The mental picture of a large white newspaper with the stark black headline, Famous Detective Steals Purse from Elderly Woman, was (oddly enough) the first thing that flashed through my mind upon Cummings's pronouncement. I nearly laughed at the thought, but I subsided once I realised how serious indeed this might be to my reputation if word were to get out. Tabloid gossip was ruthless and it only took one rumour to perform permanent damage to a man's character.
"Cummings, who knows about this latest development?" Lestrade demanded, glancing out the door to ensure no one was listening and then shutting it once more.
"Just MacPherson, 's far as I know, Inspector," the officer replied hastily.
"Thank heaven for small favours," Lestrade muttered, sinking back down in his chair. He placed his elbows on the polished desktop and glanced over helplessly at me.
"You surely don't think I had anything to do with that, either?"
"Of course not, Mr. Holmes, but you have to admit this is rather out of the ordinary, and something has to be done about it. These things have a way of getting out despite all police security, and once it hits the papers…"
"You can say goodbye to your spotless career, probably," Watson finished helpfully.
I glared at him, and he merely blinked placidly back at me. Hum. I should have to work on my powers of intimidation, if I could no longer get a reaction from him.
"Cummings, leave that report here and don't file it into any other channel. And not a word to anyone about the body this morning, either," Lestrade hissed, shoving the papers into the abomination he called a filing system.
"Right, Inspector. And if there's any more reports –"
"Let's hope there won't be any more, but if they do come in, snatch them up before one of those idiots out there gets them. Dismissed, Cummings. Get back to your duties."
"Yes, sir. Morning, Doctor. I'm really sorry, Mr. Holmes –"
"Cummings!"
"Yes, sir." The young constable gulped and scuttled out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
All this time I had been pondering whole weird affair…once again, my instincts told me there was far more to the puzzle than just someone wanting my attention (for there were certainly a plethora of easier way to obtain it!). The crimes had ranged from a brutal and violent murder to now a purse-snatching? Was there no middle ground here?
"Mr. Holmes, now you've got to get to the bottom of this," Lestrade said suddenly, slamming his hand down on the desktop and sending a teacup rattling and the rather repulsive-looking green matter inside sloshing around sluggishly. "I can only keep this stuff secret for so long, you know, and this could get very ugly very quickly."
That fellow did have a most annoyingly dependable habit of stating the obvious as if it were spectacular and no one else had ever thought of it.
"Does that report give a description of the purse-snatcher?" I demanded irritably.
He turned and riffled through the stack of papers once more, and I noticed with some amusement that actually my own Baker Street filing system (despite Watson's insults to the contrary) looked like the British Museum's impeccable library cataloguing compared next to Lestrade's haphazard shelving.
"Mmm…ah, here it is. Short fellow, youngish, wiry, dark suit and bowler. Woman's half-blind, so even that bit may not be accurate," the detective growled, slapping the file down on the desk. "Pinched the purse, took off running, and then scrambled up over a low wall. Purse was found in a wastebin around the corner in an alley, sticking half-out of the bin."
Short and wiry…young and agile enough to scale a low wall quickly…and the method of returning the purses to the area in question in wastebins, minus the valuables they contained…that sounded suspiciously like the work of one Charles Lofton.
I had had only one real run-in with the man in question, back in the summer of 1894 when, shortly after my return to life and London, Lofton had attempted and nearly succeeded in organizing over half of the London pickpockets into one giant gang complete with a hierarchy (headed by himself) and headquarters – an attempt which I had made a priority to stop in short order, as the gang would have taken over the entire petty underworld population.
Lofton himself had never been caught on anything other than suspicion, and rather than investing my time in trying to pin something on a petty thief I had instead formed a truce with him, agreeing to lay off him and his cohorts if the gang was dissolved, and made a valuable contact, part of the network comprised of other various men and women I had scattered through the London population (such was Shinwell Johnson and others I often employed in various guises).
