Sherlock Holmes in Something the Cat Dragged In by Lyn McConchie

lose either or both.”
    We met at five minutes short of the hour that evening—Holmes, Lestrade, Western, and I—and as I had been instructed, I led the way down a back alley behind the building we sought. We saw no one, heard not a voice or a sound. Lestrade picked the lock very neatly and we entered, making our way to the cellar door where I knocked quietly.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œDr. MacIntosh,” I announced. “I need to see my patient.”
    There was a baffled silence. There was no Dr. Macintosh to my knowledge, but we thought the caretaker would be loath to be rude to a doctor and would open the door lest I begin to make a fuss at being kept from a patient. That he did after a minute, and was starting to ask my exact business when a coat was tossed over his head and he was bundled away from the door.
    He gave a muffled shout and Western promptly tapped him over the head. Not sufficient a blow to cause harm, but enough to give a warning—which was taken. Thereafter the caretaker was silent. Lestrade looked about the rooms.
    â€œHere, this way.” He affected an accent that seemed genuinely of the district that lay beside this one and I grinned at him. He tipped his hat to me with an answering grin and pointed to where a wardrobe stood against the wall. We moved that to reveal a small door, which I forced open. On a cot on the room’s far side lay a disheveled man, grimy, shoeless, and with his hands bound behind him. He stared at us, unsure, I think, as to whether we were a rescue or further trouble.
    Lestrade reached him in a rush. “Hush. We can get you out of here safely, but only if you do as we say. If you bring down the people here, there’ll be a riot and you’ll be lost.”
    Lord Northgate stared at Holmes. “I know you, sir. You’re…” I put my hand over his mouth quickly, nodding to the form of the caretaker enveloped in Lestrade’s coat. “Oh, ah, yes.”
    He writhed until his hands were presented to us and I slashed his bonds. He stood, staggered, and all but fell. “I’m sorry, they’ve had me tied for some time.” Lestrade took his arm and helped him walk to and fro for some minutes until he was steadier. While this was done Holmes, Western, and I searched the rooms but found nothing, to my great disappointment. I had hoped we would find the papers, but there was no sign of them. Finally, motioning for the silence to continue, Holmes went to our prisoner and removed his shoes, handing them to Lord Northgate.
    â€œWear these.”
    â€œThank you,” was the response as they were donned.
    We made for the door, until Northgate turned back and spoke very quietly to Holmes. “Have you money, sir?”
    Holmes produced his notecase and displayed the contents. Northgate took a five pound note and, walking across the room, he placed it in the caretaker’s pocket. “For your shoes, Gil, and other considerations.”
    And to us he said, as we left the rooms and turned towards the back door. “He treated me as well as he could. Left me my dignity, fed me better than they’d have allowed, and at his expense. He isn’t a bad man, just frightened not to do as he is told.”
    I saw a man standing in the shadows as we passed out of the door. Holmes and the others headed off along the street to safely, while I hesitated and turned back. I made it clear I was not looking into the watcher’s face but spoke carefully, my gaze on the pavement. “The caretaker, he treated his captive well. I hope no one will blame him.”
    â€œNo, Doctor.”
    â€œThank you.”
    I followed my friends, and once we were away from the lowering buildings Lestrade hailed a cab and we were driven direct to Mayfair and Lord Northgate’s town house there. He was received by his servants with cries of joy, and led the way into the library where, in a few minutes food and drink was placed