"That it should come to this! But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That be might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly."
Holmes leaned against the back stage right wall behind the main curtain, hip cocked into the cold bricks, watching the rehearsal on deck. A cigarette pinched between two delicate fingers let off a fine trail of smoke that crept past his attentive face. "Rather maudlin." He pronounced, turning his back on the troupe of actors and smiling at the man behind him.
"What?" Jeffey Carlyle hovered over one of the props tables, arms full of dulled cavalry sabers, which he proceeded to dump onto a free spot near the end of the table and arrange them distractedly.
"The delivery is too maudlin," Homes spoke louder, only to earn himself an angry glare from the Director, a thickset man with pendulous florid cheeks sitting cross-legged at the front of the stage.
"…..Heaven and earth!-" the actor on stage playing Hamlet soldiered on, trying his best in the middle of what was, in Holmes opinion anyway, a quite horrendous performance. "-Must I remember?"
"Please don't" Holmes grumbled.
The Director threw the sheaf of papers that was his script to the ground and positively shot daggers into the darkened wings, eyes trying to penetrate the gloom and alight on his unknown critic, his gloved hands fisting on his thighs.
Carlyle cleared his throat, coloring slightly. "Flagons?"
He drew Holmes by the elbow farther into the wing.
"Start on the stage left props table, on the tray, next to the empty keg." Holmes replied, hands sliding easily into his pants pockets. His attention, however, stayed behind him on stage. An occasional smile played about his lips. He wondered if Kit enjoyed watching these little rehearsals as she sat in the pit, waiting for the real show to start.
"Telescope?" Carlyle pressed.
"On the ledge built in to the back of the pirate ship."
"Which starts where?"
Holmes pointed up at the ceiling. The flat ship creaked in its suspended moorings high above their heads.
"Right. And when do you pre-set it? Before the scene?"
"No, the ship starts the show in the fly gallery. The telescope will need to be set before the ship is struck into the ceiling before curtain up."
"Lace handkerchief?"
"Comes off stage right after Act one Scene two, I run it over to stage left to be included in the palm tree set piece, before it's rolled on for Scene four." Carlyle nodded.
"And at the beginning of the third Act?"
I am to be in the prompter's booth down stage center to help unfurl the fabric ocean waves."
Carlyle looked him up and down again. "And you're sure you don't need to write any of this down?"
"I do not." Holmes replied, turning back to the troupe on stage. They were a motley looking bunch, more flair than substance. "Do you suppose it's hard to focus on directing a play while suffering from secondary syphilis?" He asked innocently. The man standing next to him choked.
"What?"
"Come now, Mr. Carlyle, you must have noticed the telling rash on the palms of the hands."
"The Director is wearing gloves, Holmes!"
"Exactly. Oh, look, the other actors are coming on. This promises to be entertaining." Holmes stepped back to his position against the wall, peering out as a group of four men shuffled into a semi-circle around Hamlet. "My God, is that Langdale Pike?" Holmes squinted at his old acquaintance. A lank and lackluster tragedian from the drama club at Cambridge, Pike had been known as a terrible imbecile and worse actor, but an outgoing chap none the less, and extremely gifted in the area of parents who donated money. Holmes was slightly mystified to see he had carried on in the theatre. The rest of the actors were all shaggy-haired and bleary, but one of them was rather more…tilted than others. Holmes chuckled as he watched the man teeter, unsteady on his feet. One did not need to be a detective to know the man was drunk. Sloppily so.
"Hail to your Lordship." The tipsy man called out, seemingly to no one in particular.
"I am glad to see you are well: Horatio, - or I do forget myself." Hamlet cried back, tilting himself a little to see if he could catch the other man's eye. The actor playing Marcellus steadied Horatio with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back upright.
Horatio's mouth opened, his finger waved in front of him. Everyone leaned forward to see if they could will the next words out of him.
Nothing.
