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The Caged Bird
Mar. 10th, 2010 07:57 pmThe lad was about thirteen years of age, though no one alive could say exactly how old he was with any degree of confidence. Before he was kicked out by the orphanage due to the lack of funds for older children, they were given buns in March, and told that they were all born then.
Improbable, for sure, but that was enough for Wiggins. Every year around March, he would walk along the streets of Holburn, looking for a sweet shop to spend the few farthings that he had gathered up — if he had any extra to spend, that was. It was rare that he had more than sixpence, as the winters were cold and he tried to stay away from theft, after seeing other children banished to workhouses. Most years, he paid for what he could and rummaged through the rubbish, trading his pride for warmth, ending up as broke at the end of the week as he was at the beginning.
This year, though, an old gaffer who lived on Marylebone Road had passed away in December, and the old toff's family, at odds with him, had told the maids to throw everything out. Wiggins had gotten there early, getting his fingers on a flat cap and woolen jacket before the other thrifters and thieves and rag and bone men had descended. Of course, he would've liked to replace the trousers which now only went to his knees, but it would've been greedy and Wiggins didn't want trouble. He had known enough to stay away from the brass and silver, knowing that someone bigger would no doubt simply follow him into an alley and beat him for it. As is, he watched his steps carefully, doubling back once just to make sure there wasn't anyone waiting to waylay him. It was only once he got back to a corner in an alley where the coppers never came that he relaxed, snuggling into his newfound coat to sleep.
The winter that came afterwards was mild and so it was with a few coins jingling in his pocket that the urchin found himself on Oxford Street this year, looking at the shops that lined both sides. Just as he came out of the clothes shop, admiring the new trousers that went all the way down to his shoes, a carriage came flying past, its driver whipping the horse on and shouting for everyone to get out of the way.
Wiggins would've simply stepped aside but there was a most curious occurrence — a feather floated out from inside the carriage and drifted right before him, who reached in a trance to catch it. It was a brilliant green, a color not found on the pigeons of London, and he wondered for a moment what bird would be coloured like that. Looking towards the cart, he saw another feather fly out, and ran towards it, picking it up from the cobblestones and marveling at the look and feel, and then setting off after the carriage rushing through the streets.
Perhaps they could be sold, he thought, and followed as best he could, West on Oxford, around Portman Square, and straight up Baker Street, until it suddenly stopped just past Marylebone Road. Wiggins caught three more feathers as he ran, sticking them in his coat so they would not be so obvious to others, and dropped back a bit, watching intently as a man stepped out of the carriage. The man — dressed as if he had just come from the palace — looked up at the second floor for a long time before turning and taking a cage from the carriage, a cage with a flash of green inside. And then the door opened, the man entered, and Wiggins thought that would be the end of his journey.
But a few minutes later, the cage was set in front of a window on the second floor, easily noticeable from across the street. Wiggins fingered the feathers in his pocket, wondering if he could get more, wondering more what the bird was. He resolved to stay in the area a few days and watch, in case there was something more he could find out, something else he could sell for a few pence.
---
Three days later, Wiggins has prepared his plan. He's seen that the two that live in the flat are often away from the morning until late at night, and he's seen quite a few people come out who he's sure have never come in. It takes two days before he's sure, but he's convinced that one of the men is disguising himself as others — that, or there's another entrance to the house. But it's the tall man, he's reasonably sure, who has emerged as a lady, a copper, and most confusingly, a beggar — one who Wiggins is sure he's seen lurking around King's Cross.
The boy's plan is to steal the bird when the two men are definitely away. He's watched the cage get violently shaken in the middle of the night, heard its angry squawk from across the street as things were thrown at the cage, and he figures that he can sell it to a better place, and perhaps earn some coin for passing it along.
He waits until dusk on a day when both men are out, and then walks past 221, looking around and making his mind to do the deed before he loses his nerve. He jumps the gate that runs in front of the houses, landing in the subcorridor below and finding the servants' entrance. He's seen the maid simply hit the door when they're missing their keys, and he copies the action, smiling as it pops open. From there, it's a quick run up the stairs, into the study, and he finally sees the parrot up close.
It tilts its head, looking at him with a beady eye, and spreads its brilliant emerald feathers in the cage, as if introducing itself.
And then the door opens downstairs, and Wiggins freezes, his escape foiled. A moment later, though, he is going for the window, getting ready to jump out. A squawk interrupts him, and he turns to look at the bird, who squawks again. And though he knows he shouldn't, Wiggins reaches out to open the cage... as a tall man comes into the room, a deerstalker hat perched on his head and a pipe in his mouth.
"Watson! To the door!" The man calls out.
