Chapter 17

The day passed slowly, despite another flurry of patients. I counted the hours until Wiggins would escort me to The Four Swans to consult with Sherlock about the two cases - the dead swans and the dead Privy Council member.

Despite Uncle’s protest, I sat near the front door to wait with cape, scarf and bonnet on. As the grandfather clock struck six, I jumped. Just moments later, Wiggins knocked on the door and I raced to open it.

“There’s a hansom waiting t’ take us on t’ th’ Four Swans, Miss,” he said.

“Let us go then, Archie. I mean, Wiggins,” I said, grabbing my gloves and hooking my arm through his.

It seemed to take forever to get to the East End and all the longer because each time I tried to query Wiggins about his grave robbing enterprise, he either refused to answer or simply looked away. The Four Swans was in sight when Wiggins signaled the cabbie to stop. As we exited the hansom, I felt the squalor. All around me - the stench of sewers and drains, the foul odour of sweaty people molded to one another in the cheap lodgings, the pall of hopelessness washed down by pale ale. There was no hint that anyone in this desolate area would reap the harvest of their labors or aspirations. They had stopped dreaming long ago.

Before I took two steps, Sherlock emerged from the shadows. “Follow me,” he said gruffly. So began a sojourn down Commercial Street between Flower and Dean and Aldgate, near Whitechapel. “What are we doing, Sherlock? Where are we going?”

“Quiet, Poppy,” he said, gently taking me by the elbow to prod me along. “We will return to the Four Swans soon to have a meal and I will give you an account of our case.”

“Which case? The mutilated swans or the dismembered corpse?”

“Both. But first, do come along and observe.”

“But where are we going, Sherlock?”

“Just follow me.”

We finally stopped in an alley near Court Street directly across from London Hospital. Sherlock pointed to a woman standing beneath a gas lamp near a doorway several yards away. She was small in stature, with long brown hair and wore a crimson dress and a black bonnet trimmed with a wine-colored ribbon.

Many other women paraded along Commercial, most dressed neatly, hawking trinkets and menthol cones or in search of clients. I knew their lives likely alternated from lodging houses to workhouses to the pavement.

“Sherlock,” I whispered, but he put finger to lips and said, “Quiet. Observe.”

The woman looked back and forth as if she were waiting for someone.

“Sherlock, you must tell me at once what we are doing here or-”

“Ssshh,” he cautioned.

A few moments later, a man came from Thomas Street to her left. She turned and raised her skirts above her ankles. He spoke to her, then cupped her face with his hands. They turned to cross Court Street and he paused to fondle her beneath another gas lamp. It was then that I was able to focus on his face.

I realized it was Jonathan Younger.