Horatio's hand flew to his mouth to stifle a belch.
Downstage, the Director sprung to his feet, dropping his script again, scattering pages everywhere. "My God," he shrieked, "we sail for America in a few weeks' time, you ungrateful, gin soaked, bunch of ingrates! I swear I have never seen so much shillyshallying in all my life! It is an insult to the art! To the words!"
The actors did their best to look chastened, but the effect was ruined by the wild peals of laughter ringing out from the stage right wing. Holmes could not help himself. The Director turned on the sound, recognizing the voice of his tormentor from moments ago.
"And you sir," he jabbed his finger blindly at the darkness, "can take your input and cram it right back up the passage of your body that it will hurt the most!" The little man was panting now, fiery red and almost apoplectic looking.
The amused look on Holmes' face as he stepped out into the light on stage did nothing to help matters. The detective was almost afraid that the foaming artist would take a run at him like a goaded bull.
"Who are you, sir?!" The Director bellowed.
"My name is Holmes." The taller man tried to put a soothing note into his voice, concerned that the poor man might drive himself to hemorrhage at any moment.
"Not Sherlock Holmes? Good Lord. I say, Sherlock, It's me, Langdale Pike, I don't suppose you remember me from school back ever so many seasons ago?"
Holmes nodded at the taller man, giving him a manufactured smile. "I do, Langdale. Good to see you're still…active."
"This is sheer rudeness, man," the Director screeched, stamping a foot. "We are in the middle of a performance!"
"I pray that is not the case, sir. Your Horatio is lacking his second line of this scene. Not an encouraging start."
"And I'm sure you could do better."
"Of course -" Holmes ran a hand over his slicked hair with no trace of false modesty. "His next is: 'The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.' Followed by: 'A truant disposition, good my lord.' And then by: 'My Lord, I came to see your father's funeral.' To which you reply, " - here Holmes stabbed a finger at poor Hamlet - "'I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student; I think it was to see my mother's wedding.'"
Holmes shrugged as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Horatio weaved, frowning over at Marcellus as if he might be able to elucidate what was happening. Holmes dismissed him with a flippant wave of the hand and addressed Hamlet again. "Indeed my Lord, it followed hard upon."
"Thrift, thrift, Horatio…" Hamlet replied, a smile creeping up his face, "The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father! Methinks I see my father."
"Where my lord?"
"In my mind's eye, Horatio."
"I saw him once; he was a goodly king' – you see?" Holmes broke off, turning to the Director. "Hamlet is one of the most quoted works in the English language. One has ample opportunity to memorize the lines."
The Director's mouth dropped open.
A dry chuckle sounded off stage. Holmes peered into the opposite wing, eyes chasing after the sound. A young man stood between the hanging black curtains that ran along the width of the stage. He was spare, with scrawny arms and legs, and feet that were still too big for him. Holmes narrowed his eyes, peering closer, his tongue darting out to moisten his thin lips.
The boy's clothing was well-kept, but not expensive, most likely attained through a goodwill institution, and therefore untailored. A domestic perhaps? A doorman? Too young. Wrong posture. The boy was finishing a cigarette, which he dropped to the floor and crushed out with his toe, returning his arms firmly behind his back when he had completed the action. A page then. In a good household.
Holmes took a step towards him, and the smile dropped from the boy's face.
Holmes took another step and the boy shied, taking a step back.
"Wait," Holmes cautioned.
The boy bolted, disappearing down the stage right stairs towards the orchestra pit.
"Excuse me gentlemen." Holmes threw over his shoulder as he ran after him, stopping just long enough at the boy's vacated spot to confirm his suspicions. The cigarette was Turkish blend.
Holmes sprinted down the stairs towards the greenroom, ducking through the winding halls and weaving to avoid angry costume mistresses and the occasional half-clad dancer. Actors pressed themselves against the walls to make room for him, sucking in their bellies. He went from room to room, greenroom, orchestra pit, inside dressing rooms with their garish settees and cheap hanging curtains there to give the illusion of warmth and comfort. Nothing. His searches were to no avail.
