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Chapter Four: Two Types of Poison.
After that broken thread, I simply could not think what could happen next. Carry on looking for another brown-skinned bloke, I supposed. It was so frustrating, coming this close, following that lead, only to find out that it wasn't the right one. And instead of helping, it had deepened the mystery. What kind of murderer told a person's fortune before they killed them?
"Maybe it's a madman," Li suggested.
"Even if it's a madman, we still need to find him," I said.
"But you can't find a madman out of Bedlam," objected Wiggins.
"There's one right here," I said, giving him a shove. Wiggins gave a show of sulking, but after a moment brightened up again. I was less ready to give up my black mood. I simply could not think what could happen next, or how Mr Holmes could possibly find out the truth. I kept out half an ear for any foreigners, but London was simply too big to search through every citizen.
That day was sunny, one of the few that was becoming more frequent as the season wore on. The weather was a small consolation for my empty stomach. I simply could not find enough to eat, or enough to earn. It had never been a problem before. You're hungry, you go and find a pocket that needs picking. You stand outside a greengrocer's shop and look innocent and be busy. Now it was getting serious. "Serious - very," as Mr Jingle would have said.
- - - -
Wiggins found me one day in the alley near my railings. "Kit!" he gasped, out of breath from running. "Mister 'olmes wants us agin!"
"Um?" I said, not looking up. I was busy searching in the piles and stacks of rubbish stacked up against the dirty brick walls.
Wiggins wrinkled his nose. "Cor, Kit, it don't 'alf pong in 'ere. Whatcha lookin' for?"
"Dunno, yet."
"Well, come on! I'd 'a' thought you'd be all wanting to go."
"In a minute," I replied. I could smell something strong, something that was old, but hopefully eatable. Let it be eatable, oh please, please, let it be eatable . . . "Ha!" I threw aside half a dead cat, and found a bag full of old fish heads. I tore the bag open, brushed the brownish muck off of one and rammed in it my mouth, spitting out the bones with no thought for decorum.
"You that 'ungry?" Wiggins asked, only slightly disgusted.
"Yep," I replied, with my mouth full. The old, stinking fish sank down to my stomach, tamed the hunger raging there like a minuture whirlwind. I shoved the rest of the fish heads in my mouth, too hungry to care whether they were dirty or not. Wiggins sighed impatiently, but waited until I had finished. Then I ran with him to Baker Street, picking up Rat and Li, and the others on the way there.
Inside the upstairs rooms, Mr Holmes was in his chair, smoking, and Dr Watson was writing in his notebook again. As soon as we came in, Mr Holmes began talking. "I need you to look in all the places you can think of where a man could find poison. Buy it, get it illegally, steal it. I have no doubt that you know where there is such a place better than I do, so you won't need specific instructions. Simpson, I wouldn't hide a stolen wallet in your trouser pocket - it bulges out too much."
Simpson blinked, and hastily transferred the wallet from trouser pocket to the inside pocket of his ragged jacket.
"You are looking for fatal poisons; poisons that could kill a strong man in less than a couple of hours. Ask if anyone has brought such a poison recently. Get the details without being too conspicuous - another thing you all are good at."
It was at this point that I started feeling sick. My stomach churned, and the fish heads felt like they were dancing a jig in my guts. I swallowed hard. Don't be sick, don't be sick, don't be sick here, wait till we're outside, don't throw up on Mr Holmes' carpet . . .
" . . . the normal rates, and Wiggins or - Kit, are you alright?" Mr Holmes broke off abruptly, and I was aware of all eyes being turned in my direction.
"Mm," I got out through clenched teeth. I took a breath and added, "Yes, Mr Holmes. Fine."
"I sincerely doubt that," Holmes returned bluntly.
I shot a desperate glance at Wiggins, and he piped up: "That all, guv?"
"Yes. That's all." Mr Holmes eyes were very shrewd, glinting sharply as a knife blade as he looked at me. I stared hard back at him, expressionless. Only when we were out in the street did I give in; and I vomited up the fish heads in the gutter. Rat, Wiggins and Li waited until I had finished heaving; then they firmly marched me out of Baker Street, and back to my railings. Realizing my need for privacy, they did not hang around for long; Wiggins simply said, "It were them fish 'eads."
I glared at him, sweating and queasy. "Oh, really? Sure it wasn't the madeira and caviare I had last night?"
"Quite sure," Wiggins said seriously.
I sighed. "Sorry."
"Don' mention it."
"Where's a good place to get fatal poisons?" I diverted the conversation into the places where I wanted it to go.
"Wot's fatal?" Li asked.
"Deadly!" I exclaimed. "Poisons that would kill you in so and so many minutes flat."
"Oh."
- - - -
The next day I felt better, but just as empty as before. I went slowly and carefully down into the scummiest parts of the city, looking in all the dirty and strange-smelling shops tucked into poky corners; shops with bundles of dried herbs hanging above the counter, and jars of strange concoctions on the shelves, labelled in spidery handwriting that I could not read. These shops generally had more people than just the owner in, and a few delicate enquiries would bring forth a wealth of information about every kind of poison discovered or invented by mankind. Our findings were forwarded to Mr Holmes, but he did not seem to find what he was looking for, as we were told to keep looking. The money from this work saved me from near starvation. I had almost got to the dizzy-spell stage of extreme hunger; I spent half the coins on food, and hoarded the rest like a mad squirrel.
