Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1) by Ralph Vaughan Read Free Book Online Page A

other side of the street,” Kent whispered.  “Some small figure keeping out of the light.”  He started to reach for his revolver, but Holmes put a restraining hand on his.
    “One of my Irregulars seeking me out to make a report.”
    “Irregulars?” Kent said, frowning in puzzlement.  He peered at the figure coming from out the alley and his eyes widened.  “A child?”

Chapter VI
    Ghosts of the East End
     
     
    “Over here, Jimmy,” Sherlock Holmes called softly, stepping into the dim light of the flickering gaslamps.
    The boy was not more than ten or eleven, but he carried himself with the swagger of a man twice his age.  He was decently clothed, but poorly, and Kent was willing to bet the bulge on his left calf was either a knife or bludgeon strapped into place.  His hair was bright red even in this dismal light and his face was as freckled as that of a country cousin.
    “Mornin’, Mr ‘Olmes,” the lad greeted cheerily enough, though he glared warily at Holmes’ companion.
    “It’s quite all right, Jimmy,” Holmes assured him.  “This is Detective Inspector Kent.  You may speak freely”
    The policemen and the street Arab allowed each other a desultory nod, adversaries meeting on suddenly neutral ground.
    “Me and me mates done walked Chapel and charters lookin’ for blow on the Vanishments and bleedin’ Ghosts like you wanted, Mr ‘Olmes.” the lad explained.
    “To what effect?”
    “Like you said, Mr ‘Olmes,” Jimmy continued.  “People seed more’n’s been said or writ, but all one’s got to do is ask, and we asked.  People are willin’ to tell, wantin’ to tell, waitin’ to tell, if’n only to make sure they ain’t alone in their screamy dreamies when they put loaf to weepy willow.”
    “Make your report, Jimmy,” Holmes instructed.
    The wandering poor of the East End had witnessed much more than had ever been reported in any of London’s five hundred newspapers.  Some had been threatened to silence, but many more had simply never been asked.
    At no time since the ghastly murders of ’88 had so many of London’s poor clove so closely to the hovels from which they usually yearned to escape.  Only those without any other option ventured forth by night, especially when it particularly dark or foggy.  A sense of terror had gripped the eastern half of London – a man staggers out of a bar, never to be seen again; a mother turns away from a wailing babe, only to have the child silenced in mid-cry; a man stumbles or is yanked off his feet, and never hits the ground.
    In the Causeway of Limehouse, the superstitious Chinese whispered of pale demons more deadly than the yetis of their homeland’s snowy mountains.
    Sewer workers told ale-house tales of white beasts flitting though the hidden passages of London’s noxious underworld, of the muffled thumping of mysterious machinery heard in the unknown depths where silence should have reigned.
    Ships at dock and offloaded cargo were pilfered by unseen hands when no man could have approached the goods undetected.
    No one dared venture into London’s parks by night.
    In odour-saturated London, a new stink occasionally drifted to nose, either upon the night-breezes channelling through the ancient streets or from out the foetid depths, a fume having nothing to do with horses or men, the two greatest populations of the metropolis, nor with the myriad coal-burning, sulphur-belching chimneys that rose from every abode no matter how mean or grand like skeletal fingers clawing the low leaden clouds.
    “Folk be plenty scared, Mr ‘Olmes, ‘n’ not withou’ cause.”  Jimmy glanced at the Scotland Yard inspector.  “’Specially since ain’t none of the rozzers seem too keen to do nothin’ to ‘elp us poor blokes.”
    Kent’s nostrils dilated with anger at the lad’s words, but he kept his words behind his teeth.  Though the comments had stung, he knew there was more truth behind them than anything else.  He had,