The instant the line was spoken, Watson heard a rope running overhead. Not the wind. The knot on the cleat had been pulled loose from below. Holmes seized the flying end. His glove smoked. The whole painted Thames stopped in mid-air, less than an arm's length above the woman's head.
Somebody in the stalls applauded, thinking it was part of the play. The woman did not move, as if she had known the cloth would fall, and known that someone would catch it.
"Look at the back of the cloth, Watson," Holmes said through his teeth. With the light behind it, a map of the docks showed through, drawn in charcoal on the reverse. A piece had been cut from the lower right corner. Its edge was the same grey fibre as on the card. Beside the cut was a single name: St Katharine.
Beneath the stage a trapdoor knocked. A figure in wet boots dropped through it, leaving only a line of black footprints on the boards, the same colour as the mud dripping from the coat.
❦ To be continued.
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