He bounded back up the stairs and out the stage door, looking up and down the alley in both directions. Damn. Damn. Damnable hubris!
"Holmes?" Carlyle stuck his head through the door, looking not a little put-out. "Are you assisting me with this show, or not?"
Holmes followed him back inside.
Kit struggled to tie her shoes. This was the tricky part. She had managed the rest of her preparations without too much difficulty but lacing a pair of ladies boots one handed was proving to be too much for her.
She had waited precisely ten minutes after Sherlock Holmes had left the flat before springing into action. The infuriating man could command all he wanted, but until he was ready to physically hold her in place, nothing would stop her from following her own wishes.
He had given her a cup of tea, and then sat there across from her, watching her drink it with that preposterous single index finger leaned against his closed lips. No conversation seemed to interest him, none of her attempts to breach any polite topic at all, no matter how mundane.
Finally, with an air of barely suppressed triumph he had shown her the second thing he had brought to her from his rooms besides the violin. It was the morning addition of the Times, which he had then spread across his lap and began to read out loud to her.
From the agony column no less.
Kit bit down on her lower lip, trying her best to transmute the look of horror on her face into something resembling gratitude. She found herself staring at him with a complete disregard for how impolite it might be, trying to ascertain if he was in earnest, or trying to kill her through some strange form of ritualistic boredom. No, she decided, as he turned the page, clearing his throat and pouring forth more of that now familiar baritone, his intentions did not appear to be malicious. Dear God.
"Mr. Holmes?" She interrupted as politely as possible. This stemmed his flow of words as he peered up at her over the crackling paper.
"Yes, Miss Rushford?"
"Did you happen to bring anything else with you from your rooms?" A book, perhaps? She prayed inwardly, or could we return to the one I was reading earlier?
"Why, yes," he said, hand fishing into one of his coat pockets and coming out a moment later with a small white object. "My pipe."
Which he then proceeded to pack with tobacco taken from his other pocket and, lighting it, filled the room with a thick blueish haze.
Kit smiled ruefully at the memory. She could still smell it in the air.
And he really did have a thrilling voice. It was a shame that he used it to say the most asinine things.
Holding one lace in her free hand, and using the toe of the other shoe to tread on the second lace, she was able to form a messy sort of half-hitch knot and then tuck the loose ends into the top of her boot. Hardly aesthetically pleasing, but useful. Thank goodness that her dress was long enough to hide the whole messy affair from sight.
Throwing a warm shawl over her shoulders she left the house without bag or umbrella, since she was unable to comfortably carry either, and closed the door with minimum of difficulty by trapping the handle against her hip. She nodded pertly at the face of the old woman neighbor peering at her through a raised curtain next door and circled around to the front of the building. A slurry breeze blew in her face, but it felt good to be out of the small space above the tailor shop. She turned left and began her walk towards John Street. Holmes may have forbidden her to follow him to the theatre, but he had said nothing about the rest of the city.
Holmes stepped out of the cab onto John Street, breath clouding before him. He paid the cabbie and pulled his hat down farther on his forehead, trying to keep out the chill and damp. He was weary, he realized, not only from the morning's exercise, but an afternoon and evening of running around the theatre. He was vexed with himself as well, and that hardly helped. He had planned to go fencing that night, but in his present exhausted state, he knew it would be a ridiculous idea. He was, however, prepared to give one more try to locate Miss Rushford's alleged secret passages to Gunpowder Alley.
He looked down the long row of dark windows that fronted the brick warehouses and shops that made up the north side of the block. All seemed quiet and still. None of the windows along that side of the street showed any light or movement. Holmes cocked his head to the side, and then crossed to the south side of the street to get a better look at the length of the opposite block. Not a single window lit. No movement, no indication of any human presence in the whole set of buildings.
