The Adventures of Mary Darling, page 6
“He went to work in Nana’s kennel,” Liza broke in. “The cabbie and another fellow carried it from the house with him inside. They loaded it in the hansom cab and off he went.”
Mrs. Hudson shook her head in disapproval over Mr. Darling’s eccentric behavior. She told Liza that she wanted to fix a breakfast for Mary and followed the girl to the kitchen, carrying the basket of provisions.
Watson found Mary alone in the nursery. After greeting her, he took her pulse and temperature. Her pulse was strong; she had no sign of a fever. Releasing her hand, Watson considered how to raise the subject of her visit to Samuel Smalls.
He began awkwardly. “Holmes has a young helper keeping an eye on the house, watching for any suspicious or unusual activity. The boy told us where you went on your walk yesterday. How is it you know Sam Smalls?”
Mary met his gaze. “I told you I went to tell friends about the children’s disappearance. Sam is an old family friend. Tom and I met him when we were children.”
“I gather he worked with your father at the store. Why did I know nothing of him? Why did you never mention him?” Watson asked her.
“I have many friends that you don’t know, Uncle John. It didn’t seem important.”
“Your old friend is a pirate who associates with the swell mob. He makes gloves from rat skins.”
“He is my friend, Uncle. He wants to help.”
Watson frowned and wished his wife was with him still. She would know how to talk with Mary about this. His wife had been a wonderful influence on the girl, counseling him not to push her too hard, to let her find her own way. He wondered what his wife would have made of Mary’s friendship with Sam. “The man is like a brother to her,” he could imagine his wife saying. “With Tom away, it is good that she has such a friend.”
“If you must see him, I will accompany you,” he said at last. “It isn’t right for you to go there alone.”
Just then, Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tray. She had prepared a substantial breakfast—poached eggs and grilled bacon, toast with butter and marmalade, and a large pot of coffee.
Watson sat on the window seat, drinking coffee and watching as Mrs. Hudson pressed Mary to eat. It was clear that Mrs. Hudson was settling in for a cozy chat about domestic topics, such as the best foods to serve while George was dining in the kennel and the difficulties in arranging bedclothes in such a limited space.
Watson took comfort in listening to them chatter about household concerns. Even at the worst of times, he thought, the women focused on taking care of the house, fretting about what they would serve for supper and whether the beds were made. Mary had been a wild child, but she had grown up and grown into her role as a woman.
Watson felt he had made his point about Mary’s association with Sam. No need to browbeat the girl. He could leave Mary in Mrs. Hudson’s capable hands.
He mentioned that he had a few other errands to do. Before he knew it, Mrs. Hudson was seeing him to the door and telling him that she would meet him back at Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind Watson with a sigh of relief.
She knew that Dr. Watson loved his niece, but she also knew that he had never really understood her. Mrs. Hudson did not know all the particulars of Mary’s early life, but she knew a good deal more than Watson.
Mrs. Hudson had spent many afternoons with Mary. In the warmth of the kitchen at Baker Street, they had worked together to make new clothes for Mary to wear to boarding school. They had chatted as they sewed a dress, two skirts, and two blouses.
Mrs. Hudson had told Mary about growing up in Scotland, about how she had run away from her childhood home after her mother’s death, about her experiences when she first came to London. Though the very picture of respectability now, Mrs. Hudson had been wild in her youth.
When Mrs. Hudson had examined Mary’s stitches, she noticed that Mary’s needlework was good, but unusual. “Did your mother teach you that stitch?” Mrs. Hudson had asked about the hem of a skirt.
The girl shook her head. “My mother was not much for sewing.”
“That looks like a sailmaker’s stitch.” Mrs. Hudson’s late husband had worked in the shipyard, and she knew a bit about sailmaking.
“I learned it from a sailmaker when I was a girl,” Mary had said. “I was helping out aboard ship.”
Mrs. Hudson was startled. “When was that?”
