"The Power of Two"
"I'm sorry, girl," the shopkeeper scoffed, only half-trying to suppress his laughter. "But you are trying to convince me that you"—he gestured towards her matted brown hair, the torn dress hanging half off her body, the dirt smears on her face—"are the rightful owner of this?" Raising his eyebrows in pure, unconcealed skepticism, the man dangled the shining golden wristwatch in front of Pockets's face. There was something in his gaze that made Pockets think she really should be more careful. But she'd spun this story so many times, been through this routine so often, that she was confident she could pull it off.
"Yes, sir," said Pockets, playing with her hands. "It is—I mean, it was my grandmother's." She allowed a jolt of raw grief to show in her eyes. "She passed on a few weeks ago, and we found—we found this." She choked a little on the words; even though not a word of the story was true, and of course the watch was stolen, Pockets was a perfect actress. She hoped that, since she had only just turned thirteen and, besides that, she looked young, the pawnshop broker would be more inclined to be sympathetic and, thereby, to believe her.
"Really," the man said dryly, completely unconvinced.
Pockets arranged her face in a completely believable look of betrayal. "What, you ain't believe me?"
"No, girl, I don't really," said the man slowly, smiling succulently at Pockets and making her very uncomfortable. "Because the thing is," he went on, fingering the watch delicately, "this watch just so happens to perfectly match the description of the watch Sir Alexander Henderson reported missing last week; down to the nick"—he held the watch up in Pockets's face, so she could clearly see the tiny nick in one of the golden plates on the watch—"on the band."
Pockets froze. "Sir," she stammered, "I—it's my grandmother's watch, sir. I ain't know 'bout no stolen watch, but this here is mine. Honest." And she did try—really try—to look earnest. But she was frazzled—she'd been shaken by the pawnbroker's revelation—and all the devotion, all the life, had drained from her performance.
The man moved from behind the counter and advanced slowly, like a cat stalking his prey, towards Pockets. "Liar," he accused, in a low, dangerous voice. Despite herself, Pockets took a step back.
Suddenly the man grabbed Pockets's arm and held it in a tight, vicelike grasp. Pockets gasped at the pain and looked up, wide-eyed, into the pawnbroker's face. He looked down at her and grinned wickedly. "The police will be here at any moment," he whispered, bending down so he was eye-to-eye with the girl. Then, in one fluid movement, he straightened, standing back up; and in that instant, just for a split-second, the grip on Pockets's arm loosened infinitesimally. And in that moment, Pockets did exactly what she did best: run, steal, escape.
With a well-practiced twisting movement, Pockets wrenched herself free of the man's grip, and in another deft motion, she had swiped Sir Henderson's watch from the broker's hands. Before he even had the chance to process that she'd gotten out of his grip—much less that she had the watch back—Pockets was clambering out of the window and shimmying down the drainpipe, down the wall and to the ground.
The minute Pockets's feet touched the street, she took off like a shot. She was running against the wind, and the gales whipped her hair around her and stung her cheeks. It was a chilly day, although it was April, and she was soon short of breath from the strenuous run. But Pockets wasn't about to slow down; she had caught the yells of the pawnbroker as she'd slid down the drainpipe, and he had told her the coppers were coming; and she was not going to wait around and see if they were planning a chase.
Pockets had shoes on her feet, but she was beginning to wonder if she would be better off without them. The shoes were so flimsy and the soles were so thin that they didn't provide much protection from the rough cobblestone street. Mostly they just flapped in the wind and disturbed her.
So, with a shrug, Pockets tore the shoes off of her feet and tossed them off to the side. Some man bellowed at her, but she ignored it and doubled her speed, the feet slapping the pavement now bare.
Pockets could hear a copper's shout now behind her, screaming for the "thief! That brown-haired girl!" to stop and turn herself over to the officers of the law. Pockets ignored them too, ducking into an alleyway between two crumbling office buildings.
Quickly, Pockets scanned the walls, and her eyes found a drainpipe. She fixed her eyes on it, pursed her lips, and nodded. The girl sprinted over, clamped her feet around the chilly metal, gripped the drainpipe with two hands in a place far above her head, and hoisted herself up.
