Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]

I can I suppose appreciate how people talk about the benefit of hindsight, but as the 1800s looked set to give way to the 1900s, it really did feel as if the world in which we had grown up was fast changing. Queen Victoria was approaching eighty years of age but could not last forever, and the increasingly belligerent Prussian Germany, unstable Austria-Hungary, land-hungry Italy, imperialist Russia and the ailing Ottoman Empire all seemed to offer far too many chances for trouble to erupt somewhere or other on the Continent. Great Britain had done well in its policy of Splendid Isolation in the past century but larger and more expensive ships coupled with militaristic neighbours who were ready to threaten our vital trade routes meant that that was no longer really an option when it came to protecting our far-flung Empire. The sense of approaching trouble was palpable.

Still, at least the important things in my own life had been set to rights. John, bacon, coffee. In that order.

Mostly in that order.

As I have mentioned before, John had taken to becoming doctor to the 'boys' who worked at Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson's (and, because he always pouted so adorably when I reminded him of this fact, my friend Lowen's) molly-houses. Their line of work often involved sustaining minor injuries that it would have been embarrassing for them to have a regular doctor for, so it was no surprise when one of them came to see us that day.

The fact that Lowen himself brought him, clearly to the displeasure of a green-eyed someone, was just one of those things and not something that I had arranged by telegram. It might however end up being one of those things that my backside would be paying for later, judging from the murderous looks both I and a certain Cornish ex-fisherman were getting from a certain bow-legged person in the vicinity.

It looked like my buying that extra large jar of unguent from 'The House of Eros' had been a wise move!

“Ginger is as you know is a copper based at Kingsland”, Lowen explained, smirking at John's all too evident annoyance at his own presence. “He is a bit shy so I said that I would come along with him.”

Mr. Edward 'Ginger' Tudor was a most distinctive young gentleman then of some twenty-three years of age. He not only had flaming red hair (hence his nickname) but also an unusual reddish skin pigment. I knew a little of him as he had recently married Miss Ivy Jackson-Giles, the younger sister of yet another of John's tormentors my friend Benji, and John had also attended at the birth of their first daughter. Mr. Tudor was a man of few words but as I have said before that was hardly a requirement in a molly-house.

“What is the problem, pray?” I asked as John remained firmly at my side with his hand on my shoulder and his rings showing. I patted his hand and he moved off to his table, still glaring at the smirking Cornishman.

No, not the least bit jealous. Although someone really could tone down that leer as it would only make John even more..... well, what would be would be.

“Ginger's patch was one of those caught up in the Dalston Junction Robbery last night”, Lowen smiled. “As I am sure you read in the newspapers, a mail train was intercepted at that station and the robbers then fled, two in one direction with the bags and two in another. They caught the first two but not until they had hidden the loot somewhere; the second lot got clean away. Ginger's beat is near the area so he was called in to help search.”

“Did you find anything?” I asked Mr. Tudor.

“No sign of the villains, sirs”, he said politely (I silently liked that he always addressed us both). “I did see something a bit odd but nothing to do with the crime.”

“But that or subsequent developments arising from it have prompted you to come to us”, I reasoned. “What was it?”

He blushed for some reason, hard as that was to tell with him.

“I thought the villains might have used the old canal tow-path, sirs”, he said. “So I walked along it for a bit. I found nothing until I reached Imber Road where I planned to turn back for the station which is near there. But there was a couple actually rowing along the damn canal in the moonlight! Er, sorry sirs.”

I could have told him that I often heard much worse in these rooms, especially... no, so not the time. And Lowen really could cut with the grinning just then as he knew what it did to poor John, whose growling was now quite audible.

“Two people rowing along the Regent's Canal”, I said. “How very odd. Did you approach them at all?”

The constable blushed.

“I did not, sirs”, he said. “Thing was he had his back to me and she.... well, I don't like to say it but she was so damn ugly I felt sorry for the poor fellow. I thought p'rhaps he was taking her out hoping they'd sink and she'd drown.”