Wiggins slides out the window, hanging from the ledge for a second as the parrot flies away, into the sky. He jumps, getting to the street a moment before the door opens and the portly man in a bowler hat comes out with cane held high. There is a moment as the boy scrambles towards the road, thinking to flee, but suddenly, the taller man speaks from inside.
"Hold, you two!" Both of the others stop, though Watson still holds his cane ready, and poised to bolt. Sherlock comes out, looking the boy over, and then nods to himself.
"You've been around here, haven't you, boy?"
"Yes, cove. For the last week I seen you, frightenin' that birdie, scarin' it, I thought I'd get it away." Wiggins slowly backs up, eyeing the two men uncertainly.
"Ah," he says, pausing to take a puff of his pipe, and Wiggins waits for the outburst. But then the detective surprises him.
"Did the bird say anything before it flew off? And what else have you seen?" Sherlock draws even to Watson before stopping, his eyes taking in Wiggins' jacket, his trousers, the scuffs on his arms.
"Said, 'black', near as I ken tell. I seen that you're doin' summat I dunno, but there's a toff comes in but not out, an' a lady, an' a beggar."
Sherlock leans forward slightly, a glint in his eyes.
"Black, you say? Ah, I see...it was the minister, Watson. The bird recognized the man. We'll need to tell the good Inspector." The detective takes a draw on his pipe, waving away Watson's look of confusion. "It's elementary, Watson. We'll discuss it on the way to the Yard. Anyway — you possess a fine set of observation skills, boy. What's your name?"
"Wiggins, sir." The boy doesn't quite relax, though he isn't so quick to run now. They were no longer speaking like he would be jailed, and perhaps there would even be a reward for him.
"I think I should like you to help me from time to time, Wiggins. How does a shilling a day sound, and a guinea if you find something especially interesting?"
He nods, thinking of more money than he's ever seen at one time, and Sherlock smiles, turning to Watson — who frowns.
"Sherlock, you can't really think that the boy can —"
"Oh but of course I do, Watson. Just think of how useful he can be — someone who can take information without being noticed. Indeed, we may need more of them as time goes on. Perhaps we'll call them the..."
The detective looks around them for inspiration, stopping at the proud street sign.
"Of course — the Baker Street Irregulars."
//
A/N: Tried something else different, though I'm not sure it came out quite exactly how I wanted to. A bit of a detective story, but I don't think I had enough space to properly spin it. More of an homage to the great detective — I was in London this past weekend and when the topic came out, had actually just wandered past Baker Street.
Improbable, for sure, but that was enough for Wiggins. Every year around March, he would walk along the streets of Holburn, looking for a sweet shop to spend the few farthings that he had gathered up — if he had any extra to spend, that was. It was rare that he had more than sixpence, as the winters were cold and he tried to stay away from theft, after seeing other children banished to workhouses. Most years, he paid for what he could and rummaged through the rubbish, trading his pride for warmth, ending up as broke at the end of the week as he was at the beginning.
This year, though, an old gaffer who lived on Marylebone Road had passed away in December, and the old toff's family, at odds with him, had told the maids to throw everything out. Wiggins had gotten there early, getting his fingers on a flat cap and woolen jacket before the other thrifters and thieves and rag and bone men had descended. Of course, he would've liked to replace the trousers which now only went to his knees, but it would've been greedy and Wiggins didn't want trouble. He had known enough to stay away from the brass and silver, knowing that someone bigger would no doubt simply follow him into an alley and beat him for it. As is, he watched his steps carefully, doubling back once just to make sure there wasn't anyone waiting to waylay him. It was only once he got back to a corner in an alley where the coppers never came that he relaxed, snuggling into his newfound coat to sleep.
The winter that came afterwards was mild and so it was with a few coins jingling in his pocket that the urchin found himself on Oxford Street this year, looking at the shops that lined both sides. Just as he came out of the clothes shop, admiring the new trousers that went all the way down to his shoes, a carriage came flying past, its driver whipping the horse on and shouting for everyone to get out of the way.
Wiggins would've simply stepped aside but there was a most curious occurrence — a feather floated out from inside the carriage and drifted right before him, who reached in a trance to catch it. It was a brilliant green, a color not found on the pigeons of London, and he wondered for a moment what bird would be coloured like that. Looking towards the cart, he saw another feather fly out, and ran towards it, picking it up from the cobblestones and marveling at the look and feel, and then setting off after the carriage rushing through the streets.
