Associates of Sherlock Holmes

PAGE TURNERS Kara Dennison

You want to talk about important, right? It’s all well and good to say Dr Watson’s important to Mr Holmes, but he writes the stories, don’t he? Of course he’s going to make himself big talk in his own stories. That Lestrade fella, he shows up a lot. Probably he really is a bit important because he’s a police sort and takes the criminals off to prison once Mr Holmes gets clever and finds ’em.

But none of them’s there every morning, crack of dawn ’til whatever sound dusk makes, making sure Mr Holmes sees the people he needs to see and gets the messages he needs to get. None of these people would even see him if it weren’t for me bringing ’em in, you know.

And eating; three times a day, like actual clockwork, I give a knock to let him know he needs to eat. His brain’s so full of clever things, you see, he’d forget otherwise. One time Mrs Hudson roasted an entire chicken, and you could smell it all the way up in his study, and he still didn’t know supper was on. She said: let him starve, the fool, but that’s not my job, is it?

That’s why he needs me. That’s why he needs Billy. Take away Billy, and what’ve you got? A really canny cove who starves himself and doesn’t know who’s at the door.

Suppose that goes for any Billy, really. Between us? My name’s Humphrey. The one before me? Alfie. But we’re both Billy. And whoever comes after us’ll probably be Billy, too. Easier than remembering new names every few years, I guess.

Wiggins’ll have a go at me whenever he sees me, though. Thinks being a page is too soft a job. Asks me how long it takes to shine all the buttons on my jacket every morning. Talks about what he’s bought with his latest guinea prize from Mr Holmes. Says he got in fistfights with big tough sorts – I don’t believe that or he’d have some proper bruises, right? He’s really awful jumped up, though, is Wiggins. Even more so since Dr Watson started mentioning him by name in his stories.

The other day he says – Wiggins says, I mean, not Dr Watson – the other day he says, “Maybe Holmes just don’t trust you with the important stuff. That’s why he keeps you at home instead of sending you off on actual important jobs.” Which is not the case, thank you – and people might know that if Dr Watson ever decides to write up certain other cases. That Valley of Fear business, maybe. (People’d love that one – just a suggestion.)

Besides, how’s he know? Maybe I am doing big, important jobs. Maybe, just maybe, Mr Holmes gives me the extra important work because he knows I won’t go bragging to every last person in Britain.

Right, so this is just between you and me. I wouldn’t go telling just anyone, because it ain’t proper, but I know you’re cast iron. You won’t go blabbing about this all over the place, will you? Course not. Like I said. Trustworthy. And it’s my job to know people, since I gotta let ’em in to see Mr Holmes every day.

Sometimes I get these letters to deliver that are so secret, so private, even I don’t know what’s in ’em. And I carry ’em! I never look, though. Never. Not even once. You ask Mr Holmes or Dr Watson. They’re sealed, and never have I ever delivered one with a broken seal. Not a one time. Not even when my life was on the line.

You take last Friday. Middle of the afternoon, Mr Holmes calls me in. He’s in the middle of opening the window for some fresh air, and he hands me a letter. “This message contains sensitive information of the utmost importance,” he says, all big and loud and important. “Take it to the usual recipient, and see that you’re not followed. Use whatever back alleyways and shortcuts you need to, but make sure you get it to him at his practice.”

“Back alleyways?” I say. “The usual recipient” is Dr Watson, see, and I’m thinking I could run down the main streets and get it to him twice as quick, maybe even take a cab if Mr Holmes’ll put the money forward.

But, Mr Holmes, he knows what he wants. “You must exercise all stealth,” he says. “I am unconcerned with alacrity. I can’t have you being seen dashing down the main roads, and I certainly cannot have you being followed. You can make your way back here any way you please, but lie low as you go. Make sure no one sees the letter, and definitely make sure no one knows to whom it is headed.”

Lie low as you go. “Yes, sir, Mr Holmes!” And I tuck the letter in my pocket and I’m on my way.

There’s a series of back alleys and a few cuts through back gardens I can take so you’ll never even see my face on the main street. That’s the way I go, just like Mr Holmes asks. Not a soul back there but myself, but even so I’m sticking close to walls and shadows. Because you never know, and I follow my directions to the letter.

