The House Of Silk

half-chairs, half-tables … all manner of furniture, but nothing whole. A pile of broken crates stood on one side, old coal bags stuffed with Lord knows what on the other. There was smashed glass, great piles of paper, twisted fragments of metal and, in the middle of it, barefoot and in a dress too thin for this weather, a girl of about sixteen, sweeping what space was still available, as if it would make any difference. I recognised in her the same looks as her younger brother. Her hair was fair, her eyes blue and, but for the circumstances in which she found herself, I would have said she was pretty. But the cruel touch of poverty and hardship was also evident in the sharp line of her cheekbones, the arms as thin as sticks and the grime embedded in her hands and cheeks. When she looked up, her face showed only suspicion and contempt. Sixteen! And what had her life been to bring her here?
    We stood in front of her, but she continued with her work, ignoring us both.
    ‘Miss Dixon?’ Holmes asked. The brushes of the broom swept back and forth, the rhythm unbroken. ‘Sally?’
    She stopped and slowly raised her head, examining us. ‘Yes?’ I saw that her hands had closed around the broom handle, clutching it as if it were a weapon.
    ‘We don’t wish to alarm you,’ Holmes said. ‘We mean you no harm.’
    ‘What do you want?’ Her eyes were fierce. Neither of us was standing close to her. We would not dare to.
    ‘We wish to speak to your brother, to Ross.’
    Her hands tightened. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘We are his friends.’
    ‘Are you from the House of Silk? Ross is not here. He has never been here – and you will not find him.’
    ‘We want to help him.’
    ‘Of course you would say that. Well, I’m telling you, he’s not here. You can both go away! You make me sick. Go back where you came from.’
    Holmes glanced at me and, hoping to be of service, I took one step towards the girl. I had thought I would reassure her but I had made a grievous mistake. I am still not sure what happened. I saw the broom fall and heard Holmes cry out. Then the girl seemed to punch the air in front of me and I felt something white hot slice across my chest. I staggered back, pressing my hand against the front of my coat. When I looked down, I saw blood trickling between my fingers. So shocked was I, it took me a moment to realise that I had been stabbed, either with a knife or a shard of glass. For a moment, the girl stood in front of me, not a child at all but snarling like an animal, her eyes ablaze, her lips drawn back in a ferocious grimace. Holmes rushed to my side. ‘My dear Watson!’ Then there was a movement behind me.
    ‘What’s going on here?’ The landlord had appeared. The girl let out a single, guttural howl, then turned and fled through a narrow archway leading out into the street.
    I was in pain, but I already knew that I had not been seriously injured. The thickness of my coat and my jacket underneath had protected me from the worst of what the blade might have achieved, and later that evening I would dress and disinfect a relatively minor wound. Thinking back now, I remember that there would be another occasion, ten years later, when I would be hurt while in the company of Sherlock Holmes and, strange though it may sound, I felt almost a sense of gratitude towards both my attackers who demonstrated that my physical well-being did at least mean something to the great man and that he was not as coldly disposed towards me as he sometimes pretended.
    ‘Watson?’
    ‘It’s nothing. Holmes. A scratch.’
    ‘What’s happened?’ the landlord demanded. He was staring at my bloodstained hands. ‘What did you do to her?’
    ‘You might ask what she has done to me,’ I grunted, although even in the shock of the moment I was unable to feel any rancour towards this poor, malnourished child who had struck out at me in fear and incomprehension and who had not really wished me any harm.
    ‘The girl was frightened,’ Holmes said. ‘Are you sure you are not hurt, Watson? Come inside. You need to sit down.’
    ‘No, Holmes. I assure you, it is not as bad as it seems.’
    ‘Thank heaven for that. We must call at once for a hansom. Landlord, it was the girl’s brother that we came here to find. A boy of thirteen, fair-haired also, shorter than her and better fed.’
    ‘You mean Ross?’
    ‘You know him?’
    ‘I told you. He has been working here with her. You should have asked for him in the first