Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [10]
'Dips and mutchers?' I asked.
'Pickpockets and thieves who rob drunks,' he said. 'Really, Watson, your education is remarkably lacking in some areas.'
A pair of grimy ragamuffins ran past us. I was about to reach out and ruffle the hair on one of them - a small, blonde girl - when Holmes stopped me.
'Tosh-fakers,' he explained.
'I'm sorry?' I pulled my hand back.
'Urchins whose dubious profession it is to search the sewer mouths of the Thames, casting amongst the excrement for valuable trifles which have been lost down privies and drains.'
'How can a child endure this way of life?' I exclaimed.
'They survive,' he said.
Holmes seemed to have memorized the route, for he led me unhesitatingly through turn after turn. Within moments we were moving through what seemed to be a crowd of scarecrows who eyed us with envy and hatred, but we carried a bubble of privacy with us that pushed the crowd away before us and closed it again in our wake. As Holmes had said, we were protected. I could not have retraced even a fraction of our path, for every street and every face bore the same marks of hardship and violence.
'Does anything strike you as strange?' Holmes muttered after a while.
'Nothing in particular,' I replied.
'Hmmm. I would be prepared to swear that this rookery is less crowded than the last time I passed this way. Many of the male inhabitants appear to be absent.'
'Less crowded?' I couldn't see how any more people could be crammed into the area.
'Relatively speaking,' he added, and walked on.
I noticed after a while that, as well as the dogs, a gaggle of stooped and greyhaired women were following us.
'We appear to be the object of some attention,' I murmured to my friend.
'Not us,' he said, 'the dogs.'
Indeed, now he mentioned it, I noticed that the women were carefully watching what the dogs did. When one of the hounds took it into his head to . . . delicacy forbids me to be specific . . . perform a natural function, then one of the greyhaired hags would immediately rush forward and scoop the resulting ordure into a canvas sack.
'Collected for the tanneries south of the Thames,' Holmes said in answer to the question which I could not bring myself to utter. 'Too old to steal, they eke out a living this way'
'Holmes, all this . . . this degradation . . . and within five minutes walk of Simpson's Tavern and Divan in the Strand.'
'Yes,' he said. 'Obscene, is it not?' He looked around. 'We have arrived.'
The doorway was no different to others we had passed; empty, with the timbers of the doorframe rotted and mossy. Inside there was darkness.
Holmes led the way.
I had expected shadows, rats and creaking floorboards. What I found was a black curtain that parted to reveal a carpeted corridor lined with damask.
Oil lamps provided a warm yellow light. The ceiling was adorned with alabaster carvings. The contrast with the poverty outside was almost unbelievable. I could well have believed myself to be in a house in Cheyne Walk, having dreamed the journey here.
An emaciated attendant dressed in black silk robes came forward to greet us.
'Gentlemen,' he said in a voice so low it verged on the indistinguishable.
'Do you have an appointment?'
Holmes handed his card to the man, who looked at it in disdain.
'If you have no appointment, then I regret . . : He trailed off politely.
'Perhaps a letter of introduction?' Holmes suggested.
The man inclined his head.
'That would, of course, depend on...'
Holmes handed over the vellum sheet sealed with the papal crest.
The man frowned.
'Yes, sir,' he finally intoned. 'I believe that will be sufficient.'
Holmes looked over at me and raised an eyebrow.
'Perhaps you would care to sign the visitors book,' the man continued, moving away. 'We do not allow documents to be removed from the premises, but you are at liberty to examine any that you wish