Pockets had plenty of experience scaling drainpipes, and made relatively quick work of this particular one. She was on the roof in no time. Pockets crouched down near the edge, curling into a tight ball with her eyes peeking just above her knees.
About thirty seconds later, a group of six coppers had torn past, shouting and making hurried queries of passers-by; but they quickly hurried onwards, not bothering to look up. Pockets exhaled slightly, incredibly relieved. Still, she stayed huddled on the roof for ten more minutes; it was her rule. Stay hidden for at least ten minutes after the danger has supposedly passed. Just in case.
Finally, once she was confident she had thrown the coppers off of her trail for good—at least that day—Pockets crawled back over to the drainpipe, touching her hip pocket once to verify that she still had Lord Henderson's wristwatch. Then, slowly and cautiously, Pockets grabbed hold of the drainpipe and started slithering her way back down again.
Pockets's plan was to stay off the main streets, tucked in alleyways and hidden behind buildings, for the rest of the night, if not the next few days. As she slithered down, she was analyzing where she would go next, where she could stay out of the cold but the police wouldn't look.
Pockets's feet touched the familiar ground, and she started picking her way at a fast-walk through the alley and out the other side. But before she could get back on the streets, suddenly, there was a voice from her right.
"The coppers have stopped their search."
Pockets froze, whirling around. Her feet tensed to run, but she was still stunned. She had what she considered to be good eyes, yet she hadn't seen any sign of human life in the alley.
Slowly, the speaker revealed themselves. It was a boy, thirteen or fourteen, perhaps. He had light brown hair and darker eyes, and though his clothes were tattered, the look on his face spoke of deep knowledge and intuition. And confidence, and pride.
Pockets step back. "One step closer and I'll run," she warned, in a low voice.
The boy only smiled. "Don't run, please, Pockets. I have something to tell you."
"How do you know my name?" Her voice was steely, cutting. He saw her body tense, ready to bolt at any moment.
"My employer told me about you," the boy said calmly. "He's also thrown the coppers off of your trail, if you care."
"And how, pray tell, did he do that?"
He smiled softly. "He made an exact replica of that watch, he did," the boy explained, pointing at the pocket where Lord Henderson's watch was stowed. Pockets's hand unconsciously went to it, and the boy's lips curled slightly in a satisfied smile.
Pockets was growing annoyed. "And how did a copy of the watch throw the coppers off?"
The boy shrugged. "He planted it in an abandoned house and told the coppers he'd seen you hide it there. Not complex, really." The boy leaned back against the alley wall. "That's not why I'm here, though. I'm here to ask you about joining my employer's business."
Pockets scoffed. "You want me to take a job? Ask another street wench."
The boy's smile widened and he shook his head. "Pockets," he said gently. "My employer is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detectives. He solves mysteries. And a few years ago, he had the idea of creating a team of children to help him, to watch the streets and eavesdrop on London's people, and report to him. Yes, there are thousands of street kids. But he watched the streets for years and evaluated the children, and in the end, he hand-picked five."
Pockets stared incredulously, without a touch of belief in her gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, the boy cut her off.
"Let me prove I'm not lying, before you run away," he challenged, and Pockets's jaw dropped. He smiled slightly. "Please listen, Pockets." He exhaled before continuing. "Mr. Holmes has followed you for years; he's tracked your movements, categorized your behavior, analyzed your personality. He knows about you. Tell me, Pockets," the boy said slyly, "what made you run away from home?"
Pockets took a step forward, growling. "You're just guessing," she snarled. "Half the kids on this street are runaways!"
"Yes," the boy said calmly, with the patience his employer had taught him, "but not all of them have parents who reside in Cambridge."
That stunned Pockets, and silenced her.
"Let me speak," he said, in a low but soft, unchallenging voice. "Sherlock Holmes knows all about you. When you ran away, how you came to London, why. He's told you some about you, in fact. I admire your fingers. In regards to your pickpocketing skills, of course." He grinned; Pockets scowled. "How much money have you made selling your treasures?"
"None of your concern," she said curtly. The boy laughed.