John sniggered at that. I thought for a moment.

“And the two robbers who escaped roughly in your direction were later caught?” I asked.

“Yes sirs. Some of the lads out of my station found them hiding in a side-alley off Imber.”

“Did you report the row-boat incident at the station?” I asked. He shook his head.

“The others all think I'm a bit slow, sirs”, he said ruefully. “And Sergeant Calne – he does not like me for some reason.”

I caught the Cornishman's eye-roll at that and I could empathize. Sergeant Sidney Calne, one of the most pitiful examples of sub-humanity ever to disgrace the Metropolitan Police Service and a man – I will not debase the term 'gentleman' by wasting it on him – who had clearly only got as far as he had done by his wife having relatives in the force. I looked at our visitor thoughtfully.

“There is something else that is troubling you”, I said shrewdly. “What is it?”

He managed to go even redder (a considerable achievement) but answered.

“One of the fellows captured was a Mr. Chuck Amery, sirs”, he said. “Chuck not Charles; apparently his mother wanted something odd. Folks these days! He had a handkerchief on him that had to be logged when he was searched, and it.... well, it were a lady's handkerchief. All lace and whatnot. But when he had it handed back to him he looked like he was set to faint!”

“Possibly the handkerchief of someone other than his current lady?” John suggested.

“He's married”, the policeman said sharply. “More likely he stole it knowing him.”

I had an idea.

“You said that you saw this couple at Imber Road”, I said. “Are there any canal buildings along the stretch that you checked?”

He nodded.

“I joined it at Whitmore Road near the station, sirs”, he said, “and there's a lock-keeper's cottage there. There was one at Balmer Road further on but that was abandoned when they closed the basin there. Then it's Imber Road cottage and finally Sturt's Lock before it enters a long tunnel. There's a few factory buildings that back onto the basins both there and at Imber.”

“I think that Watson and I should visit the area”, I said. “But bearing in mind your sergeant's attitude towards you, I promise that we shall not involve you when we do.”

He looked grateful at that. I could understand his reaction; I knew that the unpleasant Sergeant Calne was most definitely the sort not to take well to anyone cleverer than he was – although that description probably covered everyone including the station cat!

As everyone knows (or at least I did after John told me) canals were for a brief period the lifeblood of this country, enabling the transport of non-perishable goods (particularly coal) much more efficiently that the rival road network. Their heyday was of course cut short by the advent of the railways and few appreciated that a small quantity of goods was still conveyed on the older network. The Regent's Canal was (and still is) just under nine miles long, running from a branch of the Grand Union (London to Birmingham) Canal in Paddington to the Docks and taking its name from Regent's Park along whose northern border it runs at one point, passing not far from 221B.

I had contacted Sergeant Baldur and had asked for all the official police reports on the matter such as they were, and had gone through them carefully the morning after our visitors had called. There is something quite pleasurable in trying to read police reports when a totally not jealous English city doctor repeatedly fucks you hard and rough, muttering angrily about Cornish ex-fishermen that want what is his by rights.

Totally not jealous!

After a late breakfast we set off, my giving silent thanks to the aftercare unguent which meant that I could actually walk. John I knew was a little uneasy as we were entering a somewhat rougher part of London than was our usual haunt although the area of the investigation was still a little way from the Docks, and I knew that he had his gun with him. The fact that he was determined to protect me warmed me considerably, especially given the bitter February weather.

“Only the canal between Whitmore Road and Sturt's Lock seems to be implicated”, I told him, “so we will examine that area first and then widen out investigation if we need to.”

He nodded. It had snowed the night before and I wondered if the canal might be iced over. Fortunately it was not and when we reached our first port of call at Whitmore Road the keeper, a Mr. Bates, was affable enough and prepared to indulge my curiosity. Although he was evidently surprised by my first question.

“We do keep records of all the boats that pass, sir”, he said. “The Company needs to know those things, I supposes. Would you be wanting to have a look at them?”

