For the second time in as many hours, I heard the rattle of a horse-drawn cab with two wheels rounding a corner and proceeding down the narrow London street in which I was standing.

When a person of my financial and social standing hears a noise of that kind in Whitechapel at two o'clock in the morning, it is, generally speaking, a cause for celebration and relief. The vehicle is hailed and welcomed as an emissary from the civilized world, and the grateful customer is whisked back into a universe where comfort and security are the God given rights of all those who can afford to pay for them.

However, when a person of my financial and social status (not to mention my gender) is alone in Whitechapel at two o'clock in the morning, it is—generally speaking—the result of some hideous mistake. It is generally *not* a situation which fills the person with feelings of freedom and gratitude, and a slight bit of giddiness.

My financial status, social status, and gender notwithstanding, I was feeling all those things. And since I strongly suspected that the approach of the cab might well bring an end, if not necessarily to the freedom, then certainly to the giddiness of my excursion, I began to look about for a suitable refuge. Within seconds of the moment when the driver of the vehicle would pass within clear sight of me, I dove for the shelter of a stairway and remained beneath it, my legs tucked up to my chin, until the noise had faded and I was certain that the danger, such as it was, had passed.

I remained where I was for a moment, in case my extremely cunning adversary had managed to stow his vehicle and double back on foot. I was just beginning to observe that I shared my hiding place under the stairwell with a sizable population of spiders when a soft, high pitched voice intruded upon my smug self-congratulation.

"Who are you hiding from?"

The voice came from somewhere over my head. Curious, I risked the exposure of craning my head to one side and peering up over the corner of the dirty wooden steps, where I came face-to-sudden-face with the serious countenance of a thin faced, brown haired boy, seven or eight years old by his looks.

I blinked for a moment, wondering how I had failed to notice him when I chose this for my place of refuge. Then I remembered what Holmes had said about his Irregulars, that no one noticed the activities of a single dirty child, no matter how obtrusive he made himself, when the city was literally teeming with unwanted, unwashed hordes of them.

It was rather embarrassing to discover that I was just as blind as any of the many people Holmes had spied upon with their assistance through the course of his career.

Then I remembered that the child had asked me a question, and, thinking quickly, I slipped into one of my earliest and best-worn roles and said, "Hiding from my Da."

His face disappeared, and I didn't have time to wonder where he'd gone before I suddenly retracted my neck in order to avoid the small, sturdy shape propelling itself over the side of the rickety staircase. A moment later the child was squatting beside me on the dirty cobblestones, his eyes dark and adult beneath the fringe of his hair and the dirty rim of his cap.

It was not an easy thing to meet that honest, steady gaze. I suddenly felt ashamed of the ruse of my young man's clothes, of my (at least partly) imaginary Da, and of the life I would return to when my lark was over.

The guilt increased when the child fumbled in a coat pocket, extracted half an ancient, crumbling dinner roll, undoubtedly salvaged from someone's dust bin, and broke it in half, extending the slightly larger portion to me without smiling.

I could do nothing but accept, and choke down the crumbs.

The child spoke while my mouth was otherwise occupied. "My name's David. I come here to wait on my Dad sometimes."

"To wait on him?" I asked, once I'd managed to swallow.

"While he's sleeping off the drink," David explained, taking a bite from his own half of the roll.

Another pang of guilt struck me before I could use logic to forestall it.

"Your Dad drink?"

"No," I said too quickly, thinking of Holmes. "He doesn't drink. It's just that sometimes he gets...mean," I finished, thinking not of Holmes, but of my aunt.

"Ah," David said, nodding wisely. "That's too bad. It's worse when they're like that."

"You think that?"

"Sure. When I see my dad come home a-staggering, I know to let him be for awhile. And he's sorry when he sobers up, and sometimes he gives me a penny. Me mum, though—she's fussing all the time, never happy about nothing. Can't look out for that."

Out of the mouths of babes, I thought, mentally contrasting Holmes' occasional moodiness to the perpetual vitriol displayed by my aunt. "Do you always come here when your Da's been drinking?"

"Sometimes I sleep here. Sometime I go to the Golden Egg and do for Missus Jenkins, and she gives me my supper. Lots of places to go. Just got to keep going. Then it's night before you know it, and you can sneak back in while everyone's in bed."

"Sometimes I climb in through the chimney," I said, remembering times not too distantly past.

"Aye, that's smart work if you can manage it. Our chimney's not big around as me." He cocked his head and looked me sharply up and down. "You're grown awful tall to still be running away from your Dad. Sure, he don't knock you around anymore?"

All the muscles in my neck and shoulders seemed to freeze at those words. I had a sudden vision of Holmes staring down at me as I leapt from the seat of the cab, a glint of worry in his eyes as I hit the ground stumbling, reaching for my sore shoulder.

"No, he never knocked me around. He just..." What to say to a seven year old boy, fending for himself amidst the savagery of Whitechapel? *He undermined my dignity?* Suddenly the petty spat of earlier in the evening, the relative danger of my position now, even the lofty question for the sake of which I had abandoned Holmes an hour ago, were put into their proper perspective, and I fished around in my soul for something genuine to say to the boy.

"He can make me feel a lot smaller than I am, sometimes, and....I have to get away from him for a little while to feel like myself again." David nodded with such wisdom that I was reminded for a stricken instant of my younger brother, who had annoyed me far less when I was twelve and he was seven than when I was fourteen and he nine.

"Sometimes that's worse than getting knocked around. I'd rather see my dad home from the pub than hang around when my mum's in a state. If she ain't yelling at me, then she's crying and carrying on and telling me she wished I'd never been born."

I jammed my cap down more firmly on my head, in an effort to keep my throat from growing tight. I was finding that I preferred the shame my companion had inspired in me earlier to the rage and helplessness that rose in me now—the knowledge that all my talents, all my intelligence, and all my money could not mitigate some people's suffering for longer than an hour or two. Nor could it purchase, for my own benefit, a cheerfulness like David's, or the generosity of the widow's mite which prompted him to share his meager resources with me—poor food, and rich conversation.

I thought again of Holmes, and how I had been affronted by his prescience. I recollected my position now, hiding from him—why? Because he was pursuing me. Why? Because he feared for my safety. An urge as misplaced as my compassion for this child, but one which I could nonetheless have no reason not to appreciate—just as I hoped my feelings for David did me some moral credit.

I cleared my throat, and rose up on my haunches, still keeping to the shelter of the stairway.

"I got to be on my way now, Davy, but I thank you for hiding me awhile and sharing your supper with me. I hope you can go home soon." I crawled sideways until I could safely stand, and then stretched with real gratitude.

"Not much chance of that," he grinned—and a whim struck me.

I bent until I was roughly eye level with David again and, reaching into my pocket, I pulled a folded note out without knowing the size of it. I took David's hand and pressed it there.

"If you go home and show them that, things might go calmer for just a bit."

He looked down at it, his eyes opening widely as he began to unfold it. I hadn't intended to be quite so conspicuous in my generosity, but from the expression on his face I almost wished it had been the ten pound note, rather than the fiver.

"What's your name?" he demanded suddenly, looking up at me with equal parts wonder and suspicion.

"Gabriel," I said, giving him my brother's name. And I left him there, my heart a little lighter than even my pocket.


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