"All right. Let me start over. My name is Wiggins—that's my last name, hardly anyone but my father knows my first—and I'm thirteen. Like you." She stared at him unblinkingly. "About a month ago, Mr. Holmes found me and told me about his plan for a group of children to assist him in his mysteries. There are five kids he's looking at: you, me, a boy named Chen, and a brother and sister pair known as Tiny and Ash. I have an exceptional memory and good deductive skills; you have an incredible aptitude for pickpocketing and amazing acting talent. The others have their own talents as well. Mr. Holmes is planning to speak to Tiny and Ash tomorrow, but he wanted to meet you today; and he wanted me to talk to you first."
"What's his address?" said Pockets cautiously, watching to see if Wiggins had to make up a response.
But he didn't. "221b Baker Street," he said promptly, looking Pockets in the eye; and she could tell that he was being truthful.
However, it was another question if this Sherlock Holmes really wanted her talent, or just wanted to hurt her. So she struck a bargain. "Here's how it goes," she said. "I'll go to his house. You won't see me, but I'll be there. I can hide in shadows good, I can." She was pleased to see Wiggins nod slightly. "If it looks shady, I'll leave and I'll never trust you again," Pockets threatened. "But if you're telling me the truth—"
"I promise I am—"
"If—and only if—I'm confident you're telling the truth, I'll go inside," Pockets finished, a glint in her eye, just daring Wiggins to try to argue with her.
Wiggins could have dragged her off, but it wouldn't inspire any confidence in her. He was sure by her face that she really was going to visit 221b Baker Street, and besides, he would track her all the way there. He wouldn't trail her, not all the way, but he would always know where she was. Wiggins had a knack for things like that, which had been strengthened by Holmes's lessons.
Pockets took a step back. "Don't follow me," she warned quietly.
Wiggins shook his head. "Never."
Pockets nodded slightly, the expression on her face speaking of something almost like respect. Then she stepped back, pivoted, and ran out of the alley the other way.
Pockets knew that the boy was probably going to tail her, at least a bit of the way, to make sure she was headed in the general direction of Baker Street. So she took a few quick turns that would lead her up to Marylebone, and from there to Baker, just so he wouldn't be suspicious.
Then Pockets lost herself in the crowd and threw Wiggins off her trail. As soon as she was sure she couldn't be tracked, Pockets turned, squeezed between two buildings, hopped a fence, and snuck through a few alleys until she found herself where she wanted to be. Then, with the precision that only a girl who had grown up on the streets could have, Pockets took Marylebone to Upper Montagu to York to Gloucester to Bickenhall and, finally, to Baker Street. But she was now behind the row of houses that she knew contained 221b, and snuck through the bushes so she would have a good observation spot but wouldn't be seen. By the time she settled down to watch, she was about five feet to the left of the door and ten feet below, hidden in the bushes lining the house.
A few minutes later, Wiggins sprinted up, panting slightly. He glanced around, and even from the bushes twenty feet away, Pockets could feel the sharpness of his gaze, how keen his eyes were. She felt his suspicion, too, radiating from him when he couldn't spot her.
He waited for perhaps five minutes, glancing furtively around; then, finally, his shoulders slumped slightly and he walked up the steps of 221b without Pockets.
He knocked softly, and the door was quickly opened by Holmes. He evaluated the situation quickly, then said, with a touch of amusement, "Pockets, there is no need to hide in the bushes. Nobody here is going to hurt you."
Pockets recoiled with shock, but then stood up, with her cheeks burning. Wiggins looked at her and gave a slight chuckle; Pockets glared at him.
"Hey!" he protested quickly. "I wasn't laughing at you!" Pockets ignored him and climbed out of the bushes, then up the steps, to face Mr. Holmes. He smiled at her.
"I'm glad to finally be able to meet you in person, young lady," he smiled, holding out his hand for her to shake. Nervously, Pockets grasped his hand; he shook it firmly, twice. Pockets apprehensively took a step back.
"Pockets," he said welcomingly, and Pockets nodded, albeit nervously. Holmes noticed her swallow and smiled. "I trust Wiggins has told you about me?" he said.
Pockets nodded timidly. "Y—well, a little bit, sir."
Holmes nodded. "Well then. I suppose he's told you that I'm a detective. I solve cases that stump the London force, although they always take the credit. For several of my cases, it is useful to have a set of eyes and ears on the street. Not just any eyes and ears, mind you; children's. And even then it can be only the best of the best."