Why Lofton might have a motive in getting my attention with a purse-snatching was entirely beyond me, however, and murder (and that odd and grotesque a murder) was most definitely not a component of his usual modus operandi.
It did, however, give me a valuable starting point, and start an investigation I certainly would.
I realised I had been staring a hole through the floorboards when I glanced up to see Watson looking at me with a quizzical expression.
"Charles Lofton," I told him by way of explanation.
A look of surprise flitted across his face briefly before it reverted back to questioning. "You're certain of that?"
"The method is the same – Lofton targets elderly or infirm women and waits until they are near a wall or fence over which they are of course unable to climb, and then he strikes and is up and away before the hue and cry is even raised," I replied, standing and buttoning my coat.
"Who?" Lestrade asked blankly.
"Never mind, Lestrade. I'll inform you of fresh developments as soon as they occur, if you will be good enough to return the favour? Come along, Watson."
We were forced to open our umbrellas and stagger through the pouring rain (typical of London's weather, it had decided fifteen minutes of sunshine was more than our daily ration would sanction) when we exited the Yard, as every mode of transport on the street was occupied by a lucky pedestrian. I made a stop on the next block to compose and send a telegram to Lofton, telling him I'd a question for him and I would meet him in the usual place in an hour.
We then beat a hasty retreat to the small café in question on the other side of the river, soaked through and in rather ill tempers. I ordered a late breakfast, the investigation of this morning having given me an enormous appetite. Watson looked askance at my voracious devouring of my meal while he sipped his tea.
"I can't believe you're hungry after seeing that mutilated body in the morgue," he muttered, mixing more milk into the tea.
"I neglected to have breakfast," I explained, finishing off my eggs.
"And luncheon and dinner yesterday," he agreed finally, leaning back to stare out the window at the river of water pouring from the gutters, making a grey-brown rivulet on the glass in his line of vision.
"Do you really think Lofton is involved, Holmes? I mean, I've met the man as well, and he didn't strike me as the type that would murder in any case, and certainly not the type to draw unwarranted attention to himself," he said with a thoughtful frown.
"I agree entirely," I replied, pouring myself another cup of coffee. "But he is the only link I might have at the moment. And if he is not involved, chances are he will know of someone in the cut-purse industry who might have a grudge against me. Ah, that looks like our man now. Be wary, Watson; you can never trust these types," I finished in an undertone, nodding toward a smallish, wiry fellow in his late twenties, clad in dark brown tweed and holding a brown bowler in his hand.
Lofton's dark eyes glanced appraisingly over the crowd in search of my face, and I drummed my fingers impatiently on the table in waiting for his notice, for to draw the attention of the shady patrons of the place would not be profitable or safe for either of us.
Watson managed to do it for me, however, by sneezing so loudly that the occupants of the next table glared at us briefly before rolling their eyes and turning back to their coffee. I sighed and Watson gulped uneasily, but I saw Lofton's thin lips twitch and a moment later he approached and took the chair next to mine without asking for an invitation.
"I have to say, you'd better make this worth my while, Holmes," he said in an undertone, nodding in greeting to Watson across the table. "You didn't give me much time to get here, you know."
"I should think an hour would be plenty of time to get here from Swindon Street," I replied calmly.
Lofton didn't bat an eyelash. "I've not been in that part of the city in probably three days. Much better pickings in the West End, if you know what I mean."
"The splashes of dark grey mud on your trouser cuffs tell me otherwise, Lofton," I said with a smirk, sipping my coffee.
The man started instinctively to glance at his footwear before straightening up and grinning. "I took a cab, Holmes, and cleaned them on the way; and besides, with this much rain blanketing the city and diluting everything, you can't make an accurate analysis of mudstains. You'll have to do a better job of bluffing than that if you want an old dodger like me to fall for it."
Point for Lofton. I sized the man up for a moment while he helped himself to Watson's pot of tea. Watson shoved the milk pitcher over to him before hastily turning away to bury another sneeze in his handkerchief.
"You should be drinkin' chamomile, not orange pekoe," Lofton said helpfully.
