Part 11 (1/2)

'I confess that the experience is a novel and unexpected one.' Holmes voice was flattened by the padding. 'Still, look on it as a part of life's rich tapestry.,'

'Thank you,' I retorted. 'I'll remember that.'

We seemed to roll forward by a few feet, and a heavy thud behind us suggested that the hatch had been closed.

'I seem to remember reading about something like this in a Jules Verne book,' I said lightly, trying to keep my spirits up.

'Verne got it all wrong,' Holmes said in a level voice. 'At the pressures generated in his manned rocket sh.e.l.l, the occupants would have been squashed into raspberry preserve with a fraction of a second.'

There was a definite pressure building up in my ears. I swallowed. The pressure eased, only to mount a few seconds later.

'Very rea.s.suring,' I gasped. 'Any last words?'

'The world has not seen the last of Sherlock Holmes,' my friend said. I wasn't sure if it was a threat or a promise.

There was a loud thud behind us and the vehicle rocked on its wheels. The armchair felt as if it was being pushed hard against my back. Something roared loudly in the background and the vehicle shook as if some unseen creature were caressing it with rough hands. The temperature rose suddenly, bringing a fine dew of perspiration to my brow. My fingers clutched at the arms of the chair and my head was forced back against the padding, making me think, for some obscure -reason, of a dentist's surgery.

I clenched my neck muscles and tried to force my head forward. It was hard. I felt as if Mycroft Holmes were sitting on my chest. I strained harder.

Suddenly the weight vanished from my chest. I catapulted forward, banging my nose against the back of Holmes's chair. Stars exploded in the pitch darkness. The beast outside was roaring louder now, and I had to brace myself against the sides of the vessel to stop myself sliding off the velvet upholstery. Then we were slowing down, and the tone of the roar changed.

Within seconds we were stationary and the hinged lid was being pulled open from outside.

'Ere ya go, mate.'

A tattooed arm reached in and hauled me like a kitten into a room that was the twin of the one we had left. Holmes waved away the man with the tattoos, and clambered out under his own steam. I looked at him and laughed.

'If you find the experience so amusing,' he snapped, 'perhaps you would like to make the return journey.'

I suppressed my laughter. Part of it was sheer hysteria, but a large portion was due to the velvet weave pattern embossed across Holmes's forehead.

I hadn't been alone in hitting my head.

We staggered out into Drummond Crescent and found ourselves outside a small, anonymous house. We looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

'Quicker than a cab,' I gasped, 'and so much cheaper!'

'Gad, I've a small place a few hundred yards away where I keep make-up and disguises,' he said between huge choking guffaws. 'And to think, I never knew...'

We were still laughing when a black hansom cab trotted past us. Holmes sprinted after it and I, because of the wound I had sustained in Afghanistan, followed as best I could. The hansom rounded the corner and, shortly afterwards, so did Holmes. By the time I reached the corner the hansom was stationary and the door to a small terraced house was swinging shut half-way down the street.

Holmes had taken off his top hat and flung it to the pavement.

'd.a.m.n and blast!' he shouted as I approached. 'd.a.m.n and blast! I could not make out his face. Too late, by a few seconds.'

He walked along to where the carriage stood and looked up at the closed door. I joined him, mindful of the hulking figure of the driver atop the carriage.

'I know that address,' Holmes said. His lips moved as he tried to recollect the memory, then a slow smile spread across his face.

'We may be in luck after all, Watson. Follow me.'

With that he bounded up the stairs to the front door of the house.

'But Holmes . . . Good Lord, you can't just barge in there, man!'

'Why not?' he shouted down as he rang the bell. The door swung open just as I joined him, revealing a rather seedy-looking footman whose hair was slicked down and who grinned at us in a most familiar way. I had been about to apologize for Holmes's behaviour but, after a short exchange of words, he walked in as if he owned the place. I followed, confused.

The walls of the hall were papered in a red flock design that showed patches of wear. The carpet had once been opulent, but now looked threadbare and out of fas.h.i.+on. There was no sign of Maupertuis and his companion, if, indeed, this was the house they had entered. A stairway led upstairs. Through a connecting door I could see a large drawing room whose walls were thankfully half-hidden by drapes. I say 'thankfully' as there were children lounging on sofas, and the murals which had been painted on the walls were of fauns and satyrs in positions of amorous entanglements with partially clad nymphs of a shockingly young age. I am no prude - my experience of women covers many nations and three separate continents - but I was appalled by the almost medical explicitness with which those paintings were rendered.

And then I looked at the children.

Most were girls, although three or four angelic boys fluttered long lashes at me. They were lolling around in postures of provocative abandon, dressed in short frocks. Very short frocks and nothing else.

I began to feel sick.

'Does anything take your fancy?' said a voice behind me. I turned. Behind me stood a woman of uncertain years wearing a dress that looked as if it had been made out of the same threadbare fabric as the flock wallpaper in the hall. She was short and wide, and her mouth was a rouged slash across her face.

'We've got some loverly little ones here, gentlemen, and clean too, if you take my meaning. Whatever your tastes, we can satisfy them. Blondes or redheads, bold or shy. If you want them fresh, well, that comes a little extra, gents, but fresh you can have.'

She gazed up at us with bulging, frog-like eyes. I wanted to lash out at her with my stick, but remnants of gentility and Holmes's presence by my side made me stay my hand.

'Thank you,' he said. He had roughened his voice and, looking at him from the corner of my eye, I could see that he was holding himself differently, disguising his height and suggesting some congenital deformity of the spine. 'Perhaps we could take some time in choosing.'

She winked at him.

'Certainly, sir. I can see that you're a connersewer, a proper connersewer.

Take your time. Talk to 'em, if you like. Give us a call when you're ready, and I'll have a room put at your disposal.'

She retreated back to whatever rock she had crawled out from under. I thought I heard her say, 'Take two or three, if you want, it's all the same to them, and you looks like you can afford it,' but the buzzing in my ears made it difficult to tell.

'Bear up, man,' Holmes's voice whispered beside me. 'Smile, and when I say the word, make for the stairs.'

I glanced again into the room. One of the boys winked at me and licked his lips. I shuddered.

On Holmes's command we moved back into the hall. As we rounded the bannister Holmes reached out and opened the door slightly, then slammed it shut.

'With luck they'll think our courage deserted us,' he said grimly. 'That harpy could tell from your face that you were discomfited.'

'Discomfited!' I hissed. 'Holmes, do you have any idea . . .?'

'More than you, old friend,' he said as we reached the first landing. 'The underside of London is my natural habitat. I have been able to keep most of it from you. I'm only sorry you had to be here now.'

'But Holmes, they were children!'

He scanned the carpet and sniffed the air like an experienced hunter in search of big game, then started up the next flight of stairs.

'The other side of the coin to our experiences in Holborn,' he whispered.