Ben paced. He’d done nothing for hours. He had no money to bribe or bail out Badger, and he knew of no one he could ask for the money. Certainly not Tommy the Shark. He loaned money, all right, but he’d exact due payment whether it was coin or your arm.
It had taken some time for him to settle his mind, and finally, with much trepidation, he had sent word to Mister Holmes. He hadn’t known if it had been too audacious a thing, what the man would do, what he could do under the circumstances … or if Badger even really knew him at all. But he had to take the chance.
Was it all for nothing? Was Badger finally snared for good?
Ben was just getting up the courage to go to the police station himself when he heard someone stomping up the stairs. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he murmured. What if those were coppers coming after him?
He scrambled to the window and had the sash halfway up before Badger strode into the room.
‘Tim!’ he cried. He ran for him and wrapped his arms around the man. ‘How did you ever get out?’
‘Easy, my lad. Nothing to it, like I told you.’
‘But the coppers …’
‘Oh, they put the finger on me, no mistaking. But Mister Holmes got to me this morning and out I came, quick as a wink. No charges at all.’
‘Thank God! I was hoping he’d do something, but I never dreamed of that.’
‘You contacted him? Why, of course you did!’ Badger slapped his back with a wide grin.
Ben noticed some bruises on his friend’s face but decided not to mention them. He’d heard what the nick was like, even though he’d never been in himself.
But now that Badger was safe, Ben’s mood darkened. ‘Didn’t I tell you that was an empty-headed idea? Didn’t I warn you—’
‘Oi, Ben. I’m here and safe and I’ve got a lot to report. But first, the good news, me lad! Come along. Is there anything in this godforsaken hovel that you need?’
Ben looked around at the tatty chairs, the broken tables, the sooty mantel. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve got new digs, my friend. Pack your things, all them smelly alchemy bottles and beakers and your chimney-sweeping tools. Pack your other coat and shirts, even if they’re drying on the line.’
‘What do you mean? Tim, what have you gone and done?’
‘Not me, my friend. Our benefactor!’
Ben couldn’t believe it as he packed his goods into a crate and loaded it onto his cart, while Badger explained what had happened. Mister Holmes, their benefactor? For all this time, he scarce believed that Tim even knew Mister Holmes, that maybe his friend was a little too fond of telling tales. But this seemed to prove it, once and for all.
Especially when he followed Badger to Dean Street on the outer edge of Soho. Terraced houses of brick and stone, not tenements neither. The brick wasn’t dark with soot, but seemed to be cleaned regularly, and the window frames gleamed white, without chipped paint. An enticing pavement, clean and smooth, ran along the avenue. Perhaps not as high-class as Belgravia, but it would do for the likes of them. Plenty of merchants and clerks lived along streets like this. No men with sandwich boards, no doxies or crawlers in doorways. It was a proper street.
Ben looked up and down the lane. Dean Street and Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘This can’t be right,’ he kept muttering. He elbowed Badger as they both stood before 49 Dean Street. St Anne’s Church stood across the lane and a pub – the Lion – graced the corner. But the thing that nearly knocked Watson over was the painted sign next to their door. It read – in gold letters – ‘Badger and Watson, Private Detectives. Enquire at Number 49b.’
‘Gor …’ he breathed.
‘Blimey,’ whispered Badger beside him. ‘Will you look at that! This … this had to be planned for some time.’
‘I think I’m dreaming,’ murmured Watson. ‘Or I’m dead.’
‘You ain’t dead yet, me lad. This is it. This is where we truly begin our lives, Ben.’
Ben began his tabulations in his head. How much would they need for proper furniture? They’d have to get themselves back to St Andrew Street to a broker’s shop to get some second-hand frock coats and hats, and to a cellar shop for new boots. They couldn’t go around in the coats and caps they presently wore. Oh, they’d be good for disguises, but not for meeting clients or hailing cabbies – if that was on the table. Maybe Wardour Street had some decent chairs for clients. But it all took coin. Coin they didn’t have.
‘Well,’ said Badger, ‘we might as well go inside. Our names are on the shingle.’ His smile was back, and he punched Watson’s arm.
Badger ran up the two steps and stood before the door … and then didn’t seem to know what to do from there.
‘You don’t have a key?’ said Ben, climbing respectfully up the steps one at a time.
‘Er … no. So … maybe we just … ring the bell?’ He grasped the handle and turned it. The bell rang harshly on the mostly quiet street.
‘Who’s gonna open the door?’ asked Ben, when they both heard footsteps and the door was flung open suddenly by a stern-looking woman. Her dark reddish hair, salted with gray, was piled up like a bulging crown atop her head. Her nose was small but sharp, and her mouth was equally small but well-shaped and not striated by wrinkles. Her slender frame wore a dove-gray dress, buttoned from the belt at her waist up to her neck, with a white lace collar, and he noticed she did not wear a starched apron, so she wasn’t likely a housekeeper. The landlady?
‘Do I take it I am making the acquaintance of Mister Badger and Mister Watson?’
