Chapter Nine

Later that evening I sat across from Lestrade, feeling more tired than I had since my days at the field hospital. In keeping with that feeling, Scarlett’s parlor looked as though a battle had recently been waged there.  Papers were strewn across every surface, the contents of several cabinets had been dumped onto the floor and rummaged through.  Thankfully the farm animals had been removed earlier.  Hudson did not seem ruffled by the mess, but quietly went about trying to restore some semblance of order.

Scarlett, her wild energy spent, was seated in a club chair staring intently into the fire, a slender pipe between her teeth.  Smoke curled up and around her, and she gave me the impression of a dragon, at rest but coiled to strike at the least provocation.

I leaned in toward Lestrade, whispering so as not to rouse the dragon.

“Is this normal?”

Lestrade responded with a shrug, and also a careful whisper.

“It happens regularly, if that’s what you mean.  I wouldn’t fret. Yet.”

“Scarlett never did like waiting for anything.” Hudson said, his deep baritone resonant and clear even at whispered volume. “Most impatient child you’d ever met.”

Just then, we heard small running feet on the stairs outside the flat.  Hudson smiled as he listened to the muffled argument and scuffling, as the children on the other side of the door sorted themselves out. Finally, after a moment of silence, there was a polite knock at the door.

“Excuse me.  We have visitors” Hudson said with amusement, and went to open the door.

The children gathered in a tight, tidy formation in front of the fireplace, where Scarlett had risen to greet them.

“You have something to report?” She asked, expectant.

“We chased cabs, Miss.” The tallest boy, Fox, said.  “We seen one drop a fella off about a block from the Drebber place, walk around the block, and go in the back door.  When he left, we followed his cab back to his place.”

“Excellent!” Scarlett exclaimed. “That must be Mr. Butler Standerson.”

With a whirl, Scarlett scooped up a sheet of newsprint off the credenza. In the lower half she points to an article, advertising the opening of a new store entitled “Fine Tobacco and Cigars.”  An inset photograph showed two men, one of whom was definitely Pierce Drebber standing in front of the shop.  Scarlett pointed to the other man, and Fox nodded.

“Yes, Miss. That’s him.  Tell ‘em what you seen, Scout.” Fox said.

Beside him a smaller boy with the energy of a hummingbird sprung forward, puffing out his chest with pride. “Man got a dungeon in his basement.  I seen a whip hanging on the wall, and they got chains like for keeping prisoners.”

“Like what’s in Madam La Rough’s attic?” Scarlet asked. My mouth dropped open as I realized what she was talking about.

“Naw,” Scout said, unruffled. “These was a lot scarier and meaner lookin’.  Weren’t no bed, neither.” My cheeks blushed hot, but Scarlett raced on.

“Hmm.  What else?” Scarlett asked, and Fox stepped forward once more.

“He left, carrying a carpet bag and went to Charles Oyster and Ale House.  He’s there now.”

“Well done!” Scarlett exclaimed. “You weren’t seen, were you?” She added, concerned.

“Miss Scarlett,” Fox said, a note of offense in his voice, “Are you questioning our professionalism?”

Holmes cracked a grin, and pulled out her coin purse.

“Certainly not.  You’ve done well, as always.  And here’s your commission.  Then off to see Hudson in the kitchen for something to eat.”

Once the children had received their pay, they followed Hudson out to the kitchen. Once they were gone, I popped like a shaken seltzer.

“Whips and chains! Scarlett, what are you exposing these children to!” I exclaimed, scandalized.

Scarlett replied with calm nonchalance. “Come now, Watson. Think of their lives. They are exposed, regardless. Why should they, and we, not benefit from it?”

“But what does it mean?” I asked, frustration building as I struggled to understand.

“It is the last piece I needed to complete our puzzle.  Now, we must get to Stangerson!”

Scarlett pulled her coat from the peg, and handed Lestrade his hat.  As I pulled on my own coat, I asked, “Is he our killer?  It seems an odd place for a hideout, the businest tavern in town.”

“Or a stroke of genius,” Scarlet replied. “There are witnesses everywhere to deter an attack.”

“But how does having this murderer’s location help Nathan?” Lestrade asked.

“It may not, Pastor, if we don’t hurry.” Scarlett said, as we hurried to the street and hailed a taxi. “Mr. Stangerson is not our killer, but I hope the real one has found him more elusive than we.”