And what must we be?’ cried the speaker.
‘On our guard!’ shouted the crowd.
I could not tear myself away. Something about this scene and this speaker utterly fascinated me. I grasped Holmes’s arm. ‘Look at those white lines around his fingers! Many rings, I should think. What preacher would adorn himself so?’ I felt sure Holmes would compliment me on my keen observation.
‘None, Watson. His name is James Fardwinkle and he runs a pickpocketing ring out of Holborn. I have had him arrested twice, but he is something of a greased hog. The police cannot take hold. Let us move along.’
I laughed. ‘Indeed! Look—!’ A young boy wove through the crowds, pausing to artfully extract a billfold from a pocket. He began to approach us but then, noting my challenging stare, he changed course. In a moment, he dipped into a woman’s reticule, removing several pound notes.
‘Stop, thief!’ I shouted.
‘Watson!’ Holmes whispered.
The speaker swivelled to glare at me directly, his face melting into a theatrical portrayal of hurt innocence. But as he recognized Holmes standing next to me, a transformation came over it, which sent a chill down my spine.
‘That was not wise,’ murmured Holmes, looking down and adjusting his Homburg to cover his face.
‘There’s a policeman right over there.’ I gestured to a constable standing off to one side, presumably monitoring the situation. ‘Fardwinkle can hardly weasel out now. Police!’ I cried.
‘We must be off now,’ said Holmes, seizing my arm with an iron pinch.
‘Will you know the Devil when you see him?’ shouted Fardwinkle. The preacher was staring at me, or rather us. He raised an arm and pointed it at Holmes. ‘I can. I do. The Devil is standing here among us.’
The crowd turned to look at us. Their gaze focused on Holmes. Admittedly, his gaunt pallor, intensity and swirling black coat were not at that moment helping to portray the angel of justice I knew him to be.
I would not let this situation intimidate us. ‘You are an utter charlatan!’ I found myself shouting at Fardwinkle. ‘Watch your pockets, ladies and gentlemen!’ Turning to Holmes, I said, ‘How can this crowd be so gullible?’
Holmes shook his head but did not release my arm.
‘There he is. The Devil. The Devil in the flesh! You know what to do!’ The speaker continued to point at Holmes.
This was an outrage. We were in the centre of modern London. The Devil, indeed!
‘This is Sherlock Holmes, you fool!’ I shouted. ‘The detective.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ murmured Holmes. He yanked my arm, none too gently. ‘Stop talking.’
‘Sherlock Holmes, who sends innocent men to the gallows!’ shouted Fardwinkle in full preacher voice. ‘Charles Danforth! Just this week, an innocent man, freed only yesterday by the will of God. Sherlock Holmes, who has been taken by the Devil. The Devil is Sherlock Holmes!’
A woman moved up to him and batted at him with her handbag. ‘The Devil!’ she announced, nodding.
‘Not me, madam,’ he said gently, as he sidestepped her, only to find two men blocking his way. ‘Watson, run.’
I caught a glimpse of Gabriel Zanders across the crowd, regarding the unfolding drama with eager excitement. The crowd closed in and Holmes and I were separated. A leering man leaned in to me and shouted, ‘Who are you who walks with the Devil?’ Two more moved in beside him, giving me their hardest looks.
‘My name is John Watson. I am a doctor, you idiot. Now, let me pass.’
Ahead of me, Holmes was engulfed by murmuring congregants. Only then did I realize the true danger of the situation.
They began to push. The man near me knocked the hat from my head. I bent down to scoop it up but upon rising could no longer see Holmes.
From the dais, the speaker continued to excite the crowd. ‘The Devil and his disciple walk among us. You know what to do. The Devil! The Devil!’
Suddenly I felt the press of the furious crowd. The situation had ratcheted from zero to lethal in seconds.
‘Destroy the Devil! Destroy the Devil!’
A woman slapped at my face and a man tried to wrench my arm behind my back.
I yanked free, then caught a brief glimpse of Holmes, who was attempting to fend off grasping hands without hurting anyone. Above it all, Fardwinkle continued to shout, waving his preacher’s hat towards my friend, a malicious smile splitting his sunburnt face.
Two men seized my arms but, with a sudden heave, I freed myself and pushed through the crowd towards Holmes, inadvertently bumping into a young woman. ‘Pardon me, madam!’ I said, noting the beautiful young face fixed on mine. Her hand snaked into my pocket and she smiled in triumph. I pulled away in alarm, before remembering I carried nothing in that pocket. More people intervened, and I pushed through to my friend.
Holmes and I exchanged a look, locked arms, and rammed our way free. Before us was the path, and beyond that, Marble Arch, and the safety of others.
We ran.
A couple of the men followed hard on our heels, but the policeman’s whistle sounded, echoed by another, and our pursuers gave up the chase. We did not slow down until we were safe among the milling crowds near Marble Arch.
It was only when the drizzle became a sudden downpour that I realized I had lost my umbrella in the mob at Speakers’ Corner. ‘Devil take it,’ I said in exasperation. ‘My umbrella!’
‘Devil did take it indeed, Watson.’
We took shelter under the arch, but the rain slanted in to pelt us, nevertheless. Water poured off our hats and shoulders as crowds of businessmen hurried past under their umbrellas without a thought. We were back in modern London. Holmes and I eyed each other for one tense moment, then … burst out laughing.
‘You do look a touch satanic,’ I said, eyeing the rain dripping from Holmes’s black Homburg.
‘Apparently so, Watson.’
‘What’s this?’ I had put my hands in my pockets against the cold when I discovered a small card in the left one. I pulled it out. It had a strange, ornate blue and white pattern on one side. I turned it over.
‘Look at this!’ I exclaimed. ‘A young woman in the crowd – she must have placed it there.’
For there, in my hand, was a Tarot card, with a leering, horned figure, ornately drawn in black and white and blood red. The Devil!
Twenty minutes later, the fire roaring and our wet clothes set before it, Holmes and I sat smoking in our dressing gowns in the sitting-room of 221B. Holmes perused the Tarot card I had been given and retrieved his magnifying glass to have closer look.
‘Anything, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘One of those fortune-telling cards, isn’t it?’
‘Tarot, yes. Fairly common type; I’ve seen this deck before. Delarue Franc, it says here, exported from France. The Devil. How apropos.’
I stared at the gruesome horned figure dancing on the card. ‘Hmm. I see no resemblance to you. Well, maybe around the eyes—’
‘Watson!’
‘All, right, not the eyes. But you could both use a bit more meat on the bones.’
We sat in silence as he continued to examine the card.