Holmes looked at her with a tinge of respect coloring his gaze. "I've watched you," he said. "I've seen how you can skulk in shadows, how you can listen and watch and evaluate, a precious skill to have."
Pockets didn't know what to say to that, so she remained silent. Holmes's smile just widened.
"Your pickpocketing skill is admirable, too," he said, and Pockets flushed. "It is a talent, and it does take considerable skill. Those same skills that enable you to slip a wristwatch off of a nobleman's hand."
Pockets decided then and there that she would steel herself and not let the detective know how much he was startling her. So she took a deep breath and fixed him with a gaze that managed to be neutral but confident at the same time. The detective's mouth twitched, but Wiggins looked at her and nodded slightly, impressed by the way she managed to control her face.
"You have my word for it—and Wiggins's too—that we are speaking the truth," Holmes promised. "If you'd care to come inside, I can further prove it to you."
Pockets glanced sidelong at Wiggins, who gave her an encouraging nod. Pockets fixed him with a piercing gaze that, quite plainly, said, You'd better not be lying, and jerked her head once in a single curt nod. Holmes smiled and held open the door for her.
Pockets was awed by the flat when she stepped inside. Holmes's house certainly was no mansion, but it was much nicer than any house she had been inside before. Perhaps another girl would have been self-conscious about her bare feet, tattered clothes, and grime-streaked face, but not Pockets. She was just impressed.
As Mr. Holmes turned towards her, though Pockets kept her hands at her sides, she balled them into slight fists. That was not lost on the detective, but it didn't change his reaction.
"Why are you suspicious?" he said swiftly.
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are, Pockets. Why?"
Pockets froze. "Because I don't know you but you know me, and you've just invited me into your house. What if you want to poison me?"
"Pockets, look into my eyes," Holmes said. "Am I lying to you?"
Pockets took a deep breath. And then she said, "No."
"Good," Holmes said. "Now: I have a task for the two of you."
Both of them looked up expectantly.
"There is a man who lives in the general area of Dorset Square named Mr. Frederick Samuels," he said. "He comes home from work every day at five o'clock. I want you two to work as a team to find him, track him, and come back and tell me more about him."
The two both nodded slightly; then Pockets said, "What information can you give us to start with?"
"He is a tall Caucasian gentleman with graying hair who stands about six feet tall," Holmes said. "He works in a factory making bowler hats. Do with that information what you will."
"Making bowler hats?" Pockets repeated. "Why… why do we care?"
Wiggins looked at her. "Everything is significant," he said. "There must be something we can do with that information."
"So… making hats changes him somehow, sets him apart? Affects something about him so we can recognize him?" Pockets was skeptical.
"What could be unique to hatmaking, though?" Wiggins mused quietly, playing with his fingers.
Holmes watched the pair carefully, raising an eyebrow. He was just about to step in when Pockets said:
"Is there something used to make hats? Some unique ingredient? Like—"
"Mercury," Wiggins breathed suddenly. "Mercury—of course; I should have thought! Hatmakers use mercury to help with the process! And exposure to mercury—"
"—makes people cough," Pockets finished for him. "I know."
"It makes them go insane, too," Wiggins pointed out. "Sometimes they walk weird."
"But that only happens if he's been exposed to mercury for a really long time," Pockets pointed out.
"True, but he does have 'graying hair', so that implies that he's older," Wiggins countered, but his eyes were gleaming.
"So we're looking for a gray-haired older man with a cough who lives near Dorset Square," Pockets said, "who may or may not be walking awkwardly, and may or may not be wearing a bowler hat."
"Summed up nicely," Wiggins told her with a grin, repeating a compliment Holmes had given him many a time. The girl's eyes shone.
"Thanks," Pockets said, biting her lip to hold back a smile.
"Before you go," Holmes said suddenly to the pair, and they turned back to him as he continued: "I want you to take something from him. Last week he stole a pocket-watch with a golden chain from one of my associates. He has been carrying it around. I want you to bring that watch back to me."
Pockets's eyes gleamed. "Oh, I can do that," she breathed, exhilarated.
"Good," Holmes smiled. "There will be a shilling in it for each of you if you succeed. Keep in mind," he added quickly, as their eyes lit up, "that's twice what you will normally get, unless it's for a very important case." They nodded.
"Now go!" Holmes urged them, and the two detectives sprinted out the door and into the street.
