Fic for garonne: Promises (2/3)

[holmesticemods]

We took a hansom to Spitalfields, and I led Holmes through the streets. I knew the area somewhat well, though I wished I didn’t. But when a patient is too scared to go to her doctor, the doctor must sometimes meet the patient, which meant that I had been to the Ten Bells, and Spitalfields in general, more than I cared to admit.

“The Ten Bells?” Holmes asked when we stepped out of the hansom, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “You are familiar with its criminal association? The Jack the Ripper murders in the ‘80s?”

“Holmes, everyone knows the Ripper murders,” I said. I glanced around, making sure none of the usual suspects were about. I’d had my pockets picked more than once while attending to some of my patients. “But I have a client who lives on Dorset Street, and she sometimes… works… around the Ten Bells. I think she can help us.”

I did not think it possible, but Holmes’ eyebrows crept up higher. He turned around and began walking backwards, watching me. “You know Spitalfields prostitutes, Watson?”

“Even prostitutes need a doctor,” I said stiffly. I ignored his reaction, instead looking through the throngs of drunks and criminals, looking for one particular face. I noted that some men, wearing far nicer suits than the average, turned their faces away as we passed. “Cowards,” I muttered to myself.

“You do not approve, Doctor?”

“The men who choose to slum, they hide their faces from the rest of us. They are ashamed, and afraid, and yet they still come. Meanwhile, these women and children live here, and have no choice in the matter. It is a coward who treats this as entertainment and yet does not do it openly.”

Holmes turned so that he was facing forwards once more. “I never took you as a reformer, Watson.”

“You were gone three years, Holmes. I doubt you know anything about me.”

He gave me a startled look, but I ignored him, instead raising my hand in the air. “Jane!” I called, waving.

Jane, standing near the corner of Dorset and Commercial, looked up, startled. She was a thin woman with strawlike hair. Her face was narrow and pale, but cheerful enough. She smiled when she saw me, and waved back. “Mister Watson!”

I extended a hand when we were close, and she took it. “It is wonderful to see you, Jane. Are you doing well?”

“I am, Mister Watson. No more trouble, but I will come to you if I do. I have sent some of my friends to you, you know.”

“I do, Jane, and I thank you.”

Behind me, Holmes coughed noisily. “This is Holmes,” I said shortly.

Holmes stepped forward and elbowed me aside. “Sherlock Holmes. It is nice to meet you.”

Jane’s face brightened. “You are the detective! The one that Mister Watson set up the shrine for!”

“Museum,” I corrected.

She laughed. “Mister Watson, I know a shrine when I see one. What brings you to Spitalfields tonight? Are you looking for company?” she asked, and fluttered her skirts a little.

“You know I am married, Jane.”

“So are most of the men who want my friendship.”

Holmes looked at me, smiling. I regretted bringing him. “No, thank you. I was hoping you might help us. We are looking into the death of two young women, and I think you might be able to help us find out who they are.” I dug into my coat pocket, and pulled out the bracelet Holmes had found on the girl in the morgue. “Do you know the woman who wore this?”

Jane squinted in the dim light, and then gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. “No!” she said. “Not Kitty!”

“Kitty?” Holmes asked, stepping in.

Jane nodded, wiping at her eyes. “Kitty Winter. She’s a shop girl, when she isn’t working the streets. We’re friends. We were friends. I didn’t know… you said she’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” Holmes said.

Jane’s eyes welled up again. “I just saw her last week. She was working in a store again, able to get off the streets. She even found a respectable flophouse.”

Holmes tilted his head. “You saw her last week?”

Jane nodded. I handed her my handkerchief, concerned about how upset she was. She wiped her tears away, as well as a fair amount of dirt, and handed it back to me. “Yes. She came to my doss to let me know that she’d found work at a pawn shop.”

“Is Kitty a tall woman with brown hair?” asked Holmes, his hands on his hips.

“No. She’s small, smaller than me. Long red hair,” Jane said. Her face crinkled. “Are you sure it’s her?”

Holmes stepped closer to Jane, who looked uncomfortable. I gently pushed Holmes aside. “Eh… I’m sorry to ask, Jane, but can you look very closely at this bracelet?”

I handed the bracelet to her. Jane stepped over into the street, lifting the bracelet up and looking at it in the street light. She turned it over a few times, and then held it closer to her face. She walked back over to me.

“You’re right, this isn’t hers. Kitty’s doesn’t have an inscription on the inside. Or, I mean, it does, but something happened; it’s all scratched.”

I took the bracelet back and thought about it. If Kitty had a bracelet too, but was still alive, then perhaps she was our murderer’s next victim. Of course, it was also possible she was the murderer herself.

“Where might we find Kitty?” Holmes asked.

******
Jane gave us directions to Kitty Winter’s lodging house on Plumber’s Row. It was a short walk, in which I did not speak while Holmes expounded on the possibilities of Winter having a bracelet. I kept my eyes forward and continued walking, largely ignoring him. It was a cold night, but there were still a number of people on the streets. We stepped around refuse left over from the costermongers, and avoided the occasional prostitute plying her trade.

“How do you know Jane?” Holmes asked as we turned onto Whitechapel High Street.

“As I told you, I was her doctor.”

“Doctor for what? She looked healthy enough. When did you last see her?”

“It was several months before you returned. She was knapped.”