Mary had looked up from her work. “It’s not important,” she had said quickly, then added, “It was a long time ago. Best that you don’t tell my uncle. He knows little about my life in Australia. He’d probably think using a sailmaker’s stitch is unladylike and I should learn to sew in a more proper fashion.”
Mrs. Hudson had considered the girl, recalling her own wild youth and all the things that she was glad her relatives did not know. “Sometimes it’s best to leave the past in the past,” Mrs. Hudson had said in an understanding tone. “No need to worry your uncle with days gone by.”
Not long after Watson left, the bell rang, announcing a visitor. It was Annie Maunder. Mary introduced Annie to Mrs. Hudson as a friend from the Somerville Club. Clearly Annie had come to offer Mary sympathy and comfort.
To give the younger women a chance to visit, Mrs. Hudson took charge of hostess duties. She assigned Liza tasks—taking away the breakfast tray, lighting the fire in the dining room, and bringing a fresh pot of tea and plate of scones to that room. When Mrs. Hudson returned to invite the women into the comfort of the dining room, the two of them were examining a nautical chart that Annie had unrolled on the nursery table.
Before Mrs. Hudson could ask what they were discussing so earnestly, the bell rang again. Mrs. Hudson went to the door and welcomed Miss Sanderson, who joined Mary and Annie in the dining room.
Mrs. Hudson listened as Miss Sanderson offered Mary what seemed to be excellent counsel.
“You are a strong woman,” Miss Sanderson said. “Stronger than you know. Draw on that strength. And remember that you have friends who will help you in any way that we can.”
“The help that you and Annie bring means more to me than I can say,” Mary said. “And my dear Mrs. Hudson is keeping us very well-fed. I don’t know what I’d do without all of you.”
Miss Sanderson—quite a lovely lady, Mrs. Hudson thought—brought Mrs. Hudson into the conversation. She praised the older woman’s scones, entreating her to write down the recipe for her. Mrs. Hudson was flattered and pleased to oblige. She was reassured that Mary had the support of friends, as well as family.
After Annie and Miss Sanderson left, Mrs. Hudson asked Mary about the chart that she and Annie had been studying. “What sort of chart was that?”
Mary regarded her with a level gaze. “I love you with all my heart, Mrs. Hudson, but it is best you don’t know too much.”
Mrs. Hudson studied Mary’s face. Like Watson, Mrs. Hudson knew that Mary could be stubborn. Unlike Watson, Mrs. Hudson felt that this stubbornness was an asset, rather than a liability. A woman needed strength of mind to make her way in the world. Even as a girl, Mary had been smart and capable. She knew what she wanted to do, she weighed the risks, and she did it.
Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I only need to know one thing, my dear.”
“What is that?” Mary asked.
“How can I help?”
From outside the house, Bing kept watch. He had noted the arrival of Watson and Mrs. Hudson, then Watson’s departure. He saw Annie Maunder arrive, carrying a long leather tube—a chart case, though Bing did not know that, having had no past experience with nautical charts. Bing noticed the tube only as something unusual, and he noted that she did not have it when she left.
When Miss Sanderson arrived, she carried an umbrella—not an unreasonable precaution, given the gray skies. Bing did not take note of the umbrella, and therefore did not notice that when Miss Sanderson left, she did not have an umbrella.
That evening, George Darling returned from work, still in the kennel. The street in front of the house was still crowded. When George’s cab pulled up, the crowd cheered. Four strong men happily carried the kennel (with George inside) from the cab into the house.
Mary asked if George would come out of the kennel to dine, but he refused. As Mrs. Hudson had suggested, Mary served him fish and chips in the kennel.
After he handed out his dinner plate, he told her about his day at work. “Everyone had read about the children in the newspapers,” he said. “All of London will be looking for them.”
“They won’t find the children in London,” Mary said. “You know that as well as I do, George.”
George did not seem to hear her. He was turning in the kennel, trying to get comfortable.
“Please listen to me, George. Come out of the kennel.”
He shook his head. He did not look at her. His expression was that of a miserable, yet stubborn child. “I promised to stay here until the children return.”