"We should split up," Pockets hissed, standing with Wiggins by the wall. "We'll meet on Melcombe, by the south side of the square. But we should go there separately."
Wiggins nodded. "Smart." Quickly the two reviewed their individual routes, and then they took off, girl one way, boy the other.
Pockets took off in a slight jog, dodging through pedestrians. She thought back with eagerness on the shilling she'd been promised, and picked up her pace. If this was what Mr. Holmes wanted her to do, and he would pay her for it, then by golly!—Pockets had no objections.
In her mind, Pockets was already planning how she—and Wiggins—would find Mr. Samuels. Holmes had said he lived "in the general area of Dorset Square". Well, that could be any one of several streets. Pockets pondered. While that was nowhere near the size of London, it was still a large area to search.
Pockets pondered, and the solution came to her surprisingly quickly. Soon enough, she was on Melcombe, and Wiggins was with her, and she whispered her plan. And he agreed.
"Sir!" Pockets repeated for about the tenth time, tugging on a man's coatsleeve. The man turned to her, exasperated. "What?"
"Sir, have you seen my grandfather?" Pockets asked, letting her eyes fill with tears. She pressed on: "His name is Frederick Samuels, and—"
"Frederick Samuels?" The man shook her off, his eyes darting around. "Nope, never heard of him. Now get lost!" He gave Pockets a shove and he stumbled back.
Wiggins walked up to her, from where he had observed the entire exchange. "I know where he lives."
"What?" Pockets stared at him. "How in the world did you figure out where Samuels lives from that man saying he's never met him?"
Wiggins smiled. "The ways his eyes shifted. He looked over near Balcombe Street. Besides, did you hear him cough? He was wearing a bowler hat, too. I'm pretty sure they work in the same factory. I bet they even walked together to the intersection of Melcombe and Balcombe, and then split up."
Pockets stared at him. "Well then," she breathed. "You might just be correct."
"Come on, let's hurry," Wiggins urged. "He might be moving slowly, but he'll be almost home by this time if he walked to Balcombe with that other guy. Come on!"
And the pair sprinted off into the crowd.
This time, Wiggins and Pockets stuck together, dodging and darting in perfect synchronization. Most of the crowd was heading in the opposite direction, and Pockets and Wiggins felt like they were fish swimming against the current; but eventually they made it to the corner of Balcombe and turned quickly down the streets. Balcombe was a lot quieter, and the two suddenly felt a lot more exposed. Nobody's eyes would be, by default, drawn to them, but if they were searched for or if they acted suspicious, they would be easily seen.
"We should stick to the sides now," Pockets hissed to her companion, and Wiggins nodded slightly. Slowly the two crept to the side of the street and walked carefully along the edge of the buildings.
Wiggins jerked his head forwards. "There are houses starting at the intersection of Taunton up there," he said quietly. "Let's pick up the pace, if we can."
Gradually moving faster, the pair crept along the street and broke into a run when they reached Taunton, where a larger group was milling. Wiggins met Pockets's eyes and gave her a determined nod. "Eyes peeled," he said, businesslike, and Pockets nodded, feeling her eyes sharpen.
"Gray-haired man with a cough, possible bowler hat, possibly awkward stride," Pockets heard Wiggins mutter under his breath. She focused her gaze, peering around, her eyes flitting from person to person, before, suddenly—
"There!"
Wiggins's hiss broke Pockets from her focus. She glanced at him and followed his sharply-pointed finger towards an older man. His balding head was mostly obscured by a bowler hat, and he was walking slightly erratically. Every few seconds he would pause and cough into a handkerchief. Even better, once, the pair saw him stop to check the time from a gleaming pocket-watch. Grinning, Wiggins and Pockets made eye contact and nodded. They had found their man.
"So we need to learn about him," Pockets hissed, "and take that watch."
Wiggins nodded. "Let's tail. But discreetly."
Both of the two had grown up on the streets, in one form or another, and both were well-practiced in the arts of being discreet and of sneaking. Silently, they slipped behind Mr. Samuels, and tracked him, quietly, down a block and a half, watching as he stopped to cough and check the time. He was walking slightly oddly, veering here and there slightly at different points in time. At one point he stopped to pet a stray dog.