"Lofton…" I warned with a not very patient sigh.
"All right, Holmes, keep your shirt on. I suppose you're wantin' to know about that Swindon Street pinch?"
"Brilliant, Lofton. You're scintillating today."
"There's no call to be sarcastic, Holmes. I could just walk out of here and not help you at all, and with pleasure," the man said dryly, leaning back in his chair and glancing from me to Watson, who was trying to suppress a smirk at the man's impertinence.
"You really should keep better track of your calling cards, Holmes."
"Will you just answer the question?" I hissed in exasperation.
"How much is it worth to you?"
"The usual, no more."
"No deal, then. I've lost a good two hours of business between travel and meeting time comin' here, and if you're not going to pay back for that I'm not telling you a thing," Lofton retorted with a scowl.
"Fine," I growled, "Three pounds, no more."
"Five, I had to pay for a cab all the way from the first safe house."
"Three and a half, the cab was not my decision – you could have walked."
"Not and made it here on time. And if I'd walked, I'd be soundin' hoarser than the Doctor here. Make it four, and that's the final deal, Holmes."
"I'll hear the information first, then decide."
"No, you won't. My word, Doctor, is he always this stubborn?" Lofton asked in a confidential sotto voce.
"Yes," Watson answered dryly.
"Three now, the rest after I hear your information," I growled, not appreciating the man's attempts to ingratiate himself with Watson.
"Fine," Lofton sighed, running a hand through his slicked hair. "Not much I can tell you, though."
"You've as much as admitted the snatch was done by you. Why."
"It was a job." Lofton shrugged his small shoulders. "Paid me five quid plus whatever I got from the purse if I would make sure the police found it with your cards inside."
"Who hired you?" I demanded through clenched teeth – the man was absolutely infuriating!
"Don't know for certain."
"Don't play games with me, Lofton!"
"I'm serious, Holmes!" The fellow scowled indignantly. "The chap said he was comin' on behalf of another gentleman. When you're in this business, Holmes, you don't ask unnecessary questions. 'Tisn't healthy."
"So he approached you out of the blue? Ever seen him before? Name, description?" I demanded.
"No, never seen him before," Lofton said, draining his teacup. "Tall chap, middle size, small mustache, walking stick and silk cravat - your typical toff."
"Lofton, is that seriously all you have to tell me?"
"Well what do you want of me? He was carryin' a revolver and I don't mess around with that kind of chap," the pickpocket groused irritably.
"Why did you bother coming, if you can't tell me any more than that?" I growled.
"Because if I hadn't, you'd have come to see me – and that's really bad for my men's morale, Holmes. An unofficial cop crawling all over the place tends to frighten away business, y'know?"
"I find it hard to believe you've no idea who this fellow was, Lofton, or who hired him."
"All I can tell you, Holmes, is that he was dressed and talked like a toff. Lightish brown hair, medium coloring, brownish eyes - I couldn't tell because the light was so bad in the joint, Horton forgot to fix the broken gas jets, blast the man… anyway, carried a heavy walking stick and a revolver, like I said. Told me he was asking for the job in place a man who wanted to get the attention of Sherlock Holmes. That's all I can tell you, I swear it on my day's pickings."
I sighed and glanced at Watson, who shrugged helplessly. Then I turned back to the pickpocket, who merely blinked at me.
"Are you aware that a man was murdered – shot, stabbed, and poisoned – this morning and was fished out of the Thames by Scotland Yard, Lofton?"
"Pity," was the man's only comment.
"And the only thing in his pockets was a black calling-card case with six of my calling cards inside it?" I snapped, leaning forward on the table to get my no-nonsense mood across to the careless petty thief.
Lofton's disgustingly chipper mood vanished and his cheerful features suddenly paled. "Murdered…with your cards in his pocket?" he gasped faintly, shooting worried glances back and forth from me to Watson.
The pickpocket's reaction was even better than I had hoped – he obviously knew more than he was telling me.
But he was going to tell me, in very short order.
To be continued...