They did not turn another ledger. Holmes held the lamp-sketch on his knee and counted the riverside lights through the cab window: one, two, three—the fourth was still burning, like a nail ringed in charcoal, driven into the steps below St. Katharine.
The cab stopped at the mouth of an alley. They went on foot. A skiff was already tied at the lamp-post, its oars still dripping. In the ring of light sat a man, his coat-collar high; yet his chest rose and fell—no dummy.
Watson would have rushed out, but Holmes caught his wrist. Behind the post, in the dark, a pair of heavy boots did not move; a knife-point rested at the man's back. Out of the fog came a very light sound of oars, nearer and nearer, as if answering the lamp.
The seated man lifted his face. Watson knew him: Edmund Crane. He saw them on the bank, and shook his head, very slightly.
"Do not move," Holmes whispered at Watson's ear. "The delivery boat is already here."
❦ To be continued.
Comments 0
No comments yet.