The Sherlock and Jack Chronicles Page 2

  ***

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘My club.’ Fingers put on a smart overcoat, silk scarf, and bowler hat. He resembled a weasel dressed for a party.

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Fingers. ‘Down the back of Charing Cross Road.’

  ‘And what’s the name of the club?’

  Fingers looked shifty for a moment, then grinned. ‘S’pose I’d better tell yer. It’s the Gentleman’s Retreat.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of it.’

  Fingers tapped the side of his nose. ‘Only a select few have.’ He opened the front door.

  Mr Snell emerged from the parlour, duster in hand. ‘When should I expect you back, Mr Molloy?’

  ‘When you see me,’ Fingers winked round the edge of the door.

  I had to hurry to keep up with Fingers’ short quick steps. ‘Who are we meeting?’

  ‘A business associate.’ He whistled for a cab, and said no more until we alighted at Charing Cross Road. ‘This way.’ He darted down an alley, almost knocking over a strolling accordion player. ‘’Ere we are.’ He pointed to a small, shabby blue door.

  ‘Is it safe?’

  Fingers dug a sharp elbow into my ribs. ‘Course! In yer go.’

  My hand moved to where the door knocker should be, but there was none. No bell pull, no keyhole, no handle. I pushed the door, but it was firmly closed. ‘How do I get in? Is there a special knock?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ smirked Fingers. ‘Here comes a comrade. Watch an’ learn.’

  A well-dressed man sauntered towards us. ‘How do, Fingers,’ he said, his eyes taking me in. ‘New boy?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Give a man room, then.’ Fingers stood back as he pushed the door open and went in.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve got a key too, and it’s just like his.’ He paused, pushed the door open and let it fall to again.

  I tried pushing the door exactly where Fingers had. Nothing. I tried pushing hard, I tried barely touching the door. Still nothing.

  ‘See, Jack, in our line you’ve got to pay attention.’ Fingers opened the door again, with no effort. ‘What do you notice?’

  ‘It isn’t where you touch the door. That time your hand was higher.’

  ‘Good. Well observed.’ Fingers scratched his chin.

  ‘It isn’t how hard you push the door…’

  ‘Yeeees…’

  ‘It’s … oh! The first time you did it, you waited to open the door! What were you waiting for?’

  ‘Now you’re getting somewhere!’ Fingers rubbed his hands. ‘What’s the one thing that’s changing?’

  I surveyed the alley, and the accordion player came past. ‘The accordion man! It’s his tune, isn’t it?’

  ‘Full marks,’ said Fingers. ‘Now, I ain’t teaching you the tune yet, cos I need to be sure of you first, but I’ll let you in. Put your hand on the door.’ I obeyed, and Fingers put his hand on mine. I listened hard, but was still taken by surprise when Fingers’ hand pressed down, and the door opened as though it had never been locked.

  ***

  ‘Mind the steps,’ Fingers muttered as the door closed, plunging us into darkness. ‘Banister’s on your left.’ I groped for the rail and edged my way down.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fingers,’ a disembodied voice intoned. ‘Who do you have there?’

  ‘Afternoon, Jameson,’ said Fingers. ‘I’ve brought a guest. I’ll vouch for ’im.’

  I blinked as lights flared, revealing a man wearing a dinner suit and a pair of goggles. He stood in front of a stout oak door.

  Jameson pushed up his goggles and surveyed me. ‘All right. Keep him close.’ He stood aside to let us pass.

  ‘Why’s he wearing goggles?’ I whispered.

  ‘Night vision.’ And Fingers opened the door.

  My eyes widened as I took in the scene. Given the state of the front door, I had been expecting a down-at-heel tavern with sawdust on the floor. I had never seen anything like this.

  The room was round, and everything was curved. Table-legs sprouted vines, and chair-backs and candelabras exploded in a riot of gilded leaves and flowers. The plentiful mirrors were set with bevelled glass, reflecting distorted versions of the club’s few patrons. The walls were marbled in blue and green. It was like an undersea palace.

  Fingers strutted in and snapped his fingers at a waiter. ‘The usual, please.’

  ‘And for your guest?’