I’m coming ’round a corner, quiet as you please, and there’s a man standing in my way. He’s some toff’s servant for sure. Probably a butler from how he’s dressed. But he looks like he’s been stuffed into that suit. There’s no way he’s an actual butler.

“Young Billy, I presume,” he says, and he’s giving me this look like he’s deciding whether or not he’s gonna skin me. “On our way on a mission from Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

I ask how he knows it’s me, and he points at my jacket. “We’ve seen you coming and going from his rooms more than once.”

Drat. That’s stupid of me. I’m not lying low if I’m wearing my uniform, am I? But it’s too late now. I try to sidestep him, but he follows me.

“You seem nervous,” he says, but he’s saying it in this really superior voice like, you know, almost like he’s enjoying being a bother.

“Yeah,” I say, “I’ve got somewhere to be and I’ve got a big lunk standing in my way, course I’m tense.”

I figure he’ll get angry at me for that, and his face does go a little red, but all he does is stick his hand out. “You’re carrying a piece of correspondence. I request that you give it to me immediately.”

“Nah,” I say, “I don’t think I will.”

Now he’s going really red. “Young boy, I fear you do not understand the something-or-other of what you’re carrying.” He said an actual word, but I can’t remember what it was. It was one of those big expensive words like people say when they want you to think they’re more important than you.

And I tell him, “I do and all, though. And I know it’s not for you, so clear off.”

Then he squares himself up all big, which isn’t easy considering he’s not really tall, and he gives me that look again but a lot worse. And he points at the letter in my hand and he says, “That piece of correspondence concerns my employer. You may have heard of her: a Mrs Henrietta Oxford.”

“Never heard of her in my life.”

“I find that hard to believe, as she is a match for your master both professionally and intellectually.”

I laugh because that’s not right. I’ve never even heard of her. There’s no one’s a match for Sherlock Holmes, and if there was we’d all have heard of her by now. But he ignores my laugh and just keeps talking.

“Mrs Oxford has been investigating the curious series of murders in Clapham. I’m sure you’ve heard about those, my boy.”

I have and all. Gruesome stuff. Caught wind of it when Mr Holmes and Dr Watson talked about it. Men and women of any age, any class, all left dead with weird sigils carved in ’em. Some people call it religious, some go right for “occult”. All I know is it gives me the shivers.

“What’s that got to do with me or my letter?”

“Does Mr Holmes hire dense servants on purpose? Really. It’s all anyone’s talking about – the police, my employer, your employer…” And his eyes go back to my hand holding the letter. “If Sherlock Holmes is Sherlock Holmes, he’ll know that Mrs Oxford is already on the case. And he doesn’t approve of her particular methods.”

“What’re you talking about?”

The butler laughs at me. Actually laughs. Like I’m some sort of idiot. “Stop playing the fool. Mr Holmes knows already that my employer intends to take matters into her own hands, and this is his method of alerting the authorities in secret before she can act. And I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Shows what you know. This –”

But I stop, because I remember Mr Holmes said don’t let anyone know where it’s going. This fella’s obviously well off track, but I do as I’m told. Besides which, I get the feeling he’ll just think I’m lying to him to put him off the scent anyway. So I shake my head and I say, “This is getting where it’s going whether you like it or not!”

Now his blood’s boiling, I can tell. And he makes a grab for me. Makes an actual grab for me! I jump out of the way and hop a fence nearby, but I don’t stop there. Who knows? Maybe he can hop fences. I’m not taking that risk. I keep running down the alley, even though I can hear him scrambling and swearing and not getting anywhere, and I don’t stop ’til I’m round the corner.

That’s when I drop down to the ground and catch my breath. My heart’s going like a bumblebee. What’s in this letter that’s so important? And what makes him think it’s about him? I mean, maybe it is. Like I said, I follow directions, so it’s not as though I’ve looked inside. I stare at the letter for a few seconds.