A familiar tingle worked its way up the back of his neck, and he felt the excitement start; the feeling he got when a tiny crack in the wall of a well-built lie showed itself.
He hurried back to the north side of the street, the stones under his shoes slick with icy rainwater. He kept his head down, studying each doorway, each stoop, finally, about halfway down the street he found what he was looking for.
It was a normal looking doorway, one that seemed to lead to several floors of apartments above. The doorknob was burnished, more so than the knobs on the doors on either side.
This door had gotten far more use. The paint around the facing plate was grimier too, and there were bubbles in the moisture on the stoop from shoes passing over it recently. All this had been obscured by darkness from him the previous night.
He impulsively grasped the knob and tried it. The door swung open easily, revealing a long narrow corridor, disappearing into the gloom of the building interior.
Holmes stepped in, closing the door softly behind him. The walls were built of unfinished plaster and lathe. He paused to allow his eyes to grow accustomed to the light. Looking back at the entrance he saw that the windows on either side of the door had been papered over to keep them dark. Someone had installed closed curtains and then papered over them to make doubly sure. Holmes nodded in approval. He held his breath, listening.
There were shuffled footsteps above him by several floors, and murmured voices somewhere far away to the left, rising and falling indistinctly.
Lit candles sat in sconces at shoulder height every few feet down the passage, giving off a low, watery light.
He walked forward, able to touch the wall on either side of him with his fingers while keeping his elbows tucked into his sides. On his left a passageway opened up, barley large enough to be called a doorway. A man would have to stoop and turn sideways to enter. It led to a stairway, also lit with dripping candles. A few steps farther and a similar passage opened up on the right. Again, the plaster and lathe had simply been knocked through, most likely with a claw hammer judging by the markings, giving access to more rooms and passages.
He inhaled deeply, smelling mold, dust, damp plaster, filthy linen and the faint acrid scent of opium. He smelled unwashed people as well, many years' worth of them, dried blood, vomit, and decay.
How stupid of him not to have realized immediately, he thought. The whole block was a façade. The walls had been breached years ago, turning the whole line of buildings into a single hive-like marketplace of vice.
There was door at the far end of the passage, and Holmes guessed that this let out into Gunpowder Alley, supplying the streetwalkers and pimps a perfect way of cutting swiftly away from any unwanted police presence on either street.
A noise caught his attention. Someone was moving in one of the unseen side passages ahead of him. He hugged the wall, creeping forward on noiseless feet, fingers ghosting against the slick plaster, breathing quietly through his nose.
There was a passage to his right, directly in front of him. He listened intently. Somewhere above him there was a crash of breaking glass, and the dull roar of people cheering. The feet in the passage moved, coming closer to him. Whoever the mystery person was, he was standing right around the corner from Holmes. He could almost feel the warmth of this other unknown body.
Another footstep.
Holmes lashed out, snapping his hand down to grab the first thing he encountered. A wrist. He yanked hard and was rewarded with a muffled cry. A body hurled past him into the main passage, hitting the opposite wall with a thud, Holmes only a second behind, pinning the man with a forearm across his throat.
A familiar scent stopped him in his tracks. He managed to contain a howl of anger that nearly escaped him, turning it into a frustrated growl as he glared down at Kit Rushford.
Her face was pressed sideways, eyes squeezed tightly shut. A delicate pink mark bloomed on her cheek where it had connected roughly with the wall.
"What are you doing here?" He hissed at her.
"You told me not to follow you," she gasped. "I didn't"
He could have throttled her. "Miss Rushford, I do not like semantics."
"And I do not like being unable to breathe, Mr. Holmes," she gasped out. He ground his teeth together for a moment. "Sherlock," she cried again, "you're hurting me."
He started, and then eased his arm off so that she could take several deep cold gulps of air.