On the second day of my search, I found a shop that was joined at the back to a pub of the particually grimy sort that was popular with miners and factory workers. I went in through the shop door and looked around. The walls were lined with shelves which were in turn filled with all kinds of pots and containers, each one carefully marked with its contents' name in English and Latin. There were four high stools in front of the counter, and on these were miners chatting with each other while the shop owner, a big man with a neat beard and primly white hands, flicked a dirty rag about in imitation of cleaning and contributed to the conversation.
As though drawn like a magnet, I went and looked up at the shelves with their mysterious contents. A spider scuttled behind a jar sealed with dark red wax that was cracked with age and liberally coated with dust. Business was not booming, then.
"You need anything?" The shop owner looked up, his duster performing gymnastics vaguely in the air.
"Yeah, wanted t' know if you 'ad anythin' poisonous," I said, deliberately dropping my aitches. A ragamuffin boy who didn't drop them conspicously and with a very loud bang tended to draw unwelcome attention. "Where'd I get summut what would kill a cat slowly?" Seeing his raised eyebrows, I added, "It's for this bloke 'oo's in a music 'all, and 'e does this act where 'e does a Stare Of Death."
"An' what's that when it's at home?" The man sounded interested, and the other miners raised their heads, ready for this new topic of conversation. Only one, a tall, youngish man in smutty clothes and a red neckcloth remained hunched over, a clay pipe clenched between his teeth.
"Oh, 'e stares at this cat an' sez 'ow 'e's goin' to kill it with 'is stare. He says a lot of foreign soundin' mumbo-jumbo, and waves 'is 'ands about an' the cat keels over. 'Course, the cat's bin poisoned before'and, so it looks like 'e's killed it just by starin' at it. 'snot very popular, but 'e does it for 'is friends, an' 'e's run outa the stuff 'e uses, so 'ave you got anythin'?"
"Well, I dunno. Maybe . . . " The shop owner ran an eye over the shelves. "There's the foxgloves drink, an' the poppy, an' the opium, but that ain't really poison. Did this man say what he used afore?"
I shrugged. "Might 'ave. I forget. Funny long name, in a weird language. Can't tell what it means."
"I didn't expect you to," the man said condescendingly, and all the miners laughed, except for the silent man at the end. As the shop owner pottered about, searching among his shelves for this drug or that sedative, I watched that silent man out of the corner of my eye. The other miners resumed their talk, but he stayed dourly quiet, listening to them. He felt my gaze on him, and, not moving his head, lifted his eyes to meet mine. All the dirt in the world could not hide their brilliant grey sharpness, and I blinked in amazement, in that split second seeing through the layers of soot to the man beneath. Mr Holmes' eyes were bright with amusement as he gave me a ghost of a wink. The next minute, he blew out a cloud of black and smelly tobacco smoke and turned back to the miners.
"Don't think we have much here, boy," said the man coming back from his happy journey through his shelves. "Nothing that would work in the way you wants it to."
Normally, in cases like this, I asked several innocemt questions about the other poisons in the shop, but Mr Holmes was here, and I felt that this might be a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth. I shook my head. "Nah, don't matter. I'll look someplace else."
As I went to the door, Mr Holmes unfolded himself from his perch and said languidly, "There's a shop not that far from 'ere that might 'ave summut. I'll show you."
So saying, he led the way out into the street, and I followed him. We left the shop behind, and I drew level with him, skipping to keep up with his long strides. He said, "Good cover story, Kit. Although whether it would bear up under close questioning, I am not sure. Have you been eating better these days?"
I felt myself flush hotly. "You know about that?"
"Kit, it was so obvious that Watson commented on it. And rebuked me for it. The honest Watson reproving me for removing a potential criminal from society!" He laughed quietly. "Human beings are what make this world so strange and magnificent. Kit. 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Shakespeare. Have you read any of his works? Now, there was a genius."
"I tried Twelfth Night, once," I said. "It was too flowery, and I couldn't understand half of what the people were saying."
"'If music be the food of love, play on,'" Mr Holmes quoted dramatically. "Possibly my favourite of Shakespeare's plays."
"I think I like Dickens better," I replied politely.
"You should try it again when you are a bit older," Mr Holmes advised. "Then you might find it easier."
"I'll remember," I said. After a pause, I asked, "Did you find anything in there?"
"Many things.Things that would make Scotland Yard gasp in horror and shriek aloud to the heavens. They always neglect the little details which are so important." He sighed. "'Something rotten in the state of Denmark.'"
"But have you found anything about the murder? Why do you want to find out about poisons, anyway?"
"Questions, questions!" Mr Holmes exclaimed impatiently. "The denouement is near, the drama and tension increase!" Then he smiled. "I'm sorry, Kit. Come to Baker Street tomorrow. Then you'll see the ending of this case."
"You've solved it?" I cried.
"I have a good idea of what we shall find tomorrow. Now run along - I have business in other parts of the city where you would not be welcome."
I happily ran off down the street, feeling like a statue I had once seen of a Greek god of some sort with wings on his feet. Mr Holmes has solved it!
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