“You’re a lot more trouble than you’re probably worth,” I tell it, and I shake it a bit, as though that’ll help anything. Then I stuff the letter inside my jacket for safekeeping and try to get myself sorted out again. Running away from the butler’s taken me off course. I can’t go back the way I came, and I really have to keep my head down now in case he’s decided to try and come at me from another alleyway or something.

Now, as I’m sitting getting my bearings, I can hear footsteps from up ahead of me. I’m about to panic, but then I realise it’s not big stompy footsteps, it’s little tappy ones. More like a lady’s boots. And I look up and I see this woman walking towards me all slow. She’s dressed nice, with flowers on her hat, and she looks sort of pretty and gentle. I don’t know what a lady dressed this nice would be doing walking around a back alleyway, though.

She sees me, and she looks sort of taken by surprise and goes, “Oh, dear! Are you all right, young man?”

No one’s ever called me a man before, so that’s a bit nice. I jump up and I straighten my suit and I tell her I’m just fine, miss. Always call them “miss”, not “ma’am”, no matter how old they are. They like thinking you’ve mistaken them for really young, even if they’re not. This lady’s maybe my mum’s age, so not really young, but enough that she’ll still care if she’s a miss or a ma’am.

She gives me this really warm, sweet smile, and she pats me on the head and asks what happened. I’m careful, obviously. I don’t tell her what actually happened. Just that there’d been this terrifying sort after me and I had to get away from him.

The lady, she puts on this sad, shocked face, and she puts a hand to her heart like I’ve told her my dog’s died. “Oh, you poor darling! I’m ever so sorry you had to go through that!” But I tell her that’s all in a day’s work for me, and I give my buttons a polish with one sleeve.

“Honestly, though, what would someone like you be doing running about in back alleys? There’s no call for that.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yes, you’re Sherlock Holmes’s boy, aren’t you?”

Seriously? Am I this easy to spot? I really am regretting not wearing a different jacket. But I say, “If you mean am I Mr Holmes’s page, then yes, miss.”

“That’s what I thought. You’ll want to be more careful, you know. Especially considering what you’re carrying.”

“What am I carrying?”

“Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you show me?” And she holds out her hand, still smiling like there’s not a single thing strange about what she’s doing.

I’m about to put a hand on my jacket to cover the letter, but I shove my hands in my pockets instead. No sense giving away where it’s hidden. “I don’t think I ought, miss.”

She laughs. It’s sort of a pretty laugh, like Christmas bells, but there’s also something a bit strange about it. Like I ought to be afraid of it a little. “Why not? It’s almost certainly to do with me, so I should have a look, don’t you think?”

“You seem pretty sure of what I’m carrying, miss. What if you’re wrong?”

“Well, we can find out, surely. Is it a letter?”

I flinch. “Miss?”

That laugh again. “I suppose that’s a yes. Is the name Angelina Pritchard in it anywhere?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I snap back, and then I add, “assuming it even is a letter, which I haven’t said it is, miss.”

That pretty smile is still there, but it doesn’t look quite as nice anymore. It’s like it went all frigid, but her face hasn’t actually moved at all. “Is that so? Well, I can keep making some fairly educated guesses. I do love guessing games, don’t you?”

“Not really, miss, no.”

“Well, then.” She puts a finger to her lips and looks up, like a little girl pretending to think hard. “Well, then. I can hazard a guess where you’re taking it. The Houses of Parliament, I presume?”

…what?!

“Miss, I think you’ve got the wrong person entirely. I haven’t got a clue what you’re even on about.”

That nice smile, even the frosty version, is gone now, and she’s glaring at me like she’s about to gut me. Here I’m starting to wonder if that’s the only way anyone’s ever going to look at me ever again. She sort of leans in really close, and I can smell her perfume, violet and something else that’s giving me a headache.

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes has trained you very well, indeed, hasn’t he? You’re tight as a steel trap, aren’t you? Well, I know better. I know he’s on to me, and I know he means to stop me from doing what I intend to do.”

“I don’t even know what you intend to do, miss.” And I’m really not keen to find out.

