‘Where is it to be found?’
‘In London. I do not know exactly where.’
‘Who runs it?’
‘I cannot say. I have no idea.’
‘Then you have hardly helped us, Mr Henderson. How can we even be sure that what you say is true?’
‘Because I can prove it.’ He coughed unpleasantly and I recalled that cracked lips and a dry mouth were both symptoms of the long-term use of the drug. ‘I have long been a customer at Creer’s Place. It’s done up to be Chinese, with a few tapestries and fans, and I see a few Orientals in there sometimes, coiled up together on the floor. But the man who runs it is as English as you or I and a more vicious and uncharitable sort you wouldn’t want to meet. Black eyes and a head like a dead man’s skull. Oh, he’ll smile and call you his friend when you have your fourpence, but you ask favours from him or try to cross him and he’ll have you beaten and thrown in a ditch without a second thought. Even so, he and I rub along well enough. Don’t ask me why. He has a little office off the main room and sometimes he’ll invite me in to smoke with him — tobacco not opium. He likes to hear stories about life down at the docks. Well, it was while sitting with him that I first heard the House of Silk mentioned. He uses boys to bring in his supplies and also to search out new customers in the saw mills and the coal yards—’
‘Boys?’ I interrupted. ‘Did you ever meet any of them? Was one of them called Ross?’
‘They have no names and I don’t speak to any of them. But listen to what I’m saying! I was there a few weeks ago and one of these lads came in, evidently late. Creer had been drinking and was in an ill-humour. He grabbed the boy, struck him and knocked him to the ground. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
‘“The House of Silk,” the boy replied.
‘“And what do you have for me?”’
‘The boy handed over a packet and slunk out of the room. “What is the House of Silk?” I asked.
‘That was when Creer told me what I have told you now. Had it not been for the whisky, he would not have been so loose-tongued, and when he had finished he realised what he had done and suddenly turned ugly. He opened a little bureau beside his desk and the next thing I knew, he was pointing a gun at me. “Why do you want to know?” he cried. “Why do you ask me these questions?”
‘“I have no interest at all,” I assured him, both startled and afraid. “I was making idle conversation. That’s all.”
‘“Idle conversation? There is nothing idle about it, my friend. You ever repeat a word of what I have just said to anyone, they’ll be hauling your remains out of the Thames. Do you understand me? If I don’t kill you, they will.” Then he seemed to think a second time. He lowered the gun, and when he spoke again it was in a softer tone of voice. “You can take your pipe with no payment tonight,” says he. “You’re a good customer. We know each other well, you and I. We have to look after you. Forget I ever spoke to you and never mention the subject again. Do you hear me?”
‘And that was the end of it. I had almost forgotten the incident, but then I saw your advertisement and of course it brought it back to mind. If he knew I had come to you, I have no doubt he would be as good as his word. But if you are seeking the House of Silk, you must begin with his office for he can lead you there.
‘Where is it to be found?’
‘In Bluegate Fields. The house itself is on the corner of Milward Street; a low, dirty place with a red light burning in the doorway.’
‘Will you be there tonight?’
‘I am there every night, and thanks to your beneficence I will be there for many nights to come.’
‘Does this man, Creer, ever leave his office?’
‘Frequently. The den is cramped and smoke-filled. He goes out to take the air.’
‘Then you may see me tonight. And if all goes well and I find what I am looking for, I will double your reward.’
‘Do not say you know me. Do not acknowledge my presence. Do not expect any further assistance if things go awry.’
‘I understand.’
‘Then good luck to you, Mr Holmes. I wish you success — for my sake, not for yours.’
We waited until Henderson had left, then Holmes turned to me with a gleam in his eyes. ‘An opium den! And one that does business with the House of Silk. What do you think, Watson?’
‘I don’t like the sound of it one bit, Holmes. I think you should stay well away.’
‘Pshaw! I think I can look after myself.’ Holmes strode over to his desk, opened a drawer and took out a pistol. ‘I’ll go armed.’
‘Then I shall go with you.’
‘My dear Watson, I cannot possibly allow it. As much as I am grateful to you for your consideration, I have to say that the two of us together would look anything but the sort of customers who might be seeking out an East London opium den on a Thursday night.’
‘Nonetheless, Holmes, I insist. I will remain outside, if you wish. We must surely be able to find somewhere nearby. Then, if you are in need of assistance, a single shot will bring me to the scene. Creer may have other thugs working for him. And can we trust Henderson not to betray you?’
‘You have a point. Very well. Where is your revolver?’
‘I did not bring it with me.’
‘No matter. I have another.’ Holmes smiled and I saw the relish in his face. ‘Tonight we shall pay Creer’s Place a visit and we shall see what we shall see.’
There was another fog that night, the worst one of the month so far. I would have urged Holmes to postpone his visit to Bluegate Fields if I had thought it would do any good but I could see from his pale and hawk-like face that he would not be deterred from the course of action to which he had committed himself. Although he had not said as much, I knew that it was the death of the child, Ross, that compelled him. For as long as he held himself even partly responsible for what had occurred, he would not rest and all thoughts of his own safety he would willingly set aside.
And yet how oppressed I felt as the cab dropped us beside an alleyway near the Limehouse Basin. The fog, thick and yellow, was unfolding through the streets, deadening every sound. Vile, it seemed, like some evil animal snuffling through the darkness in search of its prey and as we made our way forward it was as if we were delivering ourselves into its very jaws. We passed through the alley, trapped between red brick walls dripping with moisture and rising up so high that, but for the faint silvering of the moon, they might have completely blotted out the sky. At first, our own footsteps were the only sounds we heard, but then the passage widened and the whinny of a horse, the soft rumble of a steam engine, the rippling of water and the shrill cry of a sleepless baby echoed out from different directions, each in its own way defining the obscurity all around. We were by a canal. A rat, or some other creature, scuttled in front of us and slipped over the edge of the footpath, falling into the black water with a splash. A dog barked. We walked past a barge, tied to one side, chinks of light just visible behind the curtained windows, smoke billowing out of its chimney. Beyond was a dry dock, a tangle of ships barely visible, hanging like prehistoric skeletons, their ropes and rigging trailing down, awaiting repairs. We turned a corner and all of this was swallowed up immediately by the fog which fell like a curtain behind us, so that when I turned round it was as if I had just emerged from nowhere. Ahead, too, there was nothing, and if we had been about to step off the edge of the world, we would have been no wiser. But then we heard the jangle of a piano, one finger picking out a tune. A woman suddenly loomed up in front of us and I glimpsed a wrinkled face, hideously painted, a gaudy hat and a feathered scarf. I caught her scent which reminded me of flowers dying in a vase. She laughed briefly and then was gone. And finally, in front of us, I saw lights; the windows of a public house. This was from where the music was coming.