“I would if you do not mind”, I said. “Tell me, would it be possible for a vessel to pass by without your being aware of it?”

He thought for a moment on that.

“Here it might, sir”, he admitted. “We're just a loading area you see, with no lock gates. But they wouldn't get far; they'd have to stop for the gates at Sturt's and even if Gil was fast asleep the noise of his gates working would rouse him. They might get further going east as the Basin is before Acton's Lock but I don't see why anyone would want to. And part of the towpath that way is used a lot as a short-cut, I know.”

He kindly showed me the movements along the canal in his area – more than even I had expected – but there was nothing untoward in them. That was good as it narrowed down my search. I paid him for his time and we departed,

It was a short walk to the next cottage, the abandoned one at Balmer Road. What with the door and windows having been removed and the holes in the roof, the place looked desolate. There had obviously once been a small loading area here and there was still one business present, a candle-maker. The owner, a grizzled old fellow called Mr. Severus Jones, was quite willing to talk to us.

“I have an arrangement with Fred whose barge makes a weekly trip down to the docks”, he said. “He takes some of my wares down there for me; not strictly legit I know but he has the room and it doesn't harm anybody.”

“I see no reason to challenge any such arrangement”, I said reassuringly. “We are making inquiries into the Dalston Junction Robbery. Two people were seen using the canal not long after; I know that would have been late at night but I wondered if you had seen anything then or since?”

The old fellow scratched his head.

“Unfortunately I sleeps round the back of the place”, he said, “so I saw nothing. Heard about it all this morning of course; the two fellows I work with were full of it. And there was that policeman.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“What policeman?” I asked.

“Tall fellow with bright red hair”, the old man said. “He was searching around the old cottage the morning after. I could hardly miss him.”

John looked pointedly at me. Mr. Tudor had said nothing about that.

I thanked and recompensed Mr Jones for his time, and we left him. We did a perfunctory search of the ruined cottage ourselves but found nothing of any note. The place was dark and unfriendly I felt, and we could hear shouting coming from The Grapes of Wrath tavern which overlooked the canal.

“Let us leave here”, I said. It may have been daylight but the close buildings gave the area a dark and unfriendly feel, and I had noted my friend's hand tightening on the gun in his pocket.

Chapter Text

The third cottage was the one at Imber Street, and we were both thoughtful as we approached it.

“It would not be the first time a criminal has tried to use your small talents to pull the wool over the eyes of their pursuers”, John said.

I suddenly pushed him against the wall and kissed him hard, His eyes widened and he groaned as I worked my hand past his belt and into his trousers, grabbing his cock and working him quickly to hardness. We were thankfully beneath a road over-bridge so there was no-one to see him getting thoroughly debauched.

“Come!” I whispered.

His back arched and he did, panting heavily as I withdrew my hand and wiped it on my handkerchief.

“Apparently my talents are not that 'small' after all!” I quipped, strolling off and leaving him trying to pull himself together. Hah!

I was still not smirking as the remains of an English city doctor limped up behind me, still gasping for breath.

“You!” he grumbled, “are terrible!”

“Mind on the case, John”, I reminded him. “”Then I will be taking you home to Baker Street and fucking you while I wear the waistcoat and glasses. And nothing else!”

From the again rapidly increased breathing, that did not exactly help matters for him. I sniggered and turned my attention back to the cottage. It was close by a set of steps leading up to the road, and seemed quiet enough. I knocked at the door which was opened by the young lock-keeper, a dark-haired young fellow of unprepossessing appearance.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes and this is Doctor Watson”, I said. “We are making inquiries about the Dalston Junction bank robbery. There was a report of someone using the canal not long after.”

He looked suspiciously at me but nodded.

“In a row-boat?” he asked.

“Yes”, John said (I may have smirked at his relative slowness as he limped up behind me).

The fellow came out and led us round to the side of the cottage. There, looking rather sorry for itself, was what had once been a rowing-boat.

“I'm Tom Butterfield”, he said. “It was found sunk in the basin this morning when one of the barges tried to unload; the fellows helped me get it out and put it here to dry. Thought I might use it as firewood.”