Holmes frowned. “People go to see a doctor because- oh. And now she is not pregnant.”

“Your powers of deduction have suffered in your years away, Holmes. Perhaps you are not up to this,” I suggested. I said it mildly, but from Holmes’ flailing reaction, it was as though I had punched him. I wished I had; punching him would, perhaps, have helped.

“Have I upset you, Watson? You have been standoffish since I returned to London, and unnecessarily cruel,” Holmes said.

We turned onto Plumber’s Row, and I could see the door for Miss Winters’ lodging house. I gave Holmes a dark look. “You’re the detective, Holmes. You tell me. Here we are.”

I knocked on the door. A stern looking woman wearing glasses opened the door. “May I help you gentlemen?” she asked.

I took off my hat and bowed slightly. “Yes, uh, hello. I am Doctor Watson, and I am looking for Miss Kitty Winter?”

The woman pursed her lips and looked at the watch hanging around her neck. “It is late, gentleman. My tenants are not allowed to have guests after ten. You will have to come back tomorrow, should you wish to meet with her.”

She began to close the door, but I wedged my foot in before she could fully close it. “I am sorry, I am afraid it is an urgent medical matter,” I said hurriedly. “Miss Winter is in need of my aid.”

“Miss Winter is in need of much aid, Doctor Watson, but I believe it is a priest that would do her best, not a doctor,” she replied acidly. But she opened the door and sighed. “You will have fifteen minutes, and then you will leave. We are not a brothel, no matter what Miss Winter may have led you to believe.”

I hurried past the woman before she could change her mind. “Her room?” I asked. She pointed up the stairs, and Holmes and I went quickly, mindful of our time limit.

There were three doors on the first floor landing, and I began to turn to ask the landlady which room was hers, but Holmes was already banging on one of the doors. “It is clearly hers, Watson,” he said, seeing my face. “Look at the boots.”

I looked down. Outside each of the doors were shoes. Two of the doors had four or five men’s pairs outside of them, but the door Holmes was banging on only had women’s shoes. I sighed.

The door was opened by a young woman, who smiled winningly at Holmes. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked, leaning on the frame of the door in such a way to make a clear invitation.

“We are actually here for Kitty Winter,” Holmes said, looking past the woman into the room.

“Oh, you don’t want Kitty right now, sir,” the woman replied. “She’s in her cups. But I’m still available.”

“I’m afraid only Miss Winter will do,” Holmes said, and pushed past the woman. She squawked indignantly, but didn’t stop him, and so I followed, murmuring apologies as I went by.

The room was small, and dark. There were four beds, but at least there were beds, as per the recent regulations. Two of the women were entertaining men, and I turned swiftly away, blood rushing to my face in embarrassment. I lifted my hand in order to better hide what the women were doing, wondering how the stern Christian landlady had missed that two of her lodgers had guests already.

There was a low laugh from one of the beds that wasn’t being used for fornication. I glanced at it, prepared to quickly look away, but to my relief, the only occupant was a small, fragile looking woman holding a bottle of gin and grinning up at me.

“Like a blushing bride,” she said in a low, smooth voice. Her hair was a vibrant red, pulled back into a braid similar to the one Martha wore when she went to sleep. She wore a nightgown and a robe, and was clearly ready to go to sleep.

“You are Kitty Winter,” Holmes said.

The woman, Kitty, gave Holmes a long look. “And you’re a detective.”

Kitty’s words made the woman who let us into the room turn around and give us a look of horror. She ran over to one of the women who was occupied and began speaking urgently to her.

“But not,” Kitty said, “part of Scotland Yard, I think. So a private detective?”

Holmes laughed. “You are clever.”

“And you were looking for me. What do you want?” she asked. She took a long drink from the bottle that she had clutched in her left hand.

Holmes snapped his fingers impatiently at me, not taking his eyes off Kitty. I handed the bracelet to him, and he sat down on the edge of Kitty’s bed. She gave him a bland look and shifted slightly away from him. Looking at her pupils, I wasn’t sure she was truly present.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is John Watson. We are investigating the death of a woman found near the Wapping Old Stairs this morning,” he explained.

Kitty tipped her head back and laughed again. “That seals it; you definitely aren’t Scotland Yard.”

Holmes licked his lips, but continued on. “The woman was wearing a bracelet that looked very similar to this one,” he said, extending the bracelet out towards Kitty. “When we showed this bracelet to a certain Jane, she thought it was yours. We are hoping you perhaps know something about the man we’re looking for.”

Kitty looked at the bracelet, and barely lifted her pale, bony hand off the bed to touch it with one finger. “Does it have an inscription?” she asked in a strained voice.

“It does,” Holmes confirmed, still giving her a very intense look.

Very slowly, Kitty set the gin bottle down and used her hand to roll up the sleeve of the night gown. Beneath the sleeve was a gold bracelet, with a filigree design. I didn’t need her to turn her wrist to know that there would be no clasp.

“I know who you’re looking for,” she said. Her voice was dull. She cleared her throat and looked away from her bracelet. “I’m not well right now. Come see me after work tomorrow, at six, and I can talk to you then. We can meet at the Ten Bells.”

Holmes stood up, tucking the bracelet back into his coat. “Thank you, Miss Winter,” he said. “We will see you tomorrow, then.”