"He's kind to animals," Pockets murmured; then she caught the sight of a dirty little street girl approaching the man. "Let's see if he's kind to kids."
The pair watched as the little girl, who couldn't have been more than five, tugged on Mr. Samuels's coat and held out a hand pitifully. The man looked at her, and sympathy overtook his features. He took out a handful of coins and dropped three into the girl's hands. The child's face lit up, she thanked him profusely, and she sprinted away. The man chucked and dropped the rest of his change back into his pocket.
"Empathetic," Wiggins muttered under his breath, so only Pockets could hear. Pockets gestured slightly for him to move as Mr. Samuels kept watching. The two hopped onto his trail, walking nearly silently.
Suddenly Mr. Samuels stopped at a house, small, but clearly intended for one family. The lights were all dark. He paused on the step to take out his key, about to enter, and Pockets's heart pounded. "We need to get the watch now," she hissed.
Wiggins nodded curtly, and beckoned her over. He crouched down and pressed his back against the side of the outdoor staircase that led to Mr. Samuels's door. "He'll reach for his key in a moment," he whispered urgently. "Can you get the watch then? You'll only have a second."
"I'll only need a second," Pockets breathed, and crept up the steps behind the man, nearly insubstantial; she'd had a lot of practice sneaking around unnoticed. Just as he reached for his key, Pockets's hand darted into his left coatpocket and emerged an instant later, clasping a golden pocket-watch on a chain. She slunk down the steps again and huddled next to Wiggins.
"Put this in your pocket," she hissed, handing over the watch, a mark of how much she trusted him now. Wiggins silently took it and stowed it away; then he straightened and peered over the edge of the steps, watching as Mr. Samuels unlocked the door, put his key away, and entered, closing the door firmly behind him.
"He's a widower," Wiggins said instantly, and Pockets turned to him in disbelief.
"How the hell can you know that?"
"There weren't any lights on when he got home," Wiggins said, pleased, "meaning he lives alone. But he was wearing a wedding band. I think it's likely that his wife died in the recent cholera epidemic."
Pockets found herself nodding, agreeing with everything Wiggins had to say. "But he has a granddaughter," she mused quietly, "right?"
Now it was Wiggins's turn to be confused. "What would make you think that?"
"That guy we talked to—remember? Who we asked about Mr. Samuels? We think they worked together; he knew who Samuels was but wouldn't tell us? Well, when I said I was his granddaughter—"
"—he seemed to believe you," Wiggins finished eagerly, and Pockets huffed in annoyance. "That's genius." And now Pockets beamed with pride.
"He's a widower and he has a granddaughter," Pockets summarized. "He lives on Balcombe, and he has a friend who lives on Melcombe." She exhaled. "Not bad."
"Holmes probably has access to more resources than we do," Wiggins added, "so he can look up more about Mr. Samuels in the city's records, especially who his granddaughter is." Wiggins breathed and touched a hand to the pocket-watch nestled in his pants pocket. "And we have the watch back. Nicely done."
Now Pockets couldn't suppress her grin, and she let herself beam. "All right," she finally said. "Let's get back to Baker Street."
That night, Wiggins's father was drunk again, so the boy decided to stay out of his house and sleep on the streets. He and Pockets ended up hunkering down together in a small back alleyway that Pockets used sometimes. At about ten-thirty, they were drifting off to sleep, leaning against the walls, a shiny shilling nestled in Wiggins's pocket and Pockets's dress lining.
Across the city, Mr. Samuels was sitting at the kitchen table of 221bBaker Street, laughing jovially with the detective. Smiling, Holmes slid the golden pocket-watch back across the table towards the other man. "Thank you for being so agreeable to the terms of the exercise," he laughed, as Mr. Samuels stowed the watch back in his jacket.
"Oh, it was no problem," Mr. Samuels answered, his cough now mysteriously gone. "Sharp children, they are. I admit I didn't even notice when the girl took the watch."
"Oh, she's slick, all right," Holmes agreed. "Both of them were very proud of the fact that they discovered you are a widower."
Mr. Samuels chuckled. "For the life of me, I don't know how they figured that out."
Holmes grinned too. "Oh, don't fret, Mr. Samuels. After all, detective work is their trade; and I must admit, they are extraordinarily talented. Extraordinarily talented indeed."