Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER FIVE

“That was rather rude,” I said once we were back outside.

“Probably,” he agreed, “but I couldn’t bear one more minute in their stifling company.”

“I did wonder how long you would manage to sit still in there before erupting.”

We crossed into Belgravia, Holmes’ heart set on an Indian restaurant that lay close by. He ignored all attempts at conversation until we had passed through its nigh-hidden doorway and were sat at one of its opulent, red tables. The smells from the kitchen were heady and sharp, my stomach fairly trembled at the hot, spicy onslaught that would soon be heading its way.

“It has been far too long since we visited here,” Holmes announced as the waiter drew close. “Have the kitchens prepare enough for three hungry men,” he said. “We’ll entrust ourselves to his choice of menu.”

The waiter bowed in acknowledgement of the order and walked away into the gloom, sidestepping his way past the usual mix of retired colonels, medical students and young gentlemen on the wrong side of sobriety.

“Three?” I asked.

“Shinwell Johnson will be meeting us here,” Holmes explained. “Given where the bodies were found, it seemed sensible to avail ourselves of his local knowledge.”

I’m sure I have mentioned Johnson before. He gave frequent assistance to Holmes after the turn of the century. Originally a criminal of mean repute—with two sentences at Parkhurst to his name—he had repented of his ways and now acted as Holmes’ agent within the criminal underworld. He wasn’t a “nark”, as the vernacular has it, and he never dealt with the police. But he often kept Holmes abreast of movements within the various criminal fraternities, allowing him to know the underbelly of the city like no other. He was an extremely likeable chap once you got beneath the battered brim of his bowler and looked past the broken nose and scarred cheeks.

“Evenin’, Gents!” he announced, arriving a few moments later. “One more for dinner?”

“I’ve ordered for you,” said Holmes gesturing to the seat furthest from the door. Johnson was always careful when meeting us in public and liked to make sure he could hide himself away in the shadows.

“Oh, I dare say there’s nothing that comes out of that kitchen that could do me a mischief,” Johnson replied. “If you’d ever seen my mother’s cooking you’d know I’m immune to poison.”

Poisonous it was not, though all three of us found ourselves loosening our collars and taking a little more of the claret than we might otherwise have done—anything to try to cool our burning tongues.

“God knows how we ever beat them,” said Johnson once he was finished eating. “I feel beaten up just by eating the food.”

“Invigorating, isn’t it?” said Holmes, taking one last mouthful of something hot and creamy that involved lamb.

“I’ll not feel the cold for a week,” Johnson agreed. “So—” he reached for his clay pipe “—I’m guessing you want to talk to me about the bodies found in Rotherhithe.”

“You guess correctly.”

“I thought it would only be a matter of time. In fact, I had half a mind to head over to you myself. I know the papers have been full of rubbish about it being gang violence but, I thought, my Mr Holmes ain’t stupid enough to fall for that.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the uncomfortable look that passed across Holmes’ face.

“I confess my attention was elsewhere when the news was first released,” he said, “and I didn’t give it the attention it clearly deserved.”

“You and the rest of London,” said Johnson. He smiled, and his good humour was so soft and genuine it transformed his face. “You’ve got a better excuse than most though,” he continued. “One man can only keep his eye on so much after all.” He took another mouthful of his drink and lit his pipe. “Probably best if I give you the lot then,” he said, “belt and braces, just the way you like it.”