But since I cannot scour either the East End or all outgoing ships for signs of my criminal, I may at least go to Oxford to help you find your professor." Holmes shrugged, as if annoyed at the admittance of his own lack of omnipotence.
Since this was exactly what I wanted, I made no difficulties about being ushered on the train without any lunch. The Irregulars, relieved of their duty of watching me, were dispatched to Whitechapel to look for Sauvignon. It appeared that Doctor Watson was immersed in a tricky case of influenza, and would be unable to join us. I was secretly thankful. Just dealing with Holmes was going to be difficult enough. I couldn't handle meeting a young Uncle John as well.
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My New Year's Present to you all. Hope you kids have fun!
Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!
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