Kitty took up the gin bottle again, taking another long drink from it. She waved her other hand at us in a clear dismissive gesture, and we left the room, her unengaged roommate slamming the door in our face. I blinked in surprise.

“That wasn’t what I expected,” I admitted.

Holmes nodded, rocking to and fro on his feet. “She’s an interesting woman, Miss Winter. Did you see how quickly she figured out that I am a detective?”

We walked down the stairs and nodded our goodbyes to the landlady and walked back out onto the street, looking for a cab. “I would imagine, in her line of work, that she needs to be good at knowing people quickly.”

“There is knowing people quickly, and then there is knowing that I’m a detective.”

“Perhaps,” I said noncommittedly. I waved my hand at a cab, which pulled over. We got in and gave the driver our address.

I was looking forward to seeing Martha, waking her up and telling her about all we had learned, when Holmes, sitting across from me with his hands folded in his lap, said, “You never did answer my question, Watson.”

I kept looking out the window, watching the streets pass by. “What question was that, Holmes?”

“Are you upset with me? You have been acting strangely since I returned.”

“My answer remains the same: you are the detective. You tell me.”

We lapsed back into silence, the only sound being the horse and the carriage, and the occasional shouts and laughs of people on the streets. I tried to decide if I would tell Martha about what we had learned immediately, or tell it like a story, like one that I would turn into my editor. She would be happy to learn that Jane was doing well.

“You are angry that I did not tell you I was alive for three years,” Holmes said.

I sighed loudly. “I have already told you that I am angry about that.”

“And we have moved past it; you shouldn’t be angry anymore.”

“Shouldn’t I?” I asked, looking at him. “At what point should I have stopped being angry? The point where you apologized?”

Holmes blinked quickly, nine times in succession. “When did I apologize?”

I gave him a look as the cab pulled to a stop outside of Baker Street. “That is the point, Holmes.”

I stepped out of the cab and handed the fare up to the driver. I did not wait for Holmes to follow me.

******
In the morning, I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with Martha, telling her briefly of the events from the previous night. She asked many questions, which I could not answer, though I tried to extrapolate potential answers, trying to remember if I had seen any vital clues that I had simply not noticed at the time. As far as I knew, I had not.

I had few patients throughout the day, and I was thankful they were relatively simple cases, for my mind was not in medicine that day. Instead I kept thinking about Kitty Winter, her pale skin and bright hair, the listless hands but clear, firm speech. I found her intriguing, the contrasts she seemed to embody. I found myself counting the hours until we would meet with her, though I couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about returning to Spitalfields.

At four in the afternoon, there was a pounding on my consulting room door. I ignored it, keeping my attention on the medical notes I was writing up.

“Watson! Open up! We will settle this now!”

I continued writing. My notes were important, far more important than Holmes and his poor attempts at friendship.

The door banged open, and I sat back, annoyed at myself for having failed to lock the door. It had been three years since Holmes continually burst into my rooms, but I should not have forgotten my old habits.

“We will settle this,” Holmes said, and a pair of boxing gloves were thrust in my face. He already had one on, the laces loose.

“Holmes…” I sighed.

“I need you to be focusing on the case, not on any perceived slights. Get up, we will settle this.”

He thrust the gloves in my face once more. I rubbed my face in exasperation. It was approaching the time we would need to leave in order to meet Miss Winter, and I still needed to clean up, after lancing several boils in one of my patients. My shirtsleeves had too much blood on them to be visiting anyone.

“Holmes, I must get cleaned up.”

“It will not take long,” he insisted. I looked up. His face was serious, his eyes fixed on me. I accepted the gloves and began putting them on.

“That is true,” I said, and then used my mouth to pull the laces taut.

We stepped out into the hall, easily resuming our old places. “When is the last time you boxed, Holmes?” I asked, rolling my shoulders.

“Reichenbach,” he said shortly.

“And not since then?”

“I had other things to occupy my time in the passing years.”

“As did I. I had to arrange your funeral, you see. And deal with your affairs. The public clamoring for more stories while I grieved for you. Setting up the museum. Yes, yes, yes, you see, I too had things to occupy my time. Did you know that Mrs. Hudson and I had a mere Registry office wedding? You see, setting up the museum that the public demanded took most of our savings,” I said, and raised my fists.

Holmes tilted his head, but lifted his fists as well. “But Mycroft-”

“Mycroft Holmes had other responsibilities, as he told it to me. So it fell to me, Holmes. All of it. While you were alive, and none of it was necessary. Now, we begin.”

We stood still for a moment, then I stepped in and aimed a right hook for his jaw. Holmes blocked it and I stepped back. “Good,” I said. “You have not forgotten everything during your holiday.”

“It was not a holiday, Watson,” he said, frowning.

“Of course not,” I agreed amicably. “And again. Right hook.”

I gave him another easy swing, which he capably blocked. It appeared that, while he had not practiced, he had at least retained my lessons from years ago.

“There were people hunting for me. I was never safe. If I had returned, you and Mrs. Hudson would not be safe.”

“Your turn,” I said. “Right hook.”

Holmes stepped in and threw a right hook at my face. It was sloppy, with too much emotion behind it. I stopped it ably, and we returned to our positions. “You see, I am capable of defending myself,” I said, and then imitated blocking my face once more. “I am quite skilled at it, actually. I am a doctor, but I was also a soldier.”

“Watson…”

“I make my own choices. Come at me again, and I show you.”

