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“Where are you going?”
I shut the door without answering, rolling my eyes when I could be sure Holmes would not see. After prodding me into three different lectures last week, he well knew that I did not need a destination. Not when half the time my goal remained simply “not here.” Following me around would not somehow make up for last week’s ambush, but he still coincidentally ended up in the same place as me. Repeatedly. When his presence renewed my irritation, he would be better served letting me avoid him for a few days, until I no longer saw the fear that had lined the youngest Irregulars’ faces after that last Intruder Alert.
Until I did not see Spencer and young Mattie huddled at the back of a cubby, too afraid to come out after eight grown men had charged their home—one of whom had tried to kidnap Mattie not two months ago.
Holmes had neglected to mention that his case involved a threat directed at the courtyard, and eight adult men had charged that hidden home one after another—presumably to shove the Irregulars out and take it for themselves. Whatever their goal, Holmes and I had helped the oldest boys fight them off until the Yard arrived, and the rapid-fire attack had left many of the young ones keeping a wary eye on the archway.
And scowling at Holmes for not warning them, of course. He should know better than to keep a possible ambush secret. Even Wiggins had gotten him away from the littles a couple days later to scold him for not alerting us, and if he would not let me avoid his company until my irritation faded, I would give him a reason to need my company—and hopefully teach him a valuable lesson in the process. A familiar shadow peeked out of the next alley, confirmed my location, then disappeared to follow me at a distance. They had been laying clues for days, and while Holmes had found the clues and drawn the conclusion we wanted, he had said nothing. Again. Time to show him just why we wanted to know in advance about any possible problems.
A winding route took an equal number of main streets and alleys on an indirect path toward that hidden courtyard. A few minutes ducked in and out of two shops, apparently to browse but more accurately to muddle my trail a bit more, and two different main streets served to vanish both my trail and my tail’s. Wiggins followed a few streets away—just far enough that I would have struggled to spot him if I had not expected the tail. Unfamiliar shoes caused at least one stumble just as this week’s weather kept me leaning on my cane, but he waited until I used yet another alley shortcut to initiate the next part of our plan.
The low growl served as my only warning. Wiggins dove around the next corner swinging a board he had probably pulled off a pallet, and I ducked the initial attack and dropped my bag to “fight” back. Having sparred at various levels for years when I taught the Irregulars, we quickly fell into a back-and-forth pattern that focused more on the prints we left than the spar itself. When plenty of tracks and traces littered the alley, I landed a semi-solid hit on Wiggins’ cheek then purposely kicked my bag aside to tackle him. He dodged my grab and tripped me, sending me to the ground hard enough to drive the air out of my lungs.
And make fire race up my leg, considering it had decided to buckle when I let Wiggins trip me. Black spots mixed with the red tingeing my vision, and my entire concentration narrowed to not passing out in front of an Irregular.
“—tor? Doctor, can you hear me?”
Though staying conscious did little when I could not respond. Long seconds passed before frantic whispering formed into words, then worry. Wiggins forcefully kept his position even as the board he had dropped earlier prodded my hand, but fear drained in a sigh when I managed a full breath.
“Not s’posed to actually get hurt, Doctor,” he muttered. “Do we need to stop?”
No, but the word failed to reach audible. Another deep breath tried to return my voice.
“No,” I managed. “J’st—landed wrong. G’ve me a moment.”
Palpable concern filled the silence, but he kept his place as I fought with my lungs, then my leg. On a normal day, the pain now lacing through that old injury would confine me to the settee for at least an hour and the sitting room for the day, but if my leg would cooperate, this would help sell the object lesson the oldest Irregulars and I tried to teach Holmes. Seconds dragged into minutes as pain ricocheted from heel to hip. Deep breaths noted with gratitude that I had not landed on my shoulder. Wiggins very carefully did not fidget in place as he clearly wanted to. An accidental twitch nearly caused a spasm that would have canceled our plans, but some two or three minutes finally let me move again, and I signaled Wiggins.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.” For the moment. Slowly. Hooking my thumbs behind my back both forced the uneven balance of a bound captive and left my cane behind, but Wiggins frowned at me, then at the stick in the middle of the alley. Leaping out of the too-large boots, he darted forward to walk directly beside me, clearly deciding to “fail to rescue me” a bit earlier than planned.
I appreciated the thought, as his arm around my waist helped keep me upright more than once on our way through the alley maze, but the change meant he would have to cover his tracks better later. Pain colored my vision red once more by the time we rounded the last corner, and my leg buckled yet again not five feet from the “bolt hole” they had scouted last week. Wiggins’ shorter frame had no hope of keeping me upright, and I ended up in a heap on the dirty cobblestones.
I did not hurt any more, however, and barely a minute served to let me reach hands and knees to crawl the final distance. Wiggins lingered only long enough to ensure I reached the cubby—and had not taken true injury—before he ghosted back down the alley to correct his prints and add the boot tracks we needed.
With the “headquarters” that gang had chosen being little more than a sheltered cubby with an adult-sized opening, I carefully adjusted to put my back to the wall, trying to relax my leg enough to quit throbbing. Any hope I had of “rescuing” myself had faded the first time that injury flared, but after doing so twice, I would be trapped here until dark or Holmes found me.
Or until Wiggins called an end to our lesson, but he would not do that unless I asked. He marched back into view wearing the boots belonging to my “attacker,” stopped briefly at the hole to check on me, then hurried back toward the street to lose the trail in the crowd. He would find Holmes soon enough.
I pulled a novel out of my pocket to pass the time, though if my leg continued its complaining, I doubted I would make much progress.
“Watson!”
Footsteps echoed through the alleys to pull me out of a doze. I shifted, then failed to silence a flinch when my leg protested. Holmes grew closer, louder, then skidded to a halt a moment later, backlit by the evening sun that had been warming my bricks. He leaned through the opening to land two fingers on my wrist. Faint concern lined his forehead as he noted my “bolt hole”, the various prints in the alley, and the spasm twitching my leg.
“Where are you injured?”
I indicated a negative, which made him start checking for symptoms of a head injury. A half-hearted swat tried to push him away.
“Leg,” I managed after a moment. Swallowing moistened my throat and removed the rasp from my voice. “He…hasn’t come back for a while,” I continued, meaning Wiggins but implicating our mystery attacker. “Could have escaped, but my leg buckled, and I lost my stick. We’re not far from the courtyard. Are the Irregulars alright?”
“They are fine,” he answered shortly. Gentle movements finally confirmed a lack of a concussion, but he ignored my scowl to help me into a crawl. My lack of balance nearly pitched me into a wall twice before I cleared the cubby entrance, where he draped my arm over his shoulder and hoisted me upright. Only when we limped down the alley did he add, “Frankie alerted me that they had expected you by midday, and Wiggins found me just before I found your bag. He should be back with the others by now.”
Good. That and Holmes’ actions meant that our fabricated trail had worked. Considering Frankie should have gone to him several hours ago, Holmes had spent a large portion of this afternoon believing that keeping silent about a possible threat had let Wiggins and me get attacked, though Wiggins had been able to escape and run for help. And while I doubted Holmes considered me a friend as I did him, he had shown a well-developed guilt complex when he decided that his actions had injured another. With any luck, the next time Holmes’ case threatened me or the Irregulars, he would tell us before that threat decided to attack.
If not, Wiggins’ next lesson plan involved several more Irregulars practicing their “playacting.”