He tugged at the quilt that was beneath him. She had folded it up and used it to pad the kennel. “I feel a draft,” he said. “Could you close that window?”
“I’ll get you another quilt,” Mary said. She did not close the window. She got a pillow and a quilt, then helped him fashion a bed of sorts in the kennel. Nana watched all this with disapproval.
Finally, George curled up with his head on the pillow. “I will stay in this kennel until the children are home. I think that’s the very best thing for me to do,” he murmured. He reached through the open door of the kennel and took her hand in his. “The children will be all right,” he said. “I know they will.”
Mary sat by the kennel, holding his hand until he fell asleep.
Chapter 8: Do You Mind the Sight of Blood?
When he left number 14, Watson headed for Sam Smalls’ tailor shop. He turned up his collar against the cold wind that blew from the Thames. The air from the river carried the stink of sewage and rot.
“Step here, guv’ner,” called the crossing sweeper, a thin, raggedly dressed boy no older than Mary’s son John. The boy stood on the street corner, holding a broom that was little more than a bundle of twigs. Whenever a well-dressed person approached, this boy would leap out into the street and wield his broom with energy remarkable in a child so thin and pale. He swept away trash and horse droppings, clearing a path where people could walk without soiling their shoes.
Sometimes, people tossed him a coin, and sometimes they did not even glance in his direction. Crossing sweepers, many of them children, were ubiquitous in London. This self-appointed occupation, considered by many a pretense for begging, was the last resort of those who had no other way to earn their keep.
Watson thanked the boy and gave him a penny.
London was not kind to poor children. Wherever Watson went in the city, he saw thin children in ragged clothes, huddling in doorways, selling matches, sweeping crossings, or simply begging. The sight of these children reminded Watson of his missing niece and nephews. Were they being held captive in a tenement, the boys being trained as pickpockets and Wendy groomed for the brothel? Were they hungry, cold, and frightened? He could not bear the thought—but he had to bear it. He had to be strong and confident for Mary’s sake. He couldn’t curl up and hide, like George. He had to trust that Holmes would find the children.
Sam’s tailor shop was shuttered, but the stores on either side of the shop were open for business. The tobacco seller next door was doing a busy trade—through the open door, Watson could see men smoking cigars. On the other side, a watchmaker was just setting out a display in his window—ostentatiously large watches, likely to appeal to the young swells who were treating the tobacco shop as their private club.
Before Watson could knock on the door to the tailor shop, the watchmaker, a jovial-looking man, stepped from his store. “No sense knocking,” he told Watson. “Sam doesn’t open his doors until late in the afternoon. You can find him in the back. Just go along here.” He gestured to a narrow passage between his store and the tailor shop. “I hope you don’t mind the sight of blood.”
In a small courtyard at the back of the shop, three young men—all South Sea Islanders by the look of them—stood at a tall wooden worktable. Even in the winter chill, the air reeked of blood. The men were skinning rats.
Watson stood in the shelter of the passageway for a moment. The man nearest him held the largest dead rat Watson ever cared to see. The rat skinner was making quick work of the beast. He chopped off the rat’s paws and tail, then cut through the skin around its neck. Beginning near the head, he pulled the skin loose, working his fingers inside the slit at the neck.
His hands were quick—he had obviously done this many times before. As Watson watched, the rat skinner turned the skin inside out over the body of the rat, just as a man in a hurry might remove a glove. He yanked the skin free and tossed the naked carcass onto a heap of rats in a nearby barrel. Then he turned the skin right side out and laid the pelt on the table to his right.
The carcass of the skinless rat stared at Watson from the pile in the barrel. Watson stared back. The rodent’s teeth were bared in a ferocious grin.
The young man turned to pick up another rat from the pile on his left and saw Watson. “Hullo, Sam,” he called. “A gent is here.”
Sam Smalls emerged from the back of the tailor shop, carrying a bushel basket filled with dead rats still in their skins. “Watson! This is no place for you.” Sam set the basket of rats down by the end of the worktable. “Come inside.”