I dropped my guard somewhat, inviting him to hit me in the face, but as he threw his punch, I slipped past the blow, catching only a small amount of the force as it landed too early and off-centre. I was too close for him to draw back to defend himself, and I hit him three times, in succession, in the stomach. He exhaled roughly and stepped back again.

“Do you see what I did? I let you hit me, because I knew it would allow me the opportunity to hurt you more. Sometimes, we must make sacrifices. A bruise to my jaw, but a bruise to your liver. And it is worse for you. You see?”

Holmes opened his mouth, one hand protectively guarding his stomach, but I shook my head. “Now we begin again. At full speed.”

He looked at me, long and hard, his eyes searching my face, but then nodded. “Very well.”

It was a matter of three punches to land him on the ground. I looked down at him as he gasped and coughed, his nose blooming with blood, and remembered the first time we had ever boxed together. We were younger men, then, and simpler. Then, he knew nothing, did not know how best to protect his face and his body, knew nothing at all of getting underneath another man’s defenses. He knew little more now.

“You never were very good at boxing,” I said softly. I stepped into my consulting rooms and wet a cloth for him. I brought it back out and wiped the blood from his nose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get cleaned up in order to meet with Miss Winter.”

I turned and began descending the stairs, taking deep breathes as I went, loosening the gloves with my teeth once more.

“Watson!”

I paused on the steps, but did not turn around.

“Watson, I am sorry.”

I twisted to look at him. He had one hand clapped over his face, the wet rag I gave him secured still to his nose. His eyes were intense, his back hunched. He looked genuinely remorseful.

I was unmoved. “Very well, Holmes. Thank you for your apology.”

I continued downstairs, looking forward to my bath.

******
The cab ride back to Ten Bells was quiet. Holmes sat next to me, avoiding my eyes and instead looking out the window. His nose was red, but his eye was not blackened, I was pleased to see. I had not been aiming for permanent damage.

We alighted from the cab and walked into the Ten Bells together, our shoulders pressed together, brushing past three or four prostitutes who offered us a ‘discounted’ rate, as well as a man throwing up just outside the door. It was early yet, and still there were people too far gone to walk in a straight line. I kept my eyes forward, looking for the bright flame of hair that I suspected would stand out in a crowd.

I was not wrong. I spotted Kitty Winter almost immediately, sitting at a table with her hands wrapped around a glass. She was dressed neatly, in a pressed white blouse and a black skirt. Her hair was tied back, a pretty blue ribbon contrasting nicely with her hair. I was struck, for a moment, about the similarities between her and the girl Johnson found.

When we approached the table, Kitty stood slightly. “Gentlemen,” she said, her voice a low, pleasing alto. Her eyes were clear now, and I was surprised to see cleverness and humor both in her pale blue eyes. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with me in public. I am very interested to hear what you have to say.”

She sat back down, and we joined her at her table. “I will get the both of us some ale,” Holmes said, his voice nasal from our earlier lesson. “Miss Winter?”

“None for me, thank you. I am content with my water,” she demurred.

Her speech was measured and careful, as though she were thinking about every single word before she spoke. I was used to the slurred, uneducated cant of the lower classes, and while her accent was the same, her choice in words showed a degree of education that I did not expect in a woman who worked as a prostitute, at least some of the time.

“You have some schooling, Miss Winter?” I asked as Holmes came back over and set a mug of ale in front of me.

She threw back her head and laughed. “Lord, no, Doctor Watson. I am just as foolish as the rest of them,” she said. But then she gave me a kind, pitying smile. “I was a maid, before I became what I am now. A maid knows how to speak nicely in front of the master.”

I opened my mouth to object, not wanting to be compared to anyone’s master, but Holmes cut me off. “What happened in your life, that you are no longer a maid?”

Kitty raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “I won’t tell you a thing, Mr. Holmes, until you tell me what, exactly, you’re doing with that bracelet.”

Holmes took a drink of his ale, then nodded. “You know that I am a detective.”

“I knew that when you walked into my room. And now I know that you are not just a detective, but a very famous detective. Even in Whitechapel we know the name Sherlock Holmes.”

“I am investigating the death of two women, one found near the Wapping Old Stairs yesterday, and another found near the London Docks several weeks ago.”

“Why?”

Holmes blinked, leaning forward. “Why what?”

“Why are you investigating the deaths of some whores?” Kitty asked. Her eyes were sharp, glittering. Her drink sat untouched, and one hand was clutched in a fist. I licked my lips, suddenly worried that perhaps this interview was a poor idea.

“They were murdered, Miss Winter.”

“And?”

“And… they were murdered. Is that not enough of a reason to investigate?”

Kitty sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “Was some toff’s wife harmed as well? Or did a posh lady find the body? Were they the mistresses of a Lord who wants a discreet investigation?”

“Actually, a mudlark found her,” I offered.

She gave me a sidelong glance. “And the rest?”

“No to all of that,” Holmes said. “My friend, Shinwell Johnson, knows the mudlark that found the body near the Wapping Old Stairs, and he asked me to investigate her death. He is a dredger, you see, and he felt the woman’s death was unusual.”

Kitty nodded slowly. “And was it?”

“She was poisoned,” I said.

“And her face and neck were cut with a knife.”

