Young Writers Society

Chapter One: Eyes and Paper

"Wiggins! What are you doing?"

"What? I ain't doing nothin'!"

"Yes, you are! Wait! - no don't!"

I snatched at the paper that Wiggins was screwing up into a ball. Wiggins held it out of reach, and I leapt up, grabbing at his wrist. He hooked my legs out from under me, and I landed in a puddle. Scowling, I pulled at Wiggins' ankle and he came down with me. After a scramble, I ended up underneath him with a mouthful of mud. Wiggins put his knees on my arms, and rubbing his head where I'd hit it, demanded, "What was that all about, Kit?"

I squirmed, spitting, and panted, "You were using a copy of The Strand Magazine! To wrap your lunch in!"

"Oh, was that all? 'ere you go, then." He got up, and hauled me up after him.

I folded up the paper, and said primly, "Thank you, Wiggins."

"Hah!" Rat exclaimed. He was scrabbling in a pile of rubbish, and he brought out a dirty little bundle from behind a rotting bag of fishheads. This he unwrapped to reveal his lunch which he had hidden there for safekeeping. An apple and a manky bit of stale bread all wrapped up in an extremely dirty hankerchief that had started its existance as being blue with white stitching. I knew, because I had seen it when Rat had first lifted it from its previous owner's pocket. It had quickly taken on a new colour fitting with its new surroundings.

"You got your lunches, as well?" asked Rat, as we three went out of the little side alley onto the main street. Hansom cabs rattled over the dirty cobbles, the street vendors shouted out the virtues and prices of their various wares, and the air was thick with the smells of mingled rubbish and smoke and odd, half-smells of lots of different things put together. We made our way across the street, jumping over pot-holes and ducking under horses' necks, and reached our destination - a pile of old bales of moldy straw that had been placed on a street corner weeks ago and then forgotten about. We sat down on it, and Wiggins pulled out his lunch and mine from his pocket. It was similar to Rat's. and we ate silently, making each mouthful last for as long as possible.

I shoved my last bite of bread into my mouth, and squinted up at the sky. It was noon, and after the first rush of early morning, there were few oppotunities for earning anything until the evening. Then, when people were returning home, or going out for dinner, they might be feeling generous, and let you carry their bags, or fetch and carry, or hold a horse's head. I normally waited outside the Northumberland Hotel; many of the regular customers knew me there, and familiarity bred heavy tips.

I brought the copy of The Strand out of my pocket, and opened it, flicking through the contents until I found the page I wanted.

"Anythin' there?" Rat asked.

I nodded absently, and replied, "It's one I've read already."

"Then I might as well ha' used it!" Wiggins exclaimed hotly.

"No, its a good one...The Norwood Builder. Very subtle case."

"You're cracked about them stories." Wiggins said. "You've gotta read every single one, and then read it over and over and over..."

"They're interesting! Now shush, I'm reading."

Wiggins returned to his apple. Rat offered me his, and I took a bite, handed it back, saying gratefully, "Ta, Rat," and began reading.

I lost all sense of time whenever I read. I was so immersed in the story that showed Mr Holmes' brilliance and insight so clearly, that I did not notice when someone said, "Boys!"

Wiggins poked me, and I growled irritably, "Stuff it!" Then I looked up, and saw who had spoken. He was a small, brown-bearded man with spectacles and a very distressed expression. He wrung his hands together, then jammed them in his pockets then again fluttered them about in the air. His yellow waistcoat could be seen, buttoned up the wrong way, underneath his coat which was not done up at all.

"Boys!" This man squeaked again. "Can you tell me how to get to Baker Street? I need to get to Baker Street now! Do you know how to get there? I'll give you a penny apiece if you can show me - "

"Alright, guv," Wiggins said with calm authority. "We knows it."

"Oh good! Come on, come on, I need to get there now!"

Palpitating and anxious, he followed us as we lead the way to Baker Street. I had a good idea why he wanted to go there, and when he had paid us off, instead of going back with Rat and Wiggins, I waited on the other side of the street and watched the man go up the steps of 221B and knock at the door.

"What're you doin', Kit?" Wiggins demanded. "Spyin' on 'im?"

"I want to see why he wants Mr Holmes."

"Oh. Well, do you want me to hang around with you?"

"I don't mind." I said, knowing perfectly well that he would stay with me and that Rat would stay without question.