The lady steps back and she’s still fixing me with that angry glare. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you haven’t heard about me. I don’t believe for one moment you haven’t overheard Lord Wainwright in Mr Holmes’s rooms talking about me, telling him he’s afraid of me, of what I could do to him. And I most certainly do not believe the letter you’re delivering isn’t a warning.”

Well, it doesn’t much matter what she believes, does it? Lord Wainwright’s a new one on me, so if he’d been over talking about being scared of anything, I certainly didn’t know.

“What… could you do to him, miss?”

She makes a grab for me. “Give me the letter, you little whelp!”

She’s awfully quick in those clicky heels, but I’m quicker, and I’m off like a shot again, running down the way she came as she takes off after me, shrieking all sorts of awful things. Worst part is, she gets a lot farther than the fella from before, and by the time I’ve lost her and can stop running for a few minutes, I’m well off track. I’ve gone in the complete opposite direction I should be going, and now I have to turn back and retrace my steps. Or rather, find some new steps. No way am I going back the same route I came. Not when I’ve got two people willing to come after me over this letter.

I know Mr Holmes said to keep to the back alleys, but as you can sort of tell, I’m not having the best of luck with those. I’m starting to think I’ll hide better in plain view. Because they’re all looking for me back where no one’s ever looking. I know he said don’t take the main roads, and I’m all about following orders to the letter… but I’m thinking maybe surviving long enough to get the letter where it’s going is more important than how I do it at this point.

So I take a few turns and eventually make my way back out to the main road, keeping my head low and my hands in my pockets, just sort of doing my best to blend in, right? That’s not too hard. There’s people everywhere. And it’s going to look really suspicious if anyone tries to manhandle a boy in public in broad daylight.

Ah, but you’ve probably already suspected that someone’s going to try anyway. And you’re right. Someone else walks right up to me, in the middle of everything… and he just sort of stands there. I’d try to step around him, but he’s tall and wide so I know I won’t be getting far unless I shoo him off somehow.

I look up at him – have to tip my head all the way back to do it. He’s huge and fat, balding on top, and his face and bald pate are pinkish and gleaming with sweat, even in the cold. He’s got a massive scraggly ginger beard, and this strange sort of panicked grin on his face like he’s afraid his heart’s about to give out at any moment but he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Really, there’s something so unsettling about him, I’m ready to scream for help even though he’s not said anything yet.

“Hello there.” His voice is a lot reedier than I would’ve expected it to be. And he’s still smiling, fussing with his hands while he talks to me.

I give him a “Hello there” back. And he just stands there. Smiling. Smiling like I ought to know what to say next. I think at this point I’ve caught that terrified smile of his, because I can feel my face cramping up.

I try to keep my voice from going all wobbly, and I say, “You need anything, sir?”

And he sort of chuckles, like, that laugh grown-ups do when you’ve said something silly but they’re not going to tell you why it’s silly. He takes out a handkerchief and he dabs at his shiny forehead, but he doesn’t give me an answer.

“Right, well, if you don’t need anything, I’ll be on my way.”

I start to walk past him, and he puts a big hand on my shoulder. Not clamping down or anything, just sort of there, like the fact that he’s done it should be enough to stop me. Granted, I’m so confused by how he’s acting that it does.

“I see, you have to play dumb in public,” he says, and he’s trying to look all jovial, but he just looks like a sweaty, ginger St Nick. “I know how it is. Very wise of you. Don’t want anyone catching on you’ve spotted me, do we?”

“If I knew who you were, sir –”

“Very good, very good!” He claps me on the shoulder. “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your discretion, young lad. Most people would have called the authorities as soon as they laid eyes on me.”

Would they? I could see someone slipping away nervously, but not much more than that. I still regret what I said next, but off I go and say, “And why would that be, sir?”

He squints at me. The smile’s gone now. When he’s not smiling, his face goes all threatening, like a great gorilla thinking whether it might like to squash you. “You’re taking this game a little too far, boy. I might almost think you actually don’t know who I am.” He tugs on his collar a bit like it’s choking him. “And considering who you are, and considering who I am, that’s highly unlikely.”

“Right. Well, either way, I do have somewhere to be.”