“He always did like knives…” Kitty muttered to herself, but before Holmes or I could ask her to elaborate, she was continuing on. “But you still have not said: why are you looking into the murders of some whores? Whores are killed all the time around here, and no one cares at all.”

Holmes looked flustered. “I am sure it is a question of numbers, Miss Winter. The police force-”

“The police force are as often the murderers as they are the ones hiding the circumstances, Mr. Holmes,” Kitty said with a bark of bitter laughter. “They come to Whitechapel to harass us, to hide us away from the swells, but they do not come to help us. Ever.”

“That is-”

“If you say it is not true, Mr. Holmes, I will put an end to this interview right now,” she said sharply.

“This is unfortunate, is what I wanted to say.”

“You work with the police, don’t you, Mr. Holmes? Why should I tell you a single thing?” she asked, leaning forward. Holmes leaned forward as well, until their faces were inches apart.

“Because I can make the police listen, Miss Winter. I can bring justice for these women. They are owed justice.”

Kitty stared at him for a long time, her jaw twitching. Then she nodded and sat back once more. “As I said, I was once a maid. I was raised in service. Eventually I moved into the household of a man who was swiftly moving up the ranks in London society. It paid very well, and I was able to send money back home to my family,” she said.

“Go on,” Holmes said. He had turned all of his attention to her.

“My master seemed like a good man. He was kind to his servants, and affectionate with his wife. He was an entrepreneur, and as he became wealthier and more powerful, he turned to philanthropy as well. He was charming. He took the time to talk to me, to get to know me. And when he made clear exactly what he wanted with me, well… what servant can say no to her master?”

Holmes reached out and placed his hand in front of hers, not quite touching her.

“He gave me this bracelet,” she said, thrusting out the hand her other hand. On her wrist was the gold bracelet that matched the two found on the dead women. “He told me that it meant he owned me, body and soul. If I told anyone what he was doing with me, he would accuse me of theft. What servant can afford a bracelet this nice? And his wife owns a similar one, though she has so many baubles I doubt she realizes it, and so it would be easy for him to make them seem like one and the same.

“Things continued this way for close to a year. And when he grew bored with me, he dismissed me, without reference, and spread word through his mercantile empire that I was a ruined woman. He ensured that I would eternally struggle to find work.”

Holmes patted her hand, an awkward but well-meant gesture. “He destroyed your life.”

“More than mine,” Kitty said fiercely. She pulled her hand away from Holmes and began wringing her hands. “My family relied on the money I provided. Without my wages, my two youngest sisters wasted away and died since my mother could not afford medicine and food. My mother is only a charwoman. She does not make enough money to support my remaining sister, who has turned to prostitution as well in order to support herself. When my master set his sights upon me, he ruined my family as well.”

“And you believe he has done this to other women?” I asked quietly.

“Shop girls, servants, the daughters of costers, mudlarks… he finds them, he forces his affections upon them, and then he discards them. I know of at least five other girls in my acquaintance that have gone through this; there are likely more.”

Holmes took off his glasses, looking down at them. “Were any of the women you knew tall, with brown hair, or of medium height with blonde hair, dressed much like you?”

Kitty closed her eyes, her mouth tightening. “The first sounds like Bet. She disappeared months ago. She had worked in one of his offices, as a typist. She was an orphan, and very proud of her position; she was so proud that she was going to make a living, on her own, without help. When she was removed from her job, when she found that prostitution was the only way left to make a living, she was… angry. Very angry. She told me she was going to confront him, but I urged her not to. I guess she did,” she said, sounding sad and worn. She did not cry, though. I wondered if she had any tears left.

“And the blonde woman?” Holmes pressed.

Kitty opened her eyes again, shaking her head. “No. I know blonde women he ruined, but they’re alive, at least as of today.”

“Her bracelet was very new and clean, unlike the one found on Bet or yours. It is possible she was his latest paramour.”

“His latest victim, Mr. Holmes. Do not make it into something it is not.”

Holmes nodded in agreement. “Of course.”

I considered her for a long moment, stroking my moustache in thought. “Miss Winter, why do you still wear the bracelet? Surely, uh… it is an unpleasant reminder of all you have endured?”

“It is a reminder, yes, doctor. And it is a signal. I met Bet because she saw my bracelet, and I was able to help her some. The same with the other women of my acquaintance. We know each other because of these bracelets. I feel shame and disgust whenever I look at it, but if it means I might be able to help others in my position… well, shame and disgust is not the worst I have survived.”

We sat in silence after that proclamation. There was a tightness in my gut I had not felt for years, and it made me uncomfortable. I drank my ale to hide it.

Holmes lifted his fingers to his mouth, tenting them and pressing them to his lips. “Miss Winter, I wish to present you to my friend, Inspector Lestrade, and have you show him the bracelet you wear. I will show him the bracelets the dead women wore, and you will tell him what you know. When presented with such evidence, the police cannot ignore these crimes.”

She laughed again. “You are a small, naïve man, Mr. Holmes. You forget yourself. We are still whores, in the eyes of the police. We are carriers of disease and death, no better than vermin. The only good whore is a dead whore, to Scotland Yard, and they will take my former master’s hand and shake it for the work he is doing for the Empire.”

“He is raping women,” Holmes said sharply.

“So you say,” she said. “But he is rich, and we are poor. He takes tea with peers of the empire, and plays billiards with men who have the ear of the Queen. The police will look at him, and they will look at me, and they will determine that I am a deceiving, scheming woman out to ruin a good man. I will not go see your Inspector. I have lived through enough humiliation in my lifetime.”