  Fingers raised his eyebrows at me. ‘I’ll have the same, thank you.’ I hoped the usual wasn’t too strong. My head was already swimming.

  The waiter brought two pints of ale, much to my relief. Fingers checked his pocket-watch. ‘He’ll be with us shortly.’ I took a cautious pull at my ale, which was excellent.

  ‘Hey, there!’ Coming towards us was a plump, cheerful man in a tweed suit, perhaps in his early thirties. I made to get up, but the man flapped a hand at me in mock-disapproval. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony at the Gentleman’s Retreat.’ He sank into one of the twisted chairs and raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘This is Jack Hargreaves, my new assistant.’ Fingers explained.

  The man held out a hand to me. As I leaned forward to shake it I looked into his bright brown eyes, and they pierced straight through my suit and short hair. Then they crinkled in a smile. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he said. His hand was warm, and the pressure light. ‘My name’s Smith, and you’ll see plenty of me. I’m a regular here.’ He turned to Fingers. ‘How’s Snell? Not indisposed, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, far from it.’ Fingers took a long drink of his pint. ‘He’s minding the shop, ’appy as a pig in mud. Since business has been so good lately I’ve expanded my staff, and Jack is my new recruit.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Mr Smith rubbed his hands. ‘Now, do you have anything for me, Fingers?’

  ‘Of course.’ Fingers reached into his overcoat and produced the two velvet cases I had seen earlier. ‘This was an easy one. Reminded me of the good old days.’

  ‘Machine work all right?’

  ‘Like a charm.’

  Mr Smith snapped the cases open. ‘Very pretty,’ he said, stowing them in a long pocket. He slid a plain brown envelope across the table. ‘Something to keep you going.’

  Fingers ran a grimy finger under the flap, and extracted a wad of banknotes. ‘Untraceable?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Smith watched Fingers pull a sheet of paper from the envelope and glance over it. ‘All in order?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Fingers rolled the paper into a spill and lit it at the candlestick.

  ‘Need anything?’

  Fingers considered as the flame advanced towards his fingertips. ‘Not for this job. You might drop by and adjust the safe so’s Jack can get into it.’ He blew out the stub of paper.

  ‘I’ll see to it next week. I’m busy at the moment; the boss is keeping me on my toes. Speaking of which, on to the next matter. Time stands still for no man.’ Mr Smith chuckled and shook hands with me again. ‘Nice to meet you, Jack.’ He strode to a table across the room and hailed the well-dressed man who had preceded us.

  ‘So you steal things for Mr Smith?’ I asked, as soon as we were alone.

  ‘Not for him, for his boss.’

  ‘But you steal to order, and he pays you.’

  ‘Indeed I do. I was approached by Mr Smith two years ago. When he explained the terms, well, I’d have been a fool not to sign up. A house paid for, money in my pocket, and time to pursue my own, ahem, activities. Money for jam!’ Fingers’s satisfied smile faded when he noticed my expression. ‘It’s all insured, the stuff I’m asked to get. No-one’s out of pocket except the red-tape merchants. Victimless crime, if you ask me.’

  ‘And who is Mr Smith’s boss?’

  ‘They call him Robinson. I don’t need to know more, so long as the money keeps coming, and neither do you. Now drink up, and we’ll be off home.’

  We travelled back to Upper Wimpole Street in silence. I could tell Fingers was vexed with me, and for my own part I was occupied in speculating about the mysterious Mr Robinson, and his purpose in keeping a retinue of thieves.

  CHAPTER 4: A Bee In A Bonnet

  Inspector Lestrade jumped as the two folders landed on his desk. ‘What now, Holmes?’ he groaned.

  ‘There’s a connection!’ Holmes cried. ‘Haven’t you seen it?’

  Lestrade pushed the folders aside and glanced at the detective looming over him. ‘No, Holmes. Unlike you, I do not have time to theorise; I have crimes to solve. Solid crimes I can understand, not fantasies of vanishing thieves.’

  ‘So you haven’t bothered to follow up Fingers Molloy’s arrest for housebreaking in 1885, and the burglary at Moriarty’s house in the same year?’

