Chapter 13

Sherlock’s message was cryptic, as usual. “Currently out of the Metropolis. Expect to have much information beyond the obvious facts when I return. Should be back tomorrow evening. Meet me at Four Swans Inn, Bishopsgate at seven.”

“Bishopsgate,” I said to myself.

Bishopsgate was named after one of the original eight gates, in the London Wall. It was one of the main entrances to the city built by the Romans to defend their strategically important port town on the River Thames, Londinium. Many old coaching inns that accommodated passengers setting out on the Old North Road were there... the Old Bull Inn, the Flower Pot, the White Hart. It was thought that some of these inns were built on cellars constructed by the Romans. Until the railway lines out of Liverpool Street had opened a few years before, the inns were always busy with passengers and goods transported by wagon. Even now, many men leaving their offices for home would stop at one of these taverns after work. Despite the decrease in coaching passengers, they did a good bar trade.

Swans dominated the motif on Bishopsgate and Gracechurch Streets. At the south end of Gracechurch was the Four Swans. To the north, was the One Swan, and not far from there was Two Swans Inn. I’d been to the Four Swans only once with Uncle Ormond when London Hospital was short-staffed and desperate enough to allow even a woman doctor to lend a hand. I remembered the rump steak and kidney pudding and the balcony above the courtyard with its beautiful depiction of four stately swans. I thought of the mutilated swans and Kate Dew’s “artistic name.”Had Sherlock discovered a link between her and the swan investigation as well?

I tended to several more patients, all the while thinking about Kate and what Sherlock was up to. I gave thought to contacting Mycroft to tell him of Sherlock’s whereabouts but I didn’t really know them. I knew only that, for whatever reason, he wasn’t in London. I was about to close up my office when Rattle returned, out of breath, panting, as always.

“Miss, I’m back.”

“I see that Rattle. What did you find out?”

“The lady... she went to a place on James Street. Stayed on an ‘our. Jus’ ’bout. Then t’ New Street. Buller’s ’ouse.”

“Is it a workhouse?”

He shook his head. “More a dosshouse, Miss. ‘Cross from th’ Bishopsgate police station.”

“Cheap lodging then.”

He nodded. “Wiggins knows th’owner. Will’m Buller and ’is wife Eliza. Moved from St. Giles.”

He went on to say that the house was not far from some warehouses owned by St. Katherine’s Dock Company and the East India Depot, and a fire station. It was close to the Liverpool Railway Station... and not far from Spitalfields. I was sure Wiggins knew the area well. Despite the traffic to the taverns, the East End was not the most hospitable portion of London. If I met Sherlock there, I might just take young Wiggins with me.