Once at the local police station on St Andrews Street, we were questioned at length. I was released, but Holmes was taken to a cell, alone. As we parted, he called out to me, ‘Find Polly, Watson! I shall be out shortly.’
Pickering laughed. ‘We will see about that.’
I stood in front of the police station, at a loss. It was midday, and the sun was high in the sky, the heat shimmering through the air causing the edges of the building to waver in front of the eyes. Or perhaps it wasn’t the heat …
I mopped my forehead with my handkerchief. I felt faint. I had eaten nothing since dinner yesterday. I didn’t know how Holmes managed to go without food. It was as though a fever of energy overtook him while on a case.
But what to do? My friend was more confident of his release from gaol than I was. At a nearby post office, I wired Mycroft Holmes, informing him in the briefest terms of his brother’s circumstance. What happened next, while deeply disturbing, nevertheless proved to be providential in this case, in which so much went so terribly wrong.
I decided to return to Dillie’s hiding place in the diminishing hope that at least Polly might have returned there in our absence.
I walked down St Andrews Street and came upon a forlorn two-storey brick building with bars along the upper windows. As I passed, I heard a female scream emanate from a window above me. ‘Noooo!’ came the anguished cry, followed by a shriek of pain.
I hesitated. The cry came again and turned into a wail. Someone was suffering agony in that building. Without a pause, I raced through the front door. It was some sort of public place, and a sharp-faced man sat at a reception desk and looked up at me with a face compressed into a permanent scowl. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘I – I heard a cry!’ I said. ‘A woman. It sounded like she was in pain.’
‘Sir, you have no business here.’
‘I am a doctor. If someone is in such pain, perhaps I can be of help.’
‘Be gone! It is not your affair.’
‘What is this place?’
‘It is the Spinning House.’
The Spinning House! This was the place Holmes had mentioned where women were held without trial by the special University police – outside the regular law.
‘But what is happening upstairs?’
Abruptly the wiry gatekeeper stood, picked up a walking stick and came round from his desk. He held the stick in a way that said he might make creative use of it. ‘Now, be gone!’ he growled.
‘As a member of the public, I demand to know what is going on here,’ said I, placing my own stick in front of me. I would not be intimidated by this toad.
‘Don’t you know what this place is?’
‘Yes! I have heard that you people arrest women who seem to be consorting with students and hold them here without trial.’
‘Trial!’ he spat.
‘Do you torture them as well? I will call the real police if you do not explain to me what I just heard.’
‘The University has sovereignty here, in case you were not aware.’
The shriek came again, followed by a sob.
‘Dear God, man, have you no empathy? What is happening to that poor woman?’
‘Nothing untoward, you nosy know-nothing. We are protecting the students of the University – from illness, madness, and death! Many whores prowl the town and prey on these innocent young men.’
‘Innocent young men? I’m told that girls are taken in for merely speaking to a student after curfew.’
‘Well, then,’ he sneered, ‘what are the little trollops doing out at those hours?’
I suddenly realized the extent of the danger to Polly when she ran off from Baker Street last night. My chest went tight. ‘How are they released? Is there a bail system?’
‘Not officially. Why?’
‘Well, surely their parents come for them. Or their husbands, brothers, employers? You can’t tell me that none of them are released?’
‘Well, eventually, of course. Under certain circumstances they are released early.’
‘What circumstances?
‘There is a—’ he lowered his voice to a whisper ‘—a private bail system. It is not cheap.’
‘I have means.’
The man paused, then lowered his stick. He moved back behind his desk and sat down, staring up at me thoughtfully.
‘Whom have you come to release? Or did you want to meet a few? Take your pick.’ He smiled. My stomach turned. ‘Want to set one free, then?’ He continued. ‘We do process them for illness, so you’ll be getting a clean one. Tell me you’re her brother, perhaps. Father, maybe even, if she’s a young ’un.’
‘You process them for illness?’
‘Examine every one of ’em. And treat ’em if necessary.’
As a doctor, I did not need to hear more. I knew this was done in London on a regular basis. But here, outside of municipal law? ‘Do you have a young lady named Polly, red hair, about sixteen, brought in last night?’
‘Surname?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You fellows never do.’ The man hesitated. ‘I will have to check.’ He went to a cabinet and ruffled through some files. He pulled out a sheet of paper and turned to me. ‘We have a Polly. She’s a dangerous one. Feisty. Caused some damage, I think. Bail is set at five pounds.’
I paused. There was the chance I would need to bail out Holmes. I had brought a sizeable amount of money with me, as I had learned to do on such adventures. Who knew what Holmes’s bail might be? But this situation demanded action now.
I reached into my pocket to discover the crumpled five-pound note from Freddie Eden-Summers. What better use for it? In five minutes, a dishevelled Polly was freed and stood with me in front of that awful place, pale, and with her hair escaping her braids in copper-coloured strands. A hot breeze blew old newspapers and chip wrappings down the street but did nothing to cool the air.
‘Dear God, Polly,’ said I. ‘You should have stayed at Baker Street last night. Cambridge is no place for you alone after dark.’
‘I know about it, sir. I have managed before.’
‘Are you all right, my poor girl? Not hurt in any way?’
She held up her right hand. Her knuckles were bruised. ‘I am less hurt than some chap named Pete in there.’ She smiled.
‘Mr Holmes is incarcerated as well,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry, Doctor Watson. He’s in regular gaol, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘They play fair over there. Not all of ’em. But mostly.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘My sister. She is a bit of a thief. Nice girl, though. And she don’t work at night – for the reason you just saw.’
‘Where is your sister now?’
‘At work. Well, her lawful-like work. She has a room nearby,’ said Polly, indicating with a thumb in an easterly direction.
‘Write down the address on this slip of paper. Can you take refuge there ’til we come for you? Wyndham will have you arrested. He thinks you stole from him. Will you be safe?’
She nodded, and I watched her, relieved, as she vanished up the street. She nearly ran into two boys of about the same age who galloped towards me down the street, ringing a bell. ‘A dead body! A dead body! A ha’penny for the news,’ they cried.
My stomach lurched. I grabbed one by the arm as he brushed by me. ‘What news? What body?’
The boy held his hand out and I slammed a coin into it. ‘Dead girl. In the Jesus Lock. Drownded!’ he rasped.
‘Girl? How old?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno. Grown up, maybe?’
‘A love affair gone wrong, methinks,’ intoned the other with a knowing look and his hand out for another coin. But I was off and running for the police station.