Holmes gave a frustrated growl. “Then may I tell him that I found a woman with a connection to the murder victims?”

Her mouth quirked into a small, indulgent smile. “Of course, Mr. Holmes. You tell him that. And then you tell me what he said.”

******
“I cannot believe Lestrade,” Holmes fumed, slamming his hand on the carriage door. “To deny facts as laid out before him! To turn his back on the suffering of-”

“Of whores, Holmes,” I interrupted.

Our meeting with Lestrade had, predictably, gone poorly. I had presumed it would. I remembered, perhaps better than Holmes, the many instances during our investigations when the police had wanted things wrapped up swiftly and without comment, in order to protect themselves and people of a better class than them. I remembered all too well the blood on the police’s fists and the guns in their hands.

Holmes gave me an angry look. “Do not call them that.”

“That is how they see these women, Holmes. And Miss Winter told you what Lestrade would say. You should have believed her,” I pointed out. We were heading back to the Ten Bells in order to let Kitty Winter know how our conversation had went. I suspected Miss Winter would just laugh at us. She had cause to laugh.

“I thought that if I brought them the evidence, then they would listen.”

“When have the police ever listened to you, Holmes?”

“I saved the Queen!”

“And now you talk to them of whores. You see, there is a difference in their eyes. The Queen is worthy of protection. A prostitute? Perhaps not.”

Holmes let out a long, irritated sigh, crossing his arms petulantly over his chest. He tapped his foot impatiently, in a rhythm that made my head ache. But I did not stop him. I understood his frustration well. But perhaps I was far more used to the small injustices in our world. We did not slowly execute pirates anymore, but nor did we look at the least among us and extend what aid we could. Perhaps, in the years he had been gone, he forgot about the mercilessness of English society.

“Women are dead, Watson.”

“I know, Holmes.”

“This is a great injustice, that the police look away.”

I looked out the window, reaching up and playing with the drawstring of the blind. I turned the problem over in my head. “Miss Winter indicated that the man who ruined her occupied an important position in society,” I said. “Perhaps we can find a different way to destroy him.”

“There must be something we can use against this man,” Holmes said. “Perhaps Miss Winter will know.”

******
Miss Winter did not laugh at us, as I expected, but smirked and shook her head. “I told you they would not listen to the word of a whore,” she said. Her speech was thicker now, and an empty stein was before her. She had been drinking while we were away.

“Unfortunate women are still citizens of England, and deserve protection by the law,” Holmes argued. “I promise you, Miss Winter, I will get you the justice you deserve.”

Kitty’s eyes were unfocused as she looked past us. “There is no justice in this land, Mr. Holmes. Not that you can give me. The only justice Bartholomew Haines will ever receive is God’s justice.”

“The steel industrialist?” I asked, stunned. Bartholomew Haines was a name seen in the newspapers often, in part because of his wife, who was a popular hostess and daughter of a Lord. I had actually met Haines’ wife before; Lady Violet once hosted a large Christmas gathering, to which she invited a number of popular figures among the middle class. Martha and I had felt underdressed and uncomfortable, only invited because of my writing, but Lady Violet had been gracious. It was strange to think that she was married to as vile a man as Kitty described.

She smiled. “The same. You see, you do not believe me. You and the police are not as different as you’d like to think.”

“No,” Holmes said, shaking his head. “We believe you. Miss Winter, beyond the bracelet, is there anything that might implicate Haines in the rape and murder of these women?”

Kitty’s head lolled down toward her chest. It seemed to me that she had had more than one drink before we returned. She lifted her head up again, sighing lowly. “He put together a book. Sketches, the occasional photograph, descriptions… it was disgusting. Terrifying. His little lust diary. When I… when I tried to argue, he would force me to read certain entries. They always convinced me to stop resisting.”

This time it was I who took Miss Winter’s hand. She shook me away. “Do not pity me, doctor. I have lived with this for years. I do not need pity now.”

“Allow us to escort you home, Miss Winter,” I said. “You are not well.”

“Very well,” she said, rising. She swayed slightly, but slapped my hands away again when I tried to take her elbow. “I am fine,” she snapped.

We walked alongside her as we looked for a cab. I did not know what to say to her. She had lived through so much, and anything I had to offer seemed paltry and small. I often felt uneasy in the presence of drunks, but I found I could not blame Miss Winter for her overindulgence. If I had not met Holmes, if I did not live at 221B, perhaps I would have turned to the solace of drink once I returned from Afghanistan.

It was a difficult thought to swallow.

“You think you can bring Haines to justice, Mr. Holmes?” Kitty asked abruptly. A cab pulled up next to us, and Holmes helped Kitty inside. Once we were situated comfortably, with Kitty across from us and Holmes and I shoulder to shoulder, Holmes nodded.

“I believe I can, Miss Winter.”

“Then I want to be with you, every step of the way,” she said, the slur in her voice disappearing. She leaned forward and put her hands on Holmes knees. “I want to be there, to see his face, when you bring the force of the law down upon him. I want to help you. I know the people in Whitechapel, Mr. Holmes, and I know the people Haines surrounds himself with. I can help you.”

“You will, Miss Winter. I will keep you involved,” he agreed.