Ben was taken aback by the Irish accent. Usually Irish women were housemaids, but this woman was definitely no maid to be bossed about.
With his usual aplomb, Ben snatched the hat from his head and bowed. ‘You do indeed, my good woman. I am Ben … er … Benjamin Watson, and this my associate, Timothy Badger.’
‘Very good, then. I’m Mrs Kelly, your landlady. Mister Holmes was quite specific that I was to help you with meals and the maid with the cleaning.’
‘M-maid?’ squeaked Badger.
‘Murphy. She’ll be flittering about and you are not to molest her.’ She emphasized this with the shaking of her finger in their faces. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they said in unison.
‘Well then. Your baggage …’ She looked down the steps and wrinkled her nose at the cart and crates. ‘I see. I’ll have Murphy take the boxes around the back …’
‘Oh, I’ll take the crate,’ said Ben. ‘It has my chemistry things.’
‘Oh yes. Mister Holmes warned me that this might be so. Well then, come in, gentlemen.’
Ben exchanged an anxious glance with Badger before they both stepped over the threshold and up the stairs, along clean and well-kempt carpets to a shiny black painted door with a transom window marked with the letter ‘b’.
The more they saw, the more Ben’s breathing quickened. He grabbed Badger by the arm and silently asked. Badger looked back with an equally flustered expression and shrugged.
Mrs Kelly unlocked the door and then offered two latchkeys to them, one for each. Sheepishly, they took them. Opening the door and standing at the jamb, she gestured them through.
It wasn’t lavish, but it was clean and the furniture in the sitting room wasn’t torn or too old-looking. There was coal in the grate and dark green drapes on the one window. They walked in and stood on the worn oriental rug, both seemingly afraid to touch anything on the few tables.
Bookshelves were situated on either side of the modest fireplace, and they appeared to be filled with scientific books, journals, books of philosophy and annals of crime.
Ben forgot all about his crate downstairs as he walked like an automaton to the bookshelves, running his trembling fingers over all the spines.
‘That way is your room, Mister Watson. It’s the larger one, as Mister Holmes talked of your alchemical experiments, so there is a table within for such and a cabinet for your what-nots. Mister Badger, over there is your room. The bathroom is down the corridor. There is a bell on the mantel that will bring either myself or Murphy.’
She turned to exit when Badger called her back. ‘Mrs Kelly … I … we … Surely Mister Holmes explained that we … we can’t afford your services, or that of a maid.’
She gave an efficient smile. ‘Mister Holmes made allowances for that. You mustn’t worry, Mister Badger, Mister Watson. It is all taken care of.’
‘And … the furnishings …’
‘All taken care of. If that’s all? Or will you be wanting tea?’
Badger stared back at Ben, and it was Ben who was forced to shake his head. She turned away but just as quickly spun on her heel. ‘I almost forgot. Will you gentlemen please look in that box? The one there on the little table.’
Ben exchanged a wary glance with Badger before he reached for a carved box on a side table. It seemed a bit worn, well-loved perhaps. Not new, surely. Ben lifted the lid and quickly slammed it down again. ‘Er …’
‘Did you find it satisfactory?’ she asked.
He darted his gaze about the room before leaning toward Mrs Kelly and whispering, ‘There’s something wrong.’
She frowned and trod purposefully toward him. ‘Something wrong?’
He pointed to the box. ‘There’s … there’s coin in here.’
Relief flooded her face. ‘As there should be, Mister Watson.’
‘But there must be some mistake. This isn’t ours.’
‘Mister Holmes left strict instructions. He allowed you a few coins to get started with.’
Ben stared down at the suddenly terrifying box. Badger slowly approached and studied it from side to side. ‘But … why?’ asked Badger.
‘Well, as Mister Holmes explained it, there is a need for some small amount of money for two young gentlemen. For cabbies, for … well, bribes, so he says, and … if I may say so, more suitable attire.’ She looked the both of them up and down with tart disapproval.
Ben wiped his hand down his tatty coat. ‘Oh. I see.’
‘Will there be anything else, gentlemen?’
‘No, Mrs Kelly,’ he said, voice squeezed. ‘That’s … that’s more than I can take in at the moment.’
She strode out of the sitting room and closed the door behind her.
They stood in silence for what seemed like hours. Until Badger stumbled to the mantel and ran his hands over the painted wood. ‘Gor blimey,’ he muttered.
Ben breathed deep and opened the box to stare at the coins again. It wasn’t a king’s ransom, but it was more than they had ever had in one go. ‘Why do I feel like I’m housebreaking?’ he said.
Badger couldn’t stop touching the things on the mantel, even though they were certainly second-hand. ‘Because we never called so nice a place “home” before.’
Ben wore a stricken look. ‘Tim … how will we ever pay Mister Holmes back?’
‘Ben, I think the best we can do is not think too hard about it right now. We’ve got a job to do, a client to serve. Now, sit over there and I’ll tell you what I found last night.’