  ‘How many burglaries take place in London every year?’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to know, Lestrade, given the inadequacy of your records.’ Holmes stabbed the buff folders with a long finger. ‘This file doesn’t even give the address Molloy’s supposed to have robbed, or the date. How can you work with this lack of facts?’

  Lestrade sighed. ‘I’ll get Huggins to dig deeper. Don’t hold your breath though, we are very busy. And I’d wager money the two aren’t connected.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ muttered Holmes. ‘Which reminds me, I need you to lend me some men for a few hours.’

  ‘What?’ Lestrade goggled at Holmes.

  ‘No more than four or five, to be on the safe side.’

  ‘And what do you need my policemen for, exactly?’

  Holmes leaned in and whispered, ‘Fingers Molloy is going to reappear at the Jewel House in a week’s time, at five minutes to five, and I intend to catch him!’

  ‘He’s going to ride in on his time machine, I suppose.’ Lestrade snorted.

  ‘More or less. I’m not sure how accurate the thing is, so I am allowing for a margin of error.’

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘You’ve lost your mind, Holmes.’

  ‘I saw it too!’ I interjected.

  ‘I apologise, Dr Watson, but you’ve clearly been spending too much time with Mr Holmes, and become infected with this foolish obsession. I am not going to waste police time on this.’ Lestrade dropped the folders on the floor, out of sight. A small smile crept across his face. ‘I see.’

  ‘You do?’ Holmes’s face lit up.

  ‘Yes. Both these men have slipped through your fingers. Now you’re trying to connect them into some sort of criminal superpower, though we have nothing more solid to go on than a calling card.’ Lestrade’s voice was dangerously even. ‘You’re looking for the big one, aren’t you, Holmes? The case that will cement your reputation, as if you weren’t famous enough. I’ve seen it before, you know. Promising men chasing after glory, and finding madness. Take my advice, Holmes; stick to your bread and butter cases, and keep your feet on the ground. Good day to you.’ Lestrade bent his head over his paperwork.

  I had to hurry to keep up with Holmes as he strode down the Strand. My head was in turmoil. I believed in Holmes implicitly, but his giant leaps of reasoning had left me shaken. Could Lestrade be right? Was the time machine some sort of trick? Was Holmes seeing connections where none existed? I knew better than to raise any of this with Holmes, but a chill settled on my heart as my cheeks grew warm from the exercise.

  On arrival at 221B Holmes cut off Mrs Hudson’s expressions of welcome. ‘I shall be in my room. Do not disturb me unless I ring.’ He collected several cushions and the tobacco jar, and the bedroom door banged shut. I attempted to bury myself in the latest doings of Mr Pooter and his family, but every so often I found myself staring at Holmes’ door. Dinner and supper came and went, with no sign of Holmes. I was debating whether he had fallen asleep when the door opened a crack and a wisp of smoke curled round the edge. Holmes walked into the sitting room and took up the paper, as more pipe smoke seeped into the room.

  After five minutes I could bear it no longer. ‘Well?’ I said, lowering Punch.

  ‘I shall write to Lestrade tomorrow and apologise,’ Holmes said mildly, turning a page.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I shall assure him that I have considered his words and concede that perhaps he has a point.’

  I spluttered. ‘Are you all right, Holmes?’ I had never known Holmes to acknowledge Lestrade’s reasoning. Frankly, this worried me more than his earlier behaviour.

  ‘Never better.’ Holmes turned another page. ‘Tomorrow I shall busy myself with bread and butter cases, as Lestrade puts it, and achieve some results. Now, is there any supper left?’ He rang the bell.

  It dawned on me. ‘You’re up to something!’

  ‘Who, me?’ Holmes’s expression could have rivalled a choirboy’s for innocence.

  ‘Yes, you. You’re lulling Lestrade’s suspicions.’

  ‘Proving my worth as a solid detective. And I must do it quickly. We’ve only got a few days before we kidnap him.’

  ‘What?!’ My mouth dropped open.

  ‘If Lestrade won’t believe us, the evidence of his own eyes should do it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The time machine, Watson! We’ll take Lestrade with us, and then he’ll have to believe it!’ Holmes’s eyes glittered.

  ‘What’s the sentence for kidnapping, Holmes? What’s the sentence for false imprisonment of a police officer?’