We helped Miss Winter back up to her room, ignoring the irritated stare of her landlady. On the way back down, Holmes pressed a sovereign into the landlady’s hand. “You did not see any of this,” Holmes said firmly, “and so you will not punish her.”

I could see the landlady struggling between her morals and her finances for a moment, but her finances won. She tucked the sovereign into her belt pouch and nodded. “Miss Winter has been home all evening, gentlemen, and has requested no visitors. You will have to come back another time if you wish to see her,” she announced primly, and we left.

“Do you really think we will be able to expose Haines’ crimes?” I asked Holmes as the cab turned to Baker Street.

“I do not know, Watson,” Holmes said. He looked troubled. “Cabbie! Take us to Lyall Street in Belgravia!”

“Holmes?” I asked.

“I think we need to visit Mr. Bartholomew Haines. It is time to scare him with the knowledge that others know of his proclivities.”

******
When the cab drew to a stop, Holmes jumped down and went rushing up to the large, formal house we had stopped in front of. I paid the cabbie hurriedly and went after him. “Holmes, wait!” I yelled. We had argued the entire drive to Belgravia; I did not think confronting Haines was the best idea, as we had little actual evidence, but Holmes, to my dismay, was furious and would not listen to reason. Adler had only died weeks ago, and I imagined he was sensitive about the fate of exploited women.

I caught up to Holmes as he was pounding on the door. “Open up!” he yelled. “Police!”

“Holmes, you cannot say we are the police,” I hissed, looking around the street. It was late, though the lights were on within the house. There were a few people walking down the street, but far less than there were in Whitechapel. They ignored us, which I was grateful for.

“We are acting on behalf of the police,” Holmes said, and then shrugged. “Or we would be, if they could convince themselves to care about the lives of these women.”

The door opened, and I turned, trying to make myself look like some sort of police officer. I stood stiffly and made a face I had seen Tracey make many times.

A butler looked us over once and said, “I believe you meant to approach from the servant’s entrance,” he said, and began to shut the door.

“We need to speak to Bartholomew Haines!” Holmes shouted. “About the women he has ruined.”

The butler hesitated, but then said, firmly, “You may use the servant’s entrance,” he said, and the door shut.

Holmes gave an explosive sigh. “Servant’s entrance,” he said. “Do the police need to use the servant’s entrance, I ask you?”

“Yes,” I said, for I knew of households where the police would never be welcome through the front door. The members of the House of Lords, for instance. They were not beholden to the same courts of justice that we were.

He gave me a dirty look, but skipped nimbly down the stairs, looking around for the servant’s entrance. I tightened the scarf around my neck and waved at Holmes. “This way,” I said, nodding in the correct direction.

I led Holmes around the side of the house to the servant’s entrance. It was partially obscured behind the bushes, and led down a level. We walked down and Holmes knocked on the door.

After a moment, the door was opened by a woman wearing an apron and a hat over her hair. “Can I help you?” she asked politely, her accent and cadence eerily similar to Kitty’s.

“We are here to speak to Bartholomew Haines,” Holmes said.

The woman glanced at me, and then back at Holmes. “I am afraid that will not be possible, sir. Mr. Haines is entertaining at the moment.”

“Entertaining? Is that what you call the assault of women in his care?” Holmes asked, and then pushed his way past the woman. I followed quickly, before the woman had a chance to react.

We found ourselves in a kitchen, bustling with activity. There were a number of cooks working, one woman barking instructions at the others, while maids and footman came and went, carrying platters of food. It occurred to me that the lights in the house might be on because the Haines were hosting a party. “Holmes, there is a party going on upstairs.”

“All the better,” Holmes said, and jolted towards a door. I attempted to block his path, but he shoved past me, upsetting a platter that a maid was carrying. It tumbled to the ground and the maid shrieked, dropping to her hands and knees in an attempt to salvage the food. I started to kneel as well, but saw Holmes pushing back other servants and heading for a staircase that could only lead to the ground floor and the party. I made an apologetic gesture at the maid, and then hurried after Holmes.

“You cannot do this, Holmes,” I shouted. “Miss… our client could be harmed by this.”

“I will not be mentioning our client’s name.”

“A smart man like Haines will be able to determine where our information came from. Even if he doesn’t harm our client, there are other women in danger, Holmes!” I shouted. He did not stop running. “Holmes! Think of how many women could die because of this!”

A few servants turned startled gazes on me, and I shifted awkwardly. Ahead, Holmes drew to a halt. I watched his back, tense, his shoulders in his ears. His hands, down by his side, flexed a few times into fists and then, with a shudder of frustration that ran through his entire body, he turned and walked back to me. He shoved a finger in my face.

“Think of how many women have already died, Watson,” he hissed. I looked him in the eyes, not breaking eye contact even as several servants pushed past us in an attempt to make up for the time lost because of our outburst.

“Would you add to that body count with your poorly thought out actions?”

Holmes pursed his lips, and then jerked away from me. This time, he headed back for the kitchen. On his way, he stopped every woman and jerked her sleeve up, looking at her wrists. They shrieked and jerked away from him, but their wrists were all empty.

We made it back to the kitchen. I nodded awkwardly at the servants, who were all staring at us as we started to head for the door. Before we reached it, however, the butler from the upstairs appeared, stepping in front of us, his arms crossed.

“The police have been called, sirs,” he said.

