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The scene was straight from Oliver Twist – a filthy cockroach-ridden den, grubby and gaunt children, and their “guardians” now cuffed and under the glares of constables who gripped their sticks and thought of their own kids at home.
Watson examined the children; for this he was bitten, kicked, spat on and cursed. He didn’t blame the little beasts – they’d only ever known adults as abusers or pickpocketing targets.
But the oddest reaction was from one tiny boy who stood off from him, nose streaming, who closed one agate-blue eye and raised his dirty little hand toward Watson, opening and closing thumb and forefinger as if casting a hex.
Naturally that odd behaviour caught Holmes’ attention. After studying it for a few moments , he walked over to the constable guarding the child and hunkered down, looking up at Watson from the boy’s perspective.
“Fucking peewuh,” the boy said in the same tone that another child would say “Good morning.”
“I’m not a peeler, my lad, but I help them. What are you doing to my friend?” Holmes asked.
“Cwushing his head,” the child said solemnly, and squeezed his thumb and forefinger again.
Mystery solved. Watson didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Holmes nodded. “Will ice cream make you stop crushing my friend’s head?”