We settled down, and waited. After an interval, during which even I had begun to fidget, the door across the street opened, and three men came out. The nervous man whom we had had brought here; Mr Sherlock Holmes, tall, angular and intent; and Dr Watson, respectable and moustached. As they came out, Mr Holmes looked across the road and saw us. I think he smiled, but then he turned and went with the first man who was almost hopping in his agitation.

We followed them at a discreet distance into a fairly respectable part of London some distance from Pall Mall. Then they stopped at a fresh-painted house with three floors and a red-tiled roof. The first man fumbled in his pocket for a key, and I took the oppotunity to dash over the road and up to the house, Rat and Wiggins in tow.

"Hello, Kit," Mr Holmes greeted me, and Watson echoed him in suprise.

"Hello, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson," I returned. "Do you mind if I see what you're doing?"

"It might not be very suitable," Watson said doubtfully.

Holmes said, "If we don't let her, she'll find a different way to find out."

I grinned, and as the man - Mr Richard Somerset, Dr Watson whispered to me - opened the door, I, Rat and Wiggins followed them inside the house. Mr Somerset led the way up onto the third floor; there was one room at the top, and he stopped in front of the door. His features twitched, as though he were steeling himself to do something dreadful, then he opened the door.

The room inside was large, and set up simply, with a bed in one corner and a table, bookcase, wash stand and chest of drawers making up the rest of the furniture. In the very center of the room was a large chair, and in this chair was a man, who could be nothing but dead. Holmes at once advanced forward and gazed intently at the dead man's face, Watson a few paces behind, while Mr Somerset hovered in the doorway, gibbering, "He's been my lodger for a month or so, and - and this morning my housekeeper came to bring him his cup of tea that he always, always had at seven o'clock, and she found him like this, sitting in his chair and oh, she nearly had a fit when she saw his face!"

I could well understand the housekeeper's reaction. The man's face was contorted and twisted in a horrible grimace that was frightening enough, but the main thing was his eyes. They seemed to have burst, and the skin surrounding his eyes was red and inflamed, like raw meat. The horrible, staring eye sockets with the remains of the man's eyes sitting inside, like eggs in a nest was too much for me, and I had to turn away, feeling my stomach contort. I had to swallow hard to keep from being sick, and Rat was staring at the man's face, gulping in horror. Wiggins whispered unsteadily, "'is-'is eyes have...gone."

Mr Holmes was examining the body dispassionately. Dr Watson asked him, "What do you think, Holmes?"

He shook his head, thinking. Then he said, "There are no marks of violence on this man. Apart from his eyes, he seems to be unharmed."

"You think, then, that he died because of whatever happened to his eyes? Out of pure pain?"

"I do not think anything at present. Mr Somerset, your lodger - what was his name, by the way?"

"James Stone."

"When was the last time you saw Mr Stone alive?"

"Well, I think it must have been on Tuesday. No, I'm lying...today is a Wednesday, isn't it? It was Monday. Yes, I remember it was Monday because he asked me what I was planning to do in the week."

"Good. Now, if you could run down to the police-station, and fetch up a constable and persons to remove the body, it would be very helpful."

Mr Somerset nodded, and with a last wide-eyed glance at the body, scurried out of the door and down the stairs. Mr Holmes then began to look over the room, trotting about and examining the walls, muttering to himself and keeping up a commentary of his observations as much directed to himself as to any of us. At one point he pounced into a corner of the room, and picked up a pair of objects lying on the floor there. He held them out to Watson, who took them, and I peered over his arm. They were a pair of sandals, made of some leather-like material. Holmes scraped his fingernail over the soles, looked at his finger, then resumed his minute examination of the room. He looked at the books on the bookcase, and pulling one out, remarked, "Mr Stone seems to have been a very moral, upright man. Take a look at his collection, Watson."

Watson read out the title of the book Holmes held. "Body of Divinity."

"And these," said Holmes, running his hand over the other volumes on the shelf. "Works by Spurgeon, Boston, and a very well thumbed copy of The Westminster Confession."

He dropped his hand and stood in thought for a moment. Then, as the front door slammed below us, he jerked back into life, and listened as footsteps sounded on the stairs. The door opened, and a dark, stocky man stepped into the room, the twitchy Mr Somerset behind him.

"Mr Thomas Myers, I believe." Holmes said, smiling slightly at the newcomer.

"Mr Holmes!" he replied in suprise; then he blinked as he saw the body. "Oh dear, that is unpleasant."