Holmes smiled beatifically at the butler. “Then you are aware of the wrongdoing of your master. Thank you, I will try to make sure they arrest Haines in a discrete fashion, for your sake.”

“Holmes…” I said, looking around uneasily. The head cook was glaring at me, while two maids were crying in the corner, being comforted by other servants. “I believe they were called for us.”

The butler gave me a chilly smile. “You would be correct, sir.”

******
Holmes paced our cell, his hands behind his back and his head sunk upon his chest. I remained seated on the bench, studying my gloves. I had picked at some of the stitching, which had come loose. When we were free from the jail cell, I would have to ask Martha to fix them for me. I was capable of fixing my own clothes, but Martha’s stitches were neater than mine.

“You are angry at me,” Holmes said, breaking the silence of the past hour.

“Oddly, no,” I said, taking a closer look at the stitching.

“And why not? You remain angry at me for something that happened years ago, but you are not angry about my getting us thrown into jail?”

I looked up and couldn’t help but smile. “It brings back fond memories. I have been in this jail cell before. We have been in situations like this before. Following your bad impulses, it is what I always did, before you left. This is how it was, before.”

Holmes turned and tucked his hands into his armpits. “How is this acceptable, but the other is not?”

I rubbed my forehead. It could be exhausting, talking to Holmes. “Because in this, I made the decision for myself. In the other, you made all the decisions and did not trust me with them. All I have ever wanted, Holmes, is the right to make my own decisions.”

“You were going to marry Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes said. “If I had told you where I was going, what I was doing, you would have come with me. You would have left her, and you would have died.”

“You do not know that.”

“The risk was too great. You, Mrs. Hudson… you deserved to be happy together.”

He was shifting back and forth, avoiding my eyes. I watched him for a moment, and felt the hard knot of anger at the base of my spine fade. “Holmes. In the future, you will consult me before you make life altering decisions. That is the apology I want.”

He looked up, his eyes bright with delight. “Truly?”

I nodded. “Truly.”

Holmes walked over and stood in front of me, straightening his back. “Doctor Watson, in the future I will speak with you about any life altering decisions I intend to make, before I make them.”

“Thank you, Holmes.”

It was not quite what I wanted; what I wanted was to go back in time three years so that Holmes could tell me his plans then, and I would not spend three years grieving for my closest friend. But that was not possible, and it never would be, so instead I would settle for this promise of the future being different.

“Holmes! Watson!”

Lestrade’s voice was piercing, and I jerked to my feet and approached the bars, Holmes by my side. Lestrade appeared, his face grim.

“You are very lucky. Mister Haines has agreed not to press charges, given that he was unaware of your presence in his house.”

“Excellent,” Holmes said.

“What were you thinking?” Lestrade asked, scowling. “Barging into the home of Bartholomew Haines like that? He is married to the daughter of Lord Richard! He is a respected industrialist and philanthropist! He is running for the House of Commons!”

“He is an abuser of women and a murderer,” Holmes said. “He is unworthy of the praise you lay at his feet.”

“If he is any of those things, you owe me evidence,” said Lestrade.

“I tried, and you dismissed me.”

“Matching bracelets are not evidence, Holmes! And it is not a crime for a man to sleep with a prostitute, no matter how much I wish it.”

“She was not a prostitute when he forced himself upon her,” Holmes said angrily. “And even if she were, that does not excuse his actions.”

“Drop it, Holmes,” Lestrade snarled. “You will not be happy with how this ends.”

“I will not drop it,” he said, lifting his chin.

Lestrade clenched his teeth into an angry, ugly smile. “Very well. Your bail has been paid; you are free to go.”

He unlocked the door and escorted us to the front desk, where Martha was standing, shadows beneath her eyes. “Do you have everything, gentlemen?” she asked primly. I winced. She spoke like that only when angry. But then I noticed that she was glaring at Lestrade and relaxed. She had never been fond of the Inspector.

“We are ready, Martha,” I said softly, and extended my arm to her. She took it with a small smile, and then turned an unsmiling face back to Lestrade.

“They are free to go?”

“Yes, Mrs. Watson,” he said, tipping his hat to her.

“It’s Mrs. Hudson. If you’ll excuse us,” she said, and led me out the door, Holmes trailing behind us.

“If it is evidence that he wants, we will provide it,” Holmes declared only a few feet from the police station. I hissed at him, hoping he would keep his voice down. “Miss Winter provided a valuable bit of information earlier; the book she described might lend credibility to our claims about Haines.”

“Mister Holmes,” Martha said, and I blinked in surprise. She was still using her prim voice. “You have not yet apologized to John, nor have you apologized or thanked me.”

“Uh, Martha,” I began, but she gave me a look and I quickly shut my mouth.

Holmes walked next to us, quiet. Then he said, very suddenly, “Mrs. Hudson, I apologize that my actions led to your being woken at an indecent hour, and I thank you for placing bail for us. It was very generous.”

“I meant only to place bail for John, but apparently you were a package deal,” she said. She arched an eyebrow at Holmes, and he nodded, chastened.

“And Watson, I apologize to you as well. You did not want to spend your evening in a jail cell.”

“It was only a few hours. I have had far worse. I accept your apology.”

Martha nodded and allowed both Holmes and I help her into the cab. She grinned back at me in the darkness as I climbed in to join her. “My horoscope said today was a good day for forgiveness.”