"How did you find your way in here?" she gasped, placing her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. His arm became ridged at her touch, and she removed it immediately. She was also horrified to realize she had used his first name. Something forbidden if his narrowing glare was any indication.
"How does one find anything, Miss Rushford? I looked for it." His tone was even, but she sensed that his body remained tense. "And you?"
"I just tried all the knobs until I found the right one."
He huffed out a great disgusted breath, and she could not keep the smile from quirking the corner of her mouth. "And it seems I have beaten you to the punch."
He opened his mouth to snap something back, but his reproach died in his throat. Unfortunately, she was right. His eyes dropped down to the sling across her chest, and he noted that her other hand rested against the wall at her side. A sickening thought hit him. He took a quick step back. "Are you hurt in any way?"
"What, do you mean extra?" She touched the blooming red patch on her cheek. "A little," she admitted.
He grunted and turned away, swiping a hand across his stricken face. He pointed down the corridor she had been hiding in. "What lies this way?"
"There is a staircase leading to the second floor. Doesn't it strike you as odd that there is no guard at the entrances to this place?"
"I believe that to be on purpose." He crossed towards the passage, ducking to enter the secondary corridor. There was a wooden staircase, and at the top the faint glow of more candles. A rat shot across his vision, disappearing into one of the many small holes in the plaster along the floor. The smell of opium was stronger here.
Voices broke into his thoughts from the top of the stairs, followed by the sound of footsteps.
Holmes darted back out into the main passage and took Kit by the arm, drawing her back towards the John Street entrance. Too late, he heard steps on the stairs, and the voices grew louder.
He ducked left into the first opening he saw, dragging Kit after him. There was no staircase here, just another long low passage, the floor littered with betting slips and broken bottles. It was too long to make it to the end before the footsteps came upon them. He hurried ahead, blowing out the candles closest to them, and then came back and pressed Kit to the small corner of the wall directly inside the jagged opening and shielded her with his body, hoping his dark coat would make them harder to see in the gloom.
Kit held her breath as they listened to the steps approach. "Three men." Holmes breathed into her ear, so low she had to still her heart to hear it, even though his lips almost brushed her earlobe. She nodded, unable to reply. A shiver ran through her. She had just realized that the entire length of her body was pressed up against the detective, and the knowledge was doing frightening things to her insides. His body was taut as a steel cord, the solid wall of his chest pressed her breasts flat, causing the rough walls to dig into her back. He seemed to vibrate; palms pressed to either side of her head. He had his head turned towards her, lips almost touching the shell of her ear.
"One is a big man, with a barrel chest and a slight limp. It is a hip injury. Fairley resent."
Their chests rose and fell together, in rhythm.
"The second man is young. No more than a boy," he continued. "Large feet. His shoes are new, but too small for him." Holmes closed his eyes, listening intently. Kit could see nothing over his shoulder; her face was turned inward, into the crook of his neck. Stubble from his cheek tickle at her forehead. His collar pressed a starched line across her face. She inhaled the deep strange smell she had come to recognize as his mix of aftershave, hair product and some personal undefinable heat.
She heard the footsteps come closer. They men must be nearing their hiding place. Sharp words were now ringing out against the close walls.
"It's not my fault," one of them was whining. "The old Lady's bats. I'm lucky I was able to put hands on one, let alone going back for more."
"Well, you'll have to do something. I'm tired of waiting. You can't come here and not play by the rules. If the old lady is flush, let her part with a little more." A smooth voice shot back.
"The third man is from Soho." Holmes whispered. "Cigar smoker. Young, well groomed, well dressed. He has money in his pockets."
The footsteps stopped directly abreast of Holmes and Kit, on the other side of the flimsy plaster wall. One of them leaned against the partition, and the thud of a hand so close to her head made Kit start. Her free hand slid around Holmes' middle beneath his coat, and fisted tightly at his lower back, pressing into the dip of his spine, begging him impossibly closer. His shirt was damp with sweat, and the flesh beneath was burning hot. In the same instant Holmes' hand snaked out and covered her mouth before she could gasp. He leaned back slightly, looking a warning down at her. Her gaze met him unwaveringly, and he was surprised to see no trace of fear in her look. Only surprise and expectation. She had been startled but was still in control of her faculties.
