Chapter Thirteen
On Minor Resolution
It probably would have been wiser to leave the whole thing to Holmes. Logic dictated that no permanent damage could occur, since he was due to meet me on the Downs some thirty years hence, but ever since this whole time travel business had started I had begun to feel logic could only be tenuously applied to the situation. I had already changed things by causing Sauvignon to be run to ground three years ahead of schedule. And if that could be changed, then anything could happen.
At least, that was how I rationalized it to myself as I walked along in Holmes' wake. It would be far too obvious to arrive in that infamously dubious section of town in a cab, so the cabman had dropped us some blocks away from our intended target.
In truth, I was so used to watching my husband's back that it was second nature. But I was also accustomed to him doing the same for me. This Holmes was unused to working with anyone but Watson, and even the good doctor rarely played a major role. This was going to be a difficult relationship.
I blinked and suddenly Holmes was no longer in front of me. As I was passing the entrance to an alleyway, a hand shot out and grabbed me by the elbow. I bit my tongue on a cutting remark about unnecessary melodrama and settled for a glare, which Holmes, of course, ignored. The alley was inhabited by two Irregulars, Stiggins and the diminutive Mikey.
"Stiggins." Stiggins looked from Holmes to me, puzzled by my appearance.
"Billy 'n' Bobby are watching the back door." Stiggins reported. "The one bloke left awhile ago, but the one you send us to look for is still 'ere. He didn't look too 'appy."
"Sauvignon or his visitor?" Holmes asked.
"Both. Looked like they got in a fight about summat."
"The gun?"
"The other bloke took it with 'im. Savin- Sauvig- The French bloke just keeps pacing around inside, like 'e's waitin' for somebody."
"Or trying to decide what to do." Mikey added, anxious not to be left out of the conversation.
"Only two doors and no windows that could be used as an escape route." Holmes muttered to himself, surveying the building across the street. The pub had clearly seen better days. The sign of The Drunken Sailor was so weather-beaten as to be illegible. The heavily mended curtains were shut, but light leaked through at the seams. It was difficult to tell from across the road, but the pub seemed nearly empty.
"How many people besides Sauvignon?"
"Just the publican."
"Right. I suppose I do not have to tell you if Sauvignon bolts you are to stay out of his way." Holmes was looking at the two boys, but I could sense his words were directed at me.
"No fear, guv'nor."
I nodded. I was not particularly keen to do battle with a fleeing villain, especially in these skirts. Holmes gave me an appraising look, then shrugged minutely and strolled across the street. Despite the reasonably fine cut of his clothing, he managed to blend perfectly with the handful of day labourers on their way home. Most of the respectable citizens of the area were home at the dinner tables, and the less respectable crowd had yet to appear, leaving the streets relatively quiet.
"Missus?"
"Yes Mikey?" I watched Holmes slouch into the pub and turned my gaze to the Irregular. He looked to be on the verge of a question, but thought better of it.
"Nuffin'." He muttered, turning red and staring at the pavement. I had a pretty good idea what his question was going to be about and so did Stiggins. The older boy favoured me with a cheeky grin.
"Stiggins, do you know that it is possible for a man and a woman to spend time together without becoming romantically involved?"
"Sure, missus." I sighed.
"Let me put it this way. Could you see Holmes getting involved with a client?"
"No." Stiggins admitted.
"Then I'll thank you to keep your ideas to yourself. Anyway, aren't you a little young to know about girls?" Stiggins shrugged. Mikey looked from me to him, baffled by our cryptic dialogue.
Watson often described stakeouts in the terms of a hunter waiting for his prey, and he more or less hit the nail on the head. It was annoyingly tedious to be sheltered in an alleyway, knowing that at any moment a wild animal may burst from cover, unable to relax for fear of losing the advantage. We were probably only standing there for five minutes, but it felt like an aeon.
The spring sun was beginning to disappear below the horizon, casting chilly shadows over the streets. The weird contrast of sun and shadow made it difficult to see, but there was definitely someone in the pub across the street. The flickering glow of a lantern lit the front windows, casting weird shadows against the curtains.
"Not a bright spark, is he missus?" Stiggins said, in the manner of one professional to another.
"Whaddya mean Stig?" Mikey asked.
"Hangin' about in public like this when 'e's got a warrant on 'is 'ead. Smart thing to do 'uld be to stay locked up for a few days til folks forget 'bout 'im." Stiggins clucked disapprovingly. "What if a bobby dropped in for a pint and recognized 'im?"
"Sauvignon is a con artist." I reminded him. "I'm sure he could talk his way out of it." Stiggins sniffed disdainfully. He might have said something more, but a cry and a loud crash from inside the pub. The lights went out instantly.
A lanky man with thinning black hair, presumably Monsieur Sauvignon, burst out of the front door, tripped over the threshold, nearly rolled into the gutter, recovered himself in time and dashed headlong across the street, aimed directly for us. I doubt he registered our presence through his blind panic, but it would be hard to miss us if he collided with one of us.
