Snippet Saturday: Watson Towers

In the back alleys of London, in the musty grey fog of the streets, a shadowy stranger leaned casually against a mold-riddled wall. He knocked the ashes from his pipe with an aplomb akin to that of a sloth. His eyes drooped lazily, flickering like a smouldering ember beneath the dark lids. A cat came around the edge of the nearest building, nervously wavering around by the wall, eying the stranger as a tentative rubbing post. The stranger eyed the cat, watching, waiting. Eventually the cat sidled up and rubbed its arched back against the man's threadbare trousers. One leg, then the next, and the cat skipped off.

The man's eyes glowed again as a young woman walked past, her somber-colored dress melding into the colorless, cloudy streets. He watched her with interest, though as she stepped out of sight his eyes lagged again. Next, a grocer and his cart came riding by; the cart was filled with fruits and vegetables, and the strange man stepped out of the shadows to bargain for a piece of fruit. The grocer gave it gladly, and the man evaporated again into the narrow alley.

Time passed; few people were out at this early morning. The mist eventually lifted, but the man stood patiently, nursing his cooling pipe. His eyes flashed again as the young woman returned; he watched her walk past the alley opening, then slowly he turned his head and stepped out into the larger street to catch a glimpse of her as she walked away. There, she was gone; the street was deserted. The man seemed satisfied, and leaving the alley, he turned back in the opposite direction to return home.

"Towers!" exclaimed Tom Toller. "I did not think to see you here this early. I thought you were still abed."

Towers grunted. "Who's the woman?"

"She's come before; she's looking to find information on Mr. Maxwell."

The eyes lit up again. "Maxwell, eh?" Watson mused over this thought, puffing out a ball of smoke. "Her name?"

"Miss Tilly Baker. But what's it to you? has it something to do with ...?"

Towers grunted again. "It might; it might. Don't know yet."

Tom Toller nodded in curiosity. "Might it then. Well. You'll let me know, of course ..."

"Course."

Satisfied, Tom Toller turned back to his papers, and with his ink-stained fingers, pulled forth sheets from different piles, and scanned each sheet with interest and curiosity. He would exclaim at times, squinting over a word here, or a scribble there, then noting it down in his great leather-bound book. The Book, a massive volume of weight and worth equal to a printing press itself, sat comfortably, though heavily, at the centre of Tom Toller's desk. The Book was his; he wrote it, he kept it, he lived with it. Some might say, he belonged to it as much as it belonged to him. It was part of his life, part of his being; no one, not even Watson Towers, touched the Book without express permission. And that was given rarely, if ever.

Tom Toller took up his pen, with the hard-chewed end and the well-worn nib, and began to scratch away on a new page in the Book. Watson Towers still stood, thoughtfully puffing away. Neither paid any attention to the other, but both knew the other was working hard on his side of the case.

Watson thought, and Tom Toller wrote, and after ten minutes of absolute silence, Watson Towers abruptly turned and, without a word, left the building. Tom Toller did not look up, but continued scratching away.

Watson Towers strode outside again and turned the corner back into the darkened alley. This time, he walked quickly down the narrow, turning space between the crumbling brick buildings, not looking up, not looking down, not looking back, but always forward. He came out again at the other side into the bright sunlight, but he did not blink. Here, there was light and fresh air; there, behind him, he had left darkness and cold. Watson Towers stepped out of his darkness, into the sunshine of ordinary London, and strode through the golden streets, lined with emerald trees and ruby brick houses, a grey figure bringing dirt and decay to all.

The rest of the day, he spent walking about the streets; all streets, whether long or short, narrow or wide, bright or shady, he strode through them, his coat flapping with every step. Occasionally, he paused to watch a man cross a street, or to watch a group of children at their games, or to relight his pipe. Throughout the day, he spoke to no one, approached no one, touched no one, and encountered no one. No one looked at him; like a phantom in grey he tread the city's streets.

At the end of the day, when all was finished, Watson Towers returned to Causewell Lane, where he let himself into Tom Toller's shop through the back door; he slipped upstairs to the crowded attic room which was his home. There, he took off his coat and boots, pulled out his pipe, and sat thinking, his legs crossed, his eyes smoldering, through the wee hours of the morning, when the night was grey and cold.