“I am rather afraid that it may be evidence in the robbery”, I said, “although we will of course pay you what it is worth and something for your colleagues who recovered it. I do not suppose that there was anything else?”

He looked at us uncertainly but eventually nodded.

“There were three people that night”, he said at last. “Two men and a woman. I heard the men talking to each other then saw one of them leaving with her; they headed up the steps to the road. Didn't see the other fellow go; I suppose he must've along the towpath towards Sturt's.”

“You have been most helpful”, I said. “Here is something for your time; if you present the boat to the authorities when they do come, mention my name and they will compensate you for it. You can contact me at the address on the card if there are any problems.”

I handed him both some coins and my card (John as usual frowned at my generosity but he would soon have other problems to deal with) and we left.

“On to Sturt's Lock?” John asked once the fellow had gone inside. I shook my head.

“I think that what we are looking for would be somewhere round here”, I said. “We know that the proceeds of the robbery would have been a number of bulky mail-bags. I do not see how the robbers disposed of them before they were caught.”

“Maybe they did not know that they were going to get caught”, John smiled.

I looked at him thoughtfully. He stared back at me in confusion.

“Or maybe they expected just that”, I said at last.

“And then somehow passed the information as to their whereabouts to an accomplice?” John asked.

I nodded.

“If they were the people around this cottage that night, then where....”

I stopped, focussing my attention on a small coaling-stage that stood at the end of the basin where the canal continued back towards Balmer Road. We crossed the rickety bridge carefully and went to examine it. Sure enough, someone had most definitely been around the back where the coal was loaded into it as I could see footprints in the coal-dust.

“We have him!” I grinned.

John and I returned to Baker Street where I made good on my promise to him, and in return he graciously condescended to some of that manly embracing thing that he knew I liked and that he tolerated and would I stop smirking or he would walk out right now!

“Like you can walk anywhere!” I teased.

He pouted adorably, which was just asking for trouble. So I gave it to him.

Our good friend Henriksen had recently been promoted to chief-inspector following a most successful case involving fraud at the highest levels of government, which had been enjoyable not just because it had driven my annoying brother Bacchus mad with worry but because I had been able to help a friend. I had only really helped a little (or 'three baking day visits' as John so rudely put it) and my friend was pleased if surprised to be asked to help. (In answer to the obvious I could also have asked Sergeant Baldur, but I knew that certain of the more bigoted members of the panel who had approved Henriksen's promotion had done so very reluctantly and I knew that a major success would annoy these idiots considerably).

“Will not that idiot Calne have his nose put out of joint by an outsider coming in?” John asked, not unreasonably.

We were back at the Imber Road cottage which if anything looked even more dark and foreboding than at our last visit.

“Sergeant Calne is not the most pleasant of people”, I said, “and frankly any facial rearrangement would be a major improvement. But I did contact his inspector who is sound enough and even better, loathes the man. Henriksen, your men are in place?”

The chief-inspector nodded.

“Two at each of the three ways out”, he said. “You are sure that they will not be armed?”

“I think that extremely unlikely”, I said. “Our target will not be expecting any challenge to them and I very much doubt that he can outrun us.”

“I do hope that it is not Ginger”, John said anxiously.

“I am sure that he is all he seems to be”, I said. “A most handsome, good-hearted and well-endowed gentleman.”

He looked askance at me. Jealousy was one of his character quirks and once we were back in Baker Street I would doubtless pay for that remark. With any luck!

It was not far short of midnight when I saw a figure making his way down the steps from Imber Road. There was only one street light that threw but a weak beam down the steps to mark his entry, but a shock of red hair was clearly visible. I could feel John tense but he said nothing.

The man was carrying what turned out to be a foldaway pull-along trolley, and he set it up on the far side of the canal – he obviously did not trust the footbridge – before crossing to the coaling-stage. There he knelt down and pulled out a jemmy with which he forced open the back of the bunker. I moved silently out from our hiding-place knowing that John had his gun cocked and ready.