Perhaps they could be sold, he thought, and followed as best he could, West on Oxford, around Portman Square, and straight up Baker Street, until it suddenly stopped just past Marylebone Road. Wiggins caught three more feathers as he ran, sticking them in his coat so they would not be so obvious to others, and dropped back a bit, watching intently as a man stepped out of the carriage. The man — dressed as if he had just come from the palace — looked up at the second floor for a long time before turning and taking a cage from the carriage, a cage with a flash of green inside. And then the door opened, the man entered, and Wiggins thought that would be the end of his journey.
But a few minutes later, the cage was set in front of a window on the second floor, easily noticeable from across the street. Wiggins fingered the feathers in his pocket, wondering if he could get more, wondering more what the bird was. He resolved to stay in the area a few days and watch, in case there was something more he could find out, something else he could sell for a few pence.
---
Three days later, Wiggins has prepared his plan. He's seen that the two that live in the flat are often away from the morning until late at night, and he's seen quite a few people come out who he's sure have never come in. It takes two days before he's sure, but he's convinced that one of the men is disguising himself as others — that, or there's another entrance to the house. But it's the tall man, he's reasonably sure, who has emerged as a lady, a copper, and most confusingly, a beggar — one who Wiggins is sure he's seen lurking around King's Cross.
The boy's plan is to steal the bird when the two men are definitely away. He's watched the cage get violently shaken in the middle of the night, heard its angry squawk from across the street as things were thrown at the cage, and he figures that he can sell it to a better place, and perhaps earn some coin for passing it along.
He waits until dusk on a day when both men are out, and then walks past 221, looking around and making his mind to do the deed before he loses his nerve. He jumps the gate that runs in front of the houses, landing in the subcorridor below and finding the servants' entrance. He's seen the maid simply hit the door when they're missing their keys, and he copies the action, smiling as it pops open. From there, it's a quick run up the stairs, into the study, and he finally sees the parrot up close.
It tilts its head, looking at him with a beady eye, and spreads its brilliant emerald feathers in the cage, as if introducing itself.
And then the door opens downstairs, and Wiggins freezes, his escape foiled. A moment later, though, he is going for the window, getting ready to jump out. A squawk interrupts him, and he turns to look at the bird, who squawks again. And though he knows he shouldn't, Wiggins reaches out to open the cage... as a tall man comes into the room, a deerstalker hat perched on his head and a pipe in his mouth.
"Watson! To the door!" The man calls out.
Wiggins slides out the window, hanging from the ledge for a second as the parrot flies away, into the sky. He jumps, getting to the street a moment before the door opens and the portly man in a bowler hat comes out with cane held high. There is a moment as the boy scrambles towards the road, thinking to flee, but suddenly, the taller man speaks from inside.
"Hold, you two!" Both of the others stop, though Watson still holds his cane ready, and poised to bolt. Sherlock comes out, looking the boy over, and then nods to himself.
"You've been around here, haven't you, boy?"
"Yes, cove. For the last week I seen you, frightenin' that birdie, scarin' it, I thought I'd get it away." Wiggins slowly backs up, eyeing the two men uncertainly.
"Ah," he says, pausing to take a puff of his pipe, and Wiggins waits for the outburst. But then the detective surprises him.
"Did the bird say anything before it flew off? And what else have you seen?" Sherlock draws even to Watson before stopping, his eyes taking in Wiggins' jacket, his trousers, the scuffs on his arms.
"Said, 'black', near as I ken tell. I seen that you're doin' summat I dunno, but there's a toff comes in but not out, an' a lady, an' a beggar."
Sherlock leans forward slightly, a glint in his eyes.
"Black, you say? Ah, I see...it was the minister, Watson. The bird recognized the man. We'll need to tell the good Inspector." The detective takes a draw on his pipe, waving away Watson's look of confusion. "It's elementary, Watson. We'll discuss it on the way to the Yard. Anyway — you possess a fine set of observation skills, boy. What's your name?"
"Wiggins, sir." The boy doesn't quite relax, though he isn't so quick to run now. They were no longer speaking like he would be jailed, and perhaps there would even be a reward for him.
"I think I should like you to help me from time to time, Wiggins. How does a shilling a day sound, and a guinea if you find something especially interesting?"
He nods, thinking of more money than he's ever seen at one time, and Sherlock smiles, turning to Watson — who frowns.
"Sherlock, you can't really think that the boy can —"
"Oh but of course I do, Watson. Just think of how useful he can be — someone who can take information without being noticed. Indeed, we may need more of them as time goes on. Perhaps we'll call them the..."
The detective looks around them for inspiration, stopping at the proud street sign.
"Of course — the Baker Street Irregulars."
//
A/N: Tried something else different, though I'm not sure it came out quite exactly how I wanted to. A bit of a detective story, but I don't think I had enough space to properly spin it. More of an homage to the great detective — I was in London this past weekend and when the topic came out, had actually just wandered past Baker Street.