How extraordinary, he thought, mentally congratulating her for her courage. He knew he could remove his hand, but lingered a second longer, feeling the shape of her lips still pressed into his hot palm. When he did remove it, it was with a pang of regret.
"We can still get the first one." The youngest of the three whined. "I made a mistake is all; we can have this fixed by tomorrow."
A click echoed in the quiet space, and Holmes knew he did not need to inform Kit that it was the sound of a pocket knife snapping open. The younger man's breathing became more ragged, and there was a sudden burst of movement. The big man had grabbed the youngest, forcing his face against the wall. Holmes did not dare raise his head any further to get a look, he was dangerously close to having his shoulder visible from the hallway as it was. He heard soft laughter from nearby, and he kept Kit's eyes locked with his, willing her to stay composed.
"I thought that might get your attention," the smooth voice said. "Do something, boy. I don't care what it is, but get it done fast. Charlie here is getting very anxious to settle your account."
There was a deep grunt from the bigger man.
"Mess me about anymore and I'll slice the eyes out," the smooth one continued. "And then I'll do the same for that sister of yours."
The click sounded again and two sets of feet moved off. The main door to John Street opened and closed. There was a moment of shaky breathing and cursing, and then the third set of footprints moved slowly towards the door. A match scratched and flared, and then the smell of smoke filled the space. Holmes' eyebrows twitched.
"Turkish." He informed Kit, before he moved back from her slowly, then stepped out into the hallway.
The young man from the theatre stood a few feet ahead of Holmes, head hung forward and a wild look in his watery eyes. His head came up with a jolt of surprise and fear when Holmes appeared so close to him. The cigarette shook in his hand. A small spot of blood welled and trickled down his long white neck. Holmes gave him the barest flicker of a smile before holding up his empty hands. "I only wish to ask you a few questions, Mr. Tilby."
The youth started. "Don't-" Holmes commanded, too late.
The boy threw the cigarette into Holmes' face. It bounced off his cheek, singeing him, causing him to turn slightly as Davey Tilby ran for the door, slamming it behind him.
Holmes turned to Kit, pointing a finger directly into her face. "Can you smell it?" his voice boomed in the small space, eyes sparking with excitement at the thrill of the chase. "The man from Soho? He wears Mr. Brewster's Cosmetic Lime Wax for Gentlemen! Is it the same smell from the night you were attacked?"
Kit took a deep breath, confused, but willing to try. There was a faintly citrus smell in the air under the cigarette smoke, mixed with some kind of hair tonic or lotion. The combination gave her a sickening lurch in her stomach. "It is."
"Take a cab home this instant. Do not disobey me again."
He turned on his heel and raced out of the passage after the fleeing man.
Holmes' shoes slid on the wet pavement as he crashed out into the street, gratefully dragging in huge lungfuls of the open air. Tilby had a head start, and was already pounding down Vine Street, yards ahead of Holmes, who took off after him without a moment's pause.
Kit came out the door directly after, just in time to see both men turn the corner, heading in the direction of Tower Wharf. They were already too far ahead for her to dream of catching up, even if her shoes had allowed her to move at a run.
Faces were appearing at the top windows of the opposite building, peering down to see if there was reason to flee.
A cab turned the corner and Kit threw her hand up, letting out a piercing whistle.
The cabbie pulled to an admiring stop beside her, a wrung-out dishrag of a man with drooping grey side whiskers. She climbed into the cab as carefully as she was able in her rush, pointing after the disappearing runners.
"Double the fare if you keep those two in sight."
The cabbie cracked his whip without comment and sent them jolting ahead, pulling a wide swinging turn onto Vine.