“Yes.” Oh, there’s that grin again. Like a little boy grin. That’s a grin too young to be on that old face. It’s unnerving is what it is. “Yes, I know. I know, I do. You’d better run along and, er, get your message delivered.”

Now at this I nearly just chuck the letter on the ground and start stomping up and down on it. How does everyone know? Why does everyone know? But I just give him a tight smile and start trying to get past him again. Except he’s still got that big, flabby hand on my shoulder.

“Just… out of curiosity,” he says, “what does he say about me?”

“What does who say about what?”

The hand on my shoulder squeezes. “Charles Hart, boy. Charles Hart.”

“I don’t know what Charles Hart says about you.”

His hand is like a vice, and it nearly makes me drop. “I’m Charles Hart, you little –” His grip loosens and he laughs that odd strained laugh again. “Very clever, very clever. Nearly had me there. No matter, I’m sure it’s about the, er, tobacconist incident.”

All I want is to be away from him and his reedy laugh and his strange smile as soon as possible. So I go, “Right, right. Well, what else would it be about? Who doesn’t know about the tobacconist incident?” And I pat my jacket and give him a wink and just hope I’m not shaking as much as I feel like I am. “Better be on my way, then.”

“Yes, guess you better had.” Finally his hand’s off my shoulder and he gives a chuckle and shuffles off. I rub my shoulder where he gripped it, and I’m thinking maybe I should be a bit more worried about this than I am. But considering he seems happy thinking I’m off to report him to Scotland Yard or the Archbishop of Canterbury or whoever, I’m not going to think too hard about it.

Meanwhile, nobody else has come after me, and I’m finally starting to get closer to Dr Watson’s. Can’t be much longer now, surely. I know what Mr Holmes said, but I’m about finished dealing with these people, so I decide to take as straight a path possible. No stealth, no cover, no nothing. Beeline. Main streets, a hop over a fence here and there…

I’m parched.

There’s a teashop just in front of me. And in front of it is a lady in a fancy black dress and gloves. She’s short and skinny and sort of dark, with her black hair all piled up on her head. I’m standing there wondering about how long it took to get it to stay up like that, but then she squats down so we’re eye to eye.

“You look thirsty.”

I start running.

The lady starts laughing. And it’s not a weird, tinkly villain laugh like the other lady, and it’s not a nervous laugh like the man before. It’s sort of sweet and charming, like we’re old friends teasing each other. That’s confused me, so I stop running and look back. And she’s just smiling at me.

Now, you’ve heard the sort of day I’ve had up ’til now. Any time someone runs into me, it turns sour quickly. At this point I’m pretty sure I’ll never talk to anyone ever again, save for my parents and maybe Mr Holmes. Maybe.

But there’s this lady, and she’s smiling and waving to me all friendly. Not examining my uniform or looking impatient. She looks really proper nice.

And I am thirsty.

“Come on in,” she says. She’s a grown-up, but her voice sounds young, sort of childish without being weird or immature. “Rest your feet. You look as though you’ve been running for ages.”

“I have, miss.”

She smiles, and it’s so nice and calm and it makes me feel like maybe the whole world isn’t horrible after all. So I follow her into the teashop. And barely as soon as I’ve sat down, there’s a cup steaming in front of me and a pair of sugary biscuits shaped like flowers on a fancy plate.

“Is this your shop, miss?”

“Mm.” She shrugs. “I’m here a lot, let’s say.”

I can see someone moving about behind the counter, but they’re staying sort of out of sight. So it’s as good as just being me and the lady in the show for now. She goes and picks up a teacup from another table and sits down with me.

“So, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

I tense. Is it happening again? It’s happening again. “You… mind if I don’t say, miss?”

The lady makes these big eyes at me, sort of pinching her mouth up, like she’s confused, but then she smiles. “Of course. It’s completely your own affair. I do apologise for prying.” And she sounds like she means it. No, doesn’t sound like – she does mean it, no doubt in my mind.

It’s nice, this. I’m sitting, and it’s comfortable, and there’s hot, strong tea that’s milky and sugary just the way I like it, and the biscuits taste like cherries and flowers and shortbread. I’ve eaten both pretty quickly, and the shopkeeper – a small, pale girl in a black dress and white apron – comes right out with two more.