Stiggins had enough sense to flatten himself against the wall, but Mikey stood in the middle of the narrow alley, watching Sauvignon's flight as if it was a piece of street theatre. I grabbed Mikey by the collar and half-dragged, half-tossed him into a recessed doorway. I followed just in time to avoid being flattened by Sauvignon.
Stiggins dashed out into the street, waving his arms and trying to attract Holmes' attention. Holmes glanced at Stiggins, then dashed off down the road in another direction.
"He's goin' the wrong way, missus."
"He knows what he's doing." Probably, I added silently. Holmes had a complete map of London stored within his brain; no doubt he knew a few shortcuts.
"Stay put, both of you, and make sure he doesn't double back."
"Yessum!" Mikey called after me as I jogged after Sauvignon. The familiar thrill of the chase reduced the world to three parts, the chased, the chaser and everything else. The labyrinthine alleyways were not the best place pursue a suspect into. It was the perfect place to lay an ambush, with unexpected corners and accidental courtyards. Thankfully, there were no stray residents or thugs.
Sauvignon never once glanced behind him. Despite his initial burst of speed, Sauvignon was moving fairly slowly, the lifestyle of a dissipated French noble being ill-suited toward physical health. I could trot along behind him with a minimum of effort, keeping to my mandate of observing without interfering.
An obstacle presented itself in the form of a small square courtyard, filled with the sad remains of a flower garden and the bare skeleton of a plane tree. The only entrance was the way we had just came, with the far entrance being blocked by a six foot wooden fence.
I expected Sauvignon to turn back and attempt another route. But someone had thoughtfully left an old step ladder propped against the fence, along with several rusting garden tools. With the aid of the ladder, Sauvignon, huffing and puffing for breath, scrambled over the fence, ripping his trousers on the point of the fence post. I hung back, watching and feeling rather foolishly like I had stumbled into a vaudeville act.
I could have captured Sauvignon at any time, I thought with some exasperation. If I hadn't been preoccupied with getting Mikey out of the way, I could have knocked him down at the entrance to the alley and saved everyone concerned a great deal of running. Damn this Holmes and his misogynistic ways. I vowed that when I saw my Holmes again, I would never again complain of unnecessary chivalry. Or at least, not very loudly.
I climbed the step ladder, peered over the fence and looked directly into the startled, moustachioed face of Sauvignon.
I confess that I was badly startled, but not nearly as startled as Sauvignon. He reeled backwards, falling in a heap on the far side of the fence. Holmes was waiting with his handcuffs, which he promptly applied to Sauvignon's wrists. I finally got a clear glimpse of the suspect, and a more perfect example of the stereotypical dissipated Frenchman could not be found. He even showed signs of smoking his cigarettes in an enamel holder. Once he was safely tied up, Holmes gave me an appraising look.
"Do all women of your time act in this manner?" He asked with equal parts exasperation and amusement.
"Probably not." I admitted. "But we are no generation of fainting violets. Turn around so I can get over this fence with at least a pretence of modesty."
I managed to scramble over the fence with modesty and skirts intact. Two Irregulars were guarding the entrance to the alley patiently, no doubt the aforementioned Billy and Bobby, who were close enough to identical twins as to make no difference. One was dispatched to find the beat constable and the other to retrieve his comrades-in-arms two blocks away.
Sauvignon was babbling in a broken mixture of French and English. He bribed, pleaded, threatened and cajoled by turns, promising all sorts of unlikely things in exchange for his release. Holmes ignored him completely and I followed his example
"I seem to recall ordering you to stay behind."
"You told me," I said, with heavy emphasis, "to observe. Sauvignon might have ducked down any number of side alleyways while you were looping around to get ahead of him."
"Except that there are no side turnings on that particular pit of alley."
"I noticed. But how was I to know that?" I said reasonably. "Incidentally, where is he really from?" I nodded my head at the prisoner, who was sitting on the pavement, looking more dejected by the moment. Sauvignon, realizing that his pleas were ineffective, had settled into a low grade muttering
"Where do you think he is from?"
"I would say Manchester, or maybe Leeds. Definitely Midlands though."
"Born in Swindon and educated in Leeds. Isn't that right, Harry Plinge?"
Sauvignon, aka Plinge, jumped and muttered something along the lines of "Not saying nuffin'."
"I suppose you're going to attribute this knowledge to your, ah, previous experience?" Holmes asked, carefully avoiding the words "time travel."
"No, actually. I just listened to his accent. It's not really my area of expertise, but I can at lest tell a native speaker from a foreign one."
Scotland Yard in the person of PC Williamson arrived on the scene, with Billy (or Bobby) hopping excitedly in front of him. When he heard the name Sherlock Holmes, it was all the constable could do to keep from removing his hat in the presence of Caesar. Cabs were summoned; one to take me back to the hotel and one to convey Holmes, Sauvignon and the constable back to the nearest police station.
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