Free The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes by June Thomson

a wet, which I understood to mean she had gone to some local hostelry in search of alcoholic refreshment.
    ‘And now, Mr ’Olmes,’ Ikey Morrison continued, ‘I take it you’re ’ere on business?’
    ‘Indeed we are, Ikey. My friend, Dr Watson, and I need two outfits which will give us the appearance of a pair of street-loafers. I should also be much obliged if, on our return in about quarter of an hour, a kettle of water could be boiling in readiness.’
    ‘Nuffin’ easier,’ Ikey Morrison assured him, showing no surprise at Holmes’ request although, in the event, the kettle was not to be needed.
    Darting across to a battered steamer-trunk which stood against the far wall, Ikey Morrison lifted the lid and, having rummaged about inside, produced two sets of very old clothes, including tattered waistcoats, torn shirts and a pair of overcoats, of such a dirty and disreputable appearance that I shrank from putting them on.
    Seeing my hesitation, Morrison said, ‘They’re all clean,doctor. There ain’t no lice in ’em, if that’s what’s botherin’ you. I’ve ’ad ’em all steamed and frumigated.’
    Despite this assurance, I declined to accept one of the caps, preferring to go bare-headed, and it was only on Holmes’ insistence that I agreed to the boots which Ikey Morrison offered me.
    We changed behind a hanging curtain, Holmes streaking our faces as well as our hands with grease from a candle stump and grime from the floor, of which there was a plentiful supply.
    Thus transformed into a pair of low ruffians and with our mufflers close about our faces, the dark lanterns which we had brought with us concealed under our coats, we emerged from Ikey Morrison’s shop and set off up Cutlers’ Row in the direction of Buckmaster’s warehouse, I taking care to slouch along, my hands in my pockets, as Holmes had instructed me.
    Titchbourne Street was only a few turnings away and, as we passed the Britannia public house and entered the lane which ran behind it, Holmes touched my arm to draw my attention to a man who lay slumped in its doorway.
    ‘One of Lestrade’s men,’ he murmured in my ear.
    ‘Is he?’ I asked. I had taken him to be a tramp sleeping off an excess of alcohol.
    ‘You can tell by the boots. They are much too new. You see now, Watson, why I insisted on your changing yours?’
    ‘But what are Lestrade’s men doing in the area?’
    Holmes raised his thin shoulders.
    ‘It could be any number of reasons. The neighbourhood is notorious as a meeting-place for criminals. I could name three premises in Cutlers’ Row alone which deal in stolen goods and that is not to take into account the numerous low “dives” and lodging-houses in the side-streets. But I rather think Lestrade’s men will not interfere with our own activities.’
    As he had been speaking, we had passed along the lane and had reached the rear entrance to Buckmaster’s premises where Holmes halted and, having cast a glance up and down the turning to make sure that we were unobserved, drew me into the doorway.
    It was a matter of a mere few seconds for him to take thebunch of picklocks from his pocket, select the right one and, inserting it into the lock in the small wicket opening, give it a dexterous turn at which the spring catch yielded and we were able to enter the building.
    Once inside, we closed the door and lit our dark lanterns by the light of which we could see to cross the passage towards the door which led into the vestibule.
    My heart was already beating high at the adventure and at the thought of the illegality of our actions when, just as we reached the door and Holmes was preparing to open it, we had cause to stop short.
    In the distance we could hear the sound of wheels rapidly approaching.
    ‘I rather suspect,’ Holmes remarked, ‘that we are about to receive a visit from a certain gentleman who enjoys a good Havana cigar.’
    There was no time for further explanation. Hardly had he finished speaking