Associates of Sherlock Holmes - George Mann Page 0,6
good English and discovered over empty bowls of dumpling soup that the children were mudlarks – the most wretched of the destitute, scouring the riverbanks for scraps of rag or coin or metal, as her own husband had once been forced to scrounge for wood. Far worse, the girl suffered from a spinal deformity – possibly brought on by polio, Wi Cheun had theorised to Mr Holmes – and the boy, though a few years older, was simple, only speaking in monosyllables. The girl revealed that they were siblings escaped from the cruelties of a nearby orphanage, and neither knew who their parents had been nor where they had lived before the bleak institution.
“The Wus took them in,” reported the detective. The intersections we now crossed, though no less cramped nor refuse-strewn, were populated with as many Italians and Jews as Chinese, though queerly picturesque Oriental writing remained slashed across many ashen shop placards. “As employees at first – or so Mrs Wu presented them – but later, apparently they were indistinguishable from her children save for their skin. The sister, Liza, worked on accounts and answered supply orders after learning her sums and letters from a paid neighbour. Arlie, the brother, never learned eloquence, but showed an immense aptitude for carving once Wu Jinhai taught him technique.”
“What happened five years ago?” I inquired breathlessly, for our pace had been set by the man with the longest stride.
“Five years ago,” he reflected. “Yes, five years ago Mr and Mrs Wu passed away from an influenza outbreak, leaving Arlie and Liza alone to run the family business as best they were able. And that, gentlemen, is the part I do not like, though I decline to make inferences in advance of tangible data.”
A chill stroked my spine, and my companions’ faces froze, for we had all seen Mr Holmes’s mind. A doltish brother, a defenceless sister who might have been thought a burden, a frail white arm hacked away and consigned to the Thames. None of us wanted to contemplate such a thing, and I’ll be dashed if the world-famous problem-solver did either.
“You’re right, Mr Holmes. We know too little as yet to condemn anyone,” I declared.
The sleuth’s steely jaw twitched. “Are you being fawning or optimistic?”
“Neither. I’m being magnanimous, or attempting it. I was meant to become a clergyman like my father,” I said wryly.
“Disinclined to resemble the patriarch?”
“On the contrary, I admired him more than anyone I’ve ever known. Didn’t share any of his talents, more’s the pity. Always stammering my way through catechisms. Dreadful. He passed some eight years ago and Mum thought I’d finally see the light, but all I saw was the noose in the prison yard. When my cousin took the cloth, I gave him Dad’s Bible with heartiest blessings and a helping of good riddance.”
Dr Watson nodded sympathetically as Lestrade sniffed in mild amusement. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Mr Holmes’s lips and vanished.
Then we had arrived, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live: the crooked house in the middle of the row, runoff trickling down Gold Street, rivulets sparkling despite their leaden colour. The Wu residence’s steps had not been cleaned since the last snowfall melted, streaks of soot painting black waterfalls down them, and one of the windows was patched with four or five layers of rotting newsprint.
Mr Holmes and Dr Watson approached with the bearing of men who’ve looked into the abyss and lived to tell about it, Lestrade close at their heels. Trailing only slightly, though my nerves hummed and sparked, I watched as the independent detective whipped out his pocketknife again and bent to one knee at the top of the steps.
“We haven’t any warrant, Mr Holmes!” Lestrade hissed.
“You directed my notice to a trail old enough to be considered positively historical, and now you’re quibbling about warrants?” the detective snapped in return, fiddling with the lock and producing a sharp snick. “Supposing we find anything, claim you investigated because the door had been forced. It would even be true.”
Lestrade struck his palm against the rusted iron rail, but made no further protest. Indeed, we were all about to burst into the house when Mr Holmes flung his arms out, causing Lestrade to stumble and Dr Watson to catch his friend’s shoulder.
“Enter, and then don’t move a muscle,” Sherlock Holmes ordered. “I must read the floor.”
We crowded inside and my senior edged the front door closed. We were in a murky room, lit only