“You like those? The shopkeeper makes them herself every day.”

“They’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted, miss.”

“Please, call me Maria. Surely we’re friends now, right?”

“Right, then, Miss Maria.”

She waves her hand, and the shopkeeper brings her over some biscuits too. So there we are, the pair of us, sitting there like old chums, eating our biscuits and drinking our tea, not talking at all. Best part is, I’m not scared for my life anymore. My heart’s feeling a bit less like a hummingbird rattling about in my chest.

“Ah.” It’s Miss Maria, and she sounds a bit surprised. “Could you light the lamps? It’s getting a bit dark out.” At first I think she’s talking to me, but then I see the shopkeeper start moving through the shop lighting all the lamps. I look out the big front windows and…

It’s getting dark.

I still haven’t gotten my letter to Dr Watson!

I jump out of my chair, nearly spilling my tea.

“Something wrong?”

“I just remembered, I have somewhere I need to be!” I’m stammering, and there’s crumbs all over my face. I pat my jacket to make sure the letter’s still there. It is. That blasted letter that’s going to be the death of me. “So sorry. I have to dash.”

Miss Maria frowns. “But we were having such fun.”

“I know. It’s great, really. And maybe I can come back sometime? But right now I need to finish this job I’m on.”

“Oh. Yes. You were running somewhere.” All the smiles are gone from her face now. She’s frowning, like suddenly she’s bored with me and the shop and the whole situation. It’s more like the sort of look you’d see on a world-weary old lady.

“Exactly. So I should get back to that.”

The door to the shop slams, and all the lamps go out.

It’s happening again. It’s happening again! I knew it! I should’ve listened to myself.

“You really shouldn’t be out after dark, you know. A little boy like you.” All of the childish sound is gone out of her voice. She sounds strangely old, even though she doesn’t actually look any different. “Something could happen. You know. You’ve heard there’s a murderer on the loose, surely.”

I’m starting to get proper scared now – more than I had with any of the others. “I… may have, miss.”

Miss Maria is examining her fingernails all casual-like. “Oh, you’re a clever boy. You’ve heard. You’ve got that look about you – so proud of how clever you are.” Then she’s looking straight at me and she’s smiling, and it’s such a calm smile I’m not sure why I’m suddenly twice as terrified.

“Shall I tell you about the occult murders? Would you like to know more?”

The occult murders… all the people who’ve been killed and had the sigils carved in their skin. Like the butler mentioned earlier.

“N-No, Miss Maria. I don’t think I would.”

“Hm.” She chuckles, but she’s not smiling. “That’s wise of you. I could easily tell you everything anyone could hope to know. I could give you enough to spare your employer weeks of work. Of course, I’d have to make sure you never leave this shop alive.”

“No!”

“Just another victim. What would it matter?”

I’ve run for the door, but my hands are shaking too much to open it. Either that, or somehow it’s locked itself tight. “I thought you were being friendly! We were eating biscuits together! You were nice!”

“Mmmmm, well, I’d thought I could keep being nice.” Miss Maria walks towards me with a hand out. “Come, now. Hand over the letter, and I’ll let you go.”

“This blasted letter… It really is more trouble than it’s worth. I’m about tempted to let you have it.”

She smiles. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

“I said about tempted.” And I grab the letter out of my jacket and wave it in front of me. “But I’ve a job to do, don’t I? Why do you even want it so badly? How do you know it’s about you?”

Miss Maria folds her arms and gives me this sort of rotten, scoffing look. “Honestly. My maidservant heard your employer through the window clear as day as she was walking down the street earlier: ‘Sensitive information of the utmost importance’. Loud as you please. I’m shocked the entire city didn’t hear.”

Oh. “I’m starting to think it did…”

“Regardless, what else could be of utmost importance to London’s finest detective save for the recent rash of unsolved murders? So hand it over. There is still a great deal yet to do.”

I stick the letter back in my jacket and shrink away towards the door. “You do know that I know you’re connected now, right? I don’t need any letter. I could tell Scotland Yard myself!”

