Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [28]
'Why, yes. I had always taken it for a figure of speech.'
'One with a basis in truth. Oil can indeed calm waves, if of the correct consistency. It reduces the surface tension of the water, decreasing its ability to form peaks and troughs.' He sucked noisily upon the pipe. 'I would commend you to a study of the classics, Watson, especially Bede's Ecclesiastical History of AD 731, in which he relates how St Aidan gave a vial of oil to a priest who was about to undertake a sea voyage, saying:
"Remember to throw into the sea the oil which I give you, when straight-away the winds will abate, and a calm and smiling sea will accompany you throughout your voyage". A veritable miracle, for those unaware of the trick.'
'But the Doctor . . .?'
'His umbrella was hollow, and contained a reservoir of oil. The raising of hands and the chanting were designed partly for atmosphere and partly to distract your attention whilst he used some form of release mechanism to liberate the oil. Benjamin Franklin, the American inventor and politician, used to carry out the same trick, I am reliably informed, and for the same reason: to impress credulous observers with his powers.'
'But Holmes,' I protested, 'this is all pure speculation.'
'Not so, Watson. Remember the pool of oil in our coat rack earlier, when the Doctor removed his umbrella? A leak, I think you will find.'
He smiled triumphantly, then frowned as his mind recalled other matters.
'If only the death of Mrs Prendersly were as amenable to reason.'
'Did you have any success with your own expedition?' I ventured.
'A certain amount,' he replied, moving from the table to his favourite chair, close to the fire. 'After checking that Doctor Minor was still safely ensconced within the high walls of Broadmoor, I had decided to take a look at Mack "The Knife" Yeovil, one of the men who supposedly hold the security of the Library in their hands and who, incidentally, are involved in much of the pickpocketing, extortion, prostitution and gaming between here and Whitechapel. An odd choice by the Vatican, one might say'
I settled back in my chair whilst Holmes described, in dry and humourless terms, a picture of the dregs of society upon which Dickens could have dined out for years. Despite his jibes at my nascent literary hobby, Holmes had no ability at story-telling. Thus, for the sake of my readers, I have refrained from repeating Holmes's words as he spoke them: rather, I have taken the broad flow of events and woven them into a more pleasing narrative. This, then, is what he told me.
The smell of roasting chestnuts and excited animals hung like a miasma over the Hackney marshes. Holmes, disguised in fake whiskers, shabby moleskin trousers, a check shirt and a leather jerkin, moved through the crowd with a sullen expression on his face and a cloth cap pulled down over his eyes. He had been working his way gradually inward from the fringes of the throng for some time: moving slowly so as not to excite suspicion and keeping his ears alert for any conversations which might prove of interest.
It had taken no great stretch of his abilities to determine the location of Yeovil. The entire underworld had been buzzing for months with word of the bareknuckle fight to end them all. The location had only been decided at the last moment, in order to deny the police the chance of stopping it, but all anybody had to do on the day was to ask in any pub or bawdy house, and they would be told. 'Ackney's the place. Go to 'Ackney. Everybody'll be there.'
Everybody, in this instance, would certainly mean the man who headed one of the biggest and most dangerous gangs in London. Hackney was traditionally on Yeovil's patch, although the word over the past few days was that Mr Jitter was also going to be there, and that some rough justice would be meted out to a couple of unfortunates who had transgressed the brutal and unwritten code of the underworld. Holmes had a shrewd idea who those people might be.
A train from Liverpool Street had deposited Holmes within walking