Sam led Watson into the tailor shop through the back, closing the door behind him. Watson looked a little ill, Sam thought. Perhaps the good doctor was overwhelmed by the sight and smell of the skinning yard. Sam kept that part of his operation out of public view after seeing a member of the swell mob, a man noted for his brutal ways, turn green at the sight of a pile of rat carcasses.
Sam found it puzzling that strong, brave Englishmen could be overwhelmed by a rat skinning operation. Perhaps it was related to their ability to avoid thinking about unpleasant things. When a man pulls on a pair of light soft leather gloves, he does not think about the animal that died to provide the leather. When a lady adds sugar to her tea or admires the cotton fabric at a dressmaker’s shop, she does not think of the plantations where the sugar or cotton was grown. She remains blissfully unaware of the suffering of people forced to work on plantations in the West Indies, the Americas, and Australia. All that was far away and out of sight. But in the skinning yard, you could not avoid the sight of blood.
Sam washed his hands in a basin, then opened the shop’s shutters, waking Captain Flint. The parrot shrieked, “Ahoy, matey!” and laughed maniacally.
“Sit down, my friend. I’ll make a pot of tea.” Sam added coal to the fire and set the kettle to heat, then joined Watson at the table. “Do you have any news? Does Mr. Holmes have any leads?”
Watson shook his head sadly. “Holmes keeps his thoughts to himself while working on a case.”
Sam nodded. “I’ve read of that in your stories. It must make him a trying companion, particularly when the case involves those who are dear to you.”
“It does,” Watson admitted. “But his detachment is part of what makes him a genius. His judgment is not biased by emotional attachments. He sees each person as another element in an equation. He succeeds where others fail because he can see past superficial appearances to the heart of the matter.”
Sam did not agree with Watson’s assessment. In Sam’s opinion, Holmes never saw to the heart of anything. Holmes lived in a mechanical universe where a gear turns and moves another gear. Sam didn’t believe the workings of the world could be reduced to a set of gears and equations. But he kept these thoughts to himself. Right now, Sam thought, Watson needed to believe in Holmes.
The kettle came to a boil, and Sam busied himself with making tea. He poured two cups and set one in front of Watson.
“I don’t think you came here to discuss Holmes’ methods,” Sam said. “I think you came here because it is very difficult to wait at home for news.”
“Every beggar boy I see on the street makes me think of John and Michael,” Watson said. “Every flower girl reminds me of Wendy. I had hoped you might have news to share.”
“I am sorry to say I have heard nothing. I will send word the moment I do.”
Watson stared down at his tea. “Holmes did share his thoughts about you,” he said slowly. “He says you’re a pirate.” Watson raised his eyes to meet Sam’s.
“To the Spanish, Sir Francis Drake was a pirate,” Sam said. “But Queen Elizabeth awarded him a knighthood. It all depends on one’s point of view. By some standards, I was a pirate. In any case, I am a tailor now.”
“You fence stolen goods for pirates.”
“Sometimes, old friends provide me with goods that they would like to sell,” Sam said. “I don’t ask where those goods came from. I have found it doesn’t pay to be overly inquisitive.”
“Holmes says you come from the Solomon Islands. But you puzzle him.”
“I take it as an accomplishment to have puzzled Sherlock Holmes.”
“You puzzle me, too.” Watson spoke in a rush. “You make your living skinning the worst sort of vermin and making gloves for criminals. You are a pirate, a fence, and a tailor for the swell mob. But you sound like a gentleman, you knew my brother, and you are an old friend of my niece. How am I to make sense of all this?”
“Sometimes, it’s difficult to make sense of the world,” Sam said softly.
He studied Watson. What could he tell this well-meaning man? Like his brother, Watson was a kind-hearted man with a narrow view of the world. Watson believed the British Empire was doing the rest of the world a favor by sharing their civilization and its benefits. Watson took it for granted that the original inhabitants of the lands that Britain had annexed were savages. No doubt he thought that Sam was fortunate to have left his island home behind, lucky to have become “civilized.”