  ‘Quiet, you’ll worry Mrs Hudson. I hear her stealthy tread.’ Holmes grinned. ‘Trust me.’

  I said no more. Holmes ate his supper with every appearance of carefree enjoyment, but his tension betrayed itself in his movements; the way his fork stabbed his food, the flourishes of his napkin. He was like a coiled spring.

  Holmes cleared his plate and put his knife and fork together. ‘Watson, I —’

  ‘I don’t want to know. I want no part of this.’

  ‘You say it, but you’ll come and help.’

  ‘This isn’t fair —’

  ‘Sleep on it, Watson.’ He rose, rang the bell, and retired to his room.

  I went to bed shortly afterwards, and lay tossing and turning for some hours. Holmes was right. I could not desert him, however questionable his actions. I just hoped we wouldn’t find ourselves in the dock.

  CHAPTER 5: The Tools Of The Trade

  Despite my misgivings, I settled into my new life. My bedroom was well-furnished and considerably less cramped than the lodging-houses I was used to, and once Mr Snell had explained the workings of the gleaming white bathroom, I luxuriated in a hot bath every day. Meals were cooked by Mr Snell, or sent in from a local restaurant. All in all, I considered that I had fallen on my feet.

  I took care to be more guarded in my questions, and slowly Fingers Molloy unbent towards me again. In the basement room he taught me the accordion player’s tune, and introduced me to the new tools of my trade; a glass-cutting diamond, a foldaway saw for padlocks, and a skeleton key which adjusted itself to fit any lock with a gentle whirr like a cat’s purr. ‘Ingenious, ain’t it?’ smirked Fingers. He unlocked the door, pushed the top of the key, and drew out a bare shaft.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ I examined the key. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Smith delivered the kit when I moved in.’ Fingers slotted the key into his canvas roll, and wound the leather band round it. ‘The time machine came later. And what a piece of work it is! Smith says they’re working on a new improved version which can go back or forward a hundred years. Think of that!’

  I could imagine landing in the middle of 1788 and a crowd of powdered wigs, but what could 1988 possibly be like, when marvels like this were emerging now? ‘Fingers, what’s it like to travel in time?’

  ‘You sure you want to know?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘It’s like going on one of those rides at the fair wot leaves yer guts behind.’

  I groaned. ‘Don’t you find it even a bit thrilling?’

  ‘I did, before I tried it. You’ll see soon enough.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. You’ll be helping me in a small matter soon, and you’ll need to work the beast. Wheel it over, would you.’

  The time machine stood on a gleaming steel trolley, concealed by a fringed velvet cloth. I removed the cloth. ‘So what do all the dials —’

  ‘WATCH OUT!’ yelled Fingers, and crumpled into laughter when I jumped back. ‘Sorry Jack, couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Well, show me how to work it,’ I said, rather huffily.

  Fingers wiped his eyes with a large handkerchief. ‘It’s as easy as pie. See the big dial, marked Time?’

  ‘I do.’ The dial was set round with inscriptions, and two arrows, one pointing back, and one forward. The inscriptions went from five years to one, dwindled to six months, three months, one month, one week, down to five minutes, and then forward to five years again.

  ‘Well, you set it, grab the two wires, and off you go.’

  I could not believe it was so simple. Yet I had seen Fingers materialise with my own eyes.

  ‘Come on, Jack, try it. It’s half-past one now. Set the dial to ten minutes in the future.’

  My palm was damp as I touched the dial and clicked it forward two notches.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come with yer.’

  ‘But how can we both —’

  ‘I grab you, you grab the wires.’

  ‘Will that work?’

  ‘Should do. Usually anything I’m touching comes back with me.’

  ‘So you’ve never done this before?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never had the chance. Old Snell won’t have anything to do with the thankless contraption, as he calls it.’ Fingers ran a hand along the top of the machine.

  ‘All right. But we’re coming straight back.’

  ‘Oh yes. Now, I’ll stand behind —’

  I waited, but felt nothing. ‘Are you still there?’

  When I looked round, Fingers had stepped away. ‘I hadn’t thought of this,’ he said, gruffly.

  ‘Of what?’