“Oh, darling, who would believe you?” She laughs, and the worst part is it’s not even a malicious laugh. She really is just laughing at me, like I’ve said the stupidest thing in the world. She reaches out her hand to make a grab for my collar–

And then she pulls her hand away and shrieks.

I look up and see her gripping her wrist and making the most horrid face. And I would be, too – she’s got a bone-handled dagger sticking out of her hand. I cover my mouth and look away.

What? I can’t stand the sight of blood. Yes I know I’m in the wrong line of work for that… I’d like to see you deal with it, though.

I hear a voice from the back of the shop yelling at me to run – is it the shopkeeper? I can’t tell, and I’m in no mood to find out, so I start kicking at the door ’til it gives way, and I’m off.

No more stopping. No more waiting. No more nothing. If anyone even tries to stop me, I’ll bite ’em. I swear I will.

And no one does. I make it to Dr Watson’s practice, all out of breath and terrified and likely pale as death. That’s what I’m figuring, at least, given how he’s looking at me. He’s packing up his kit for the day, and he stares at me like he’s just gotten a surprise patient.

“Billy?”

I gasp. I grab the letter. And finally, finally, I hold it out to him. “Message for you, sir.” Then my head feels a bit wobbly.

Next thing I know I’m lying on the floor and Dr Watson is patting my face and asking if I’m all right. Course I’m all right, I tell him, but my voice sounds all raspy.

“You fainted, I’m afraid.”

That’s rubbish, I tell him. Only girls faint. But he’s doing all his doctor fussing around me, making sure I can breathe, so I figure it’s best to just play along.

Once I’m settled, he opens up the letter and has a read. “Very important,” I tell him. “Mr Holmes told me it was of the utmost importance and not to let anyone see it.”

“Did he…”

“He did, Dr Watson. And you wouldn’t believe how many people stopped me along the way to try to get it from me!” I feel my head going a bit funny again, but I go on even so. “Didn’t let a single one of ’em stop me, though. No, sir… Er, not for long, anyway.”

Dr Watson frowns and folds up the letter. “Who exactly were these people?”

“Erm.” I think back. “Well, there was the butler to Mrs Henrietta Oxford…”

“Ah, her again. Trying to compete with Holmes again, no doubt.”

“And then there was an Angelina Pritchard.”

I notice Dr Watson’s started writing the names down on the back of the note. “Hm. What’s she about?”

“Something to do with stitching up some lord or other. Winthrop? Wainwright? Something with a W.”

“Really…”

“And there was a lady called herself Miss Maria at a teashop who says she knows about the occult murders.”

“Miss… Maria… teashop. Anyone else?”

“Erm. Hart?… Charles Hart. Big bloke, looks like he’s about to explode.”

Dr Watson laughs. “God, him. He tried to shoplift a single cigar and he’s been turning himself in at Scotland Yard at least once a week for it.” He doesn’t write anything down this time.

“So, erm… seeing as how I risked life and limb for that letter, Dr Watson, sir… d’you mind awfully if I know what the important information was?”

“Mm.” He folds up the letter and sticks it in his pocket. “Holmes is going to be late to the opera tonight.”

“… oh.”

Dr Watson clears his throat.

“So… it wasn’t about any of them.”

“No, indeed. But apparently vanity runs stronger than logic in the criminal set. I shall let Holmes know that if he ever sends you on this sort of fact-finding mission again, he’s to double your salary. Can you stand up now?”

I could, and Dr Watson drops a handful of coins into my hand and instructs me to take a cab home. He gets no argument from me, obviously.

…Oi. Why are you laughing?

No, I was not duped into anything. It was an important letter, you understand? Just because I didn’t know why it was important…

All right, fine. The letter itself wasn’t important. But that’s not the point. Who’s helped Mr Holmes crack three cases… well, two cases and some light shoplifting? Not Wiggins. Yours truly. Remember that next time Wiggins takes to bragging. Bet he’s never seen a lady get stabbed through the hand.

…though I’m wondering if I might be clear to take a few days off before I’m given any other top secret missions.