“Hullo Mr. Policeman”, I said.

My voice sounded absurdly loud in the silent loading-area. The newcomer looked at me in shock then tried to make a run for it by leping up and trying to vault the canal branch leading into the disused basin, only to fail to reach the other side. He fell back and his head caught the back of the wall on our side with a sickening crack before he hit the water. Henriksen blew his whistle and his constables came running, and they soon had the fellow out.

“Gone”, John said quietly. “His neck broke.”

Mr. Butterfield, whom I had warned to keep inside until the matter was resolved, had now joined us and we all stared down at the dead man. Sergeant Sidney Calne, requiescat in pace. Or maybe not, considering the red wig that still floated in the water near where he had gone into the canal.

“He hid the stuff in there?” Mr. Butterfield asked looking at the coaling-stage.

“The thieves hid it in there”, I corrected. “They had already arranged with the sergeant that they would leave it in a coaling-stage and then he would collect it the night of the robbery.”

“So what went wrong?” Henriksen asked.

“I am guessing”, I said, “but I would wager that they told him they left it by the second cottage after they joined the canal. However they actually meant the second cottage in use, not counting the abandoned one at Balmer Road. The sergeant went to the cottage there and searched but found nothing for his troubles. Most likely he went back to them and they clarified matters, so he had to wait until tonight before he could strike.”

“At a cost of his life”, Henriksen said disgustedly. “He won't be missed!”

Ginger – Mr. Edward Tudor – came round the next day at my request. Rather too often in my line of work one had to be careful when it came to what the newspapers so charmingly described as 'collateral damage' in a case. A man's life is in my opinion never 'collateral'.

“The boys at the station are up in arms, sir”, he said ruefully. “Some of them think I was in on it because the sergeant had filed a report of a red-headed policeman seen searching the cottage at Balmer Road.”

“I am rather afraid that said searcher was most likely one of your late sergeant's cronies”, I said sadly. “And when the sergeant came to claim his ill-gotten gains he used the same red wig in a further attempt to implicate you.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Ginger said dubiously.

“I sent out and found the shop that he had purchased it from”, I said. “They sold it to him as the same time as they sold a woman's outfit and a blonde wig to someone with him.”

He just looked confused, although nothing like as adorably as when John did it.

“The ugly couple seem rowing down the canal at some ungodly hour of the evening were in fact two of the robbers”, I explained. “Many would raise an eyebrow but few would be likely to challenge them, thinking as you yourself did that the fellow in particular was suffering enough. When they reached Imber Road they were seen, although Mr. Butterfield in his cottage thought that they were two men and a woman since saw a man and a woman but heard two male voices. Very fortunately for him he did not go out and challenge them. They hid the mail-bags in the coal-bunker then allowed themselves to be caught in Sergeant Calne's station area, knowing they could pass on the loot's location and he could move it somewhere safer for a cut.”

“That is wonderful news, sir”, the constable said, although he did not seem that happy. And I could guess why.

“My friend Henriksen is arranging for a transfer for you”, I said, “as we both know what policemen are like after such happenings. I know that you and your family live in Hammersmith and fortunately there is a vacancy in nearby Shepherd's Bush for a constable, so there need be no delay. But if you do get any troubles from any of the people there, do contact me and I shall make sure the right words are spoken to the right people to stop it.”

“Thank you, sir”, he smiled.

“It is wrong that his fellow policemen should take it out on him”, John said after the young fellow had gone.

“It is”, I agreed, “but that is the way of things in any large organization. There will always be some people who value their own career advancement above little things like morality and doing the right thing.”

“I wonder where they got the idea for such a crime from?” he mused.

“Who knows?” I said with a smile. “We all know what authors these days are like. They really should only write about things that are completely and utterly believable. Which reminds me, which one of my completely and utterly unbelievable cases will you be writing up next?”

That earned me an extra-large pout. Which was even more adorable and would only lead to one thing.

It did. Happy days!