My Friend and Colleague - Chapter Seven - Ye Olde Tumblin' Dice and The Gypsy Underground

Sherlock Holmes
MY FRIEND and COLLEAGUE
THE EXTRAORDINARY FINAL PROBLEM
by
Dr. John H. Watson
and
© L. Guy Campbell
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Chapter Seven
Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice and The Gypsy Underground
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    It crossed my mind that I had an old army chum, Charles Watts,  who was Station Master at the Tottenham Court Station at one time, and as stout a soldier as one could hope for when things got rough in Afghanistan during the war.  I made up my mind to look up my old friend Charlie, and see if he might be able to fill me in on any odd goings-on ‘round the station.  After some lengthy inquiry, I was shown to Charlie, who was attending to his duties and a warm feeling fell immediately upon me at seeing my old friend.  “Excuse me, Lieutenant Watts, have you any time for an old army chum?”    

    Charlie looked up, and seeing me, broke into the most engaging laughter I have ever heard.  “Hello old man!” spoke Charlie out from under the most impressive, large, but well groomed moustache.  “I supposed you’re on one of your cases with that detective character you chronicle in The Strand?”  He laughed aloud, turning a bit red in a face that was no stranger to drink!  Balding, with a slight red glow about his prominent cheek bones, Charlie was impeccably dressed, and his smile beamed from under that snow white moustache of his.  “Well, this is not the place to speak of such things but, if you have a moment, I’d like a word with you.”  I spoke softly near his ear.  “As much as I wish this was a social call, I am on important business.”

    Fifteen minutes later we found ourselves in a private compartment, speaking low and a little hurried.  “James, what has got you so stirred up?”  asked Charlie, who was the only person except my dear,  late wife, Mary, who ever called me James!  I might add that Mary, ever the soul of discretion, never called me James when others were present.  “I’m unable to explain everything to you right now, old chap, but Holmes has me on a mission to find out if there is anything connecting an icon of organised crime with this railroad station, Tottenham Court in particular.    Holmes hopes for some news of an underground meeting place nearby where they might conduct some of their horrid business in public, but virtually unnoticed.”   I then pressed further upon my old friend.   

    Charlie thought for a few moments, scratching his head in one of the few spots still sporting some hair, and said, “Well James, there is a basement pub a few streets from ‘ere where some rather nasty looking scoundrels huddle in corners whispering among themselves.  A stranger who passes too close to them is met with some awfully threatening glances that ne’re fail to send them quickly in another direction.  It’s a popular pub for the roaming gypsies that have their encampments along the banks of the Thames.  There’s a gypsy musician that has gained favour with many a folk here abouts, named Jean Baptiste, and he draws quite a crowd when he’s in town.  All those scoundrel looking fellows hole up in there when ‘e’s playing.  You can’t miss it.  You just follow your ears.  But it’s called Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice over on Westerfield Road between Seven Sisters and W. Green Roads.  But I don’t know if this will help you on your quest, old man, I’m afraid.”  I thanked my dear friend and bid him goodwill and set about getting a look at this pub.  Round a few corners and down a lane I came across a crudely fabricated sign hanging from one end that read Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice, very poorly scripted.  I’d heard of a few of these pubs catering to a clientele that I’d not come across in my own travels, so I looked inside in order to avail a good report to Holmes upon my return.  Opening the door I was taken aback by the billows of tobacco smoke and odour of stale ale that had soaked into the very fibre of this establishment.  I took an opportunity and stepped inside, then took a seat in the shadows of a table in a corner to observe the many patrons within.
   
    Within moments I felt as if all faces were turned towards me in expression of disapproval.  A lanky barmaid who looked more like a burlesque dancer approached me and took a seat right upon my lap!  Shaken by the woman’s audacity and forward nature, I shifted, as if uncomfortable, in order to make her stand up.  “ello sir! Me name’s Anita, can I bring you something to ease your thirst?  Ol’ Reef’s behind the bar this afternoon, Reef Richards that is, an’  ‘e owns this fine establishment. You’re new to this pub, I can tell by your uneasy nature.  ‘spose we folk ain’t as good as what your used to minglin’ with, judging by your fine suit and expensive shoes!  I’ll ‘ave you know that once upon a time I was a beautiful model who attended parties at fine estates filled with important, you ‘ear, important people!”  She spoke in an accusational tone.  Trying to think fast and divert further attention to my presence, I said, “Pleasure to meet you Anita.  Yes, please bring me a glass of your finest ale.”    

    Wooden beams the likes of which I’ve seen on sailing vessels supported the ceiling and rafters.  In fact, the whole place looked as if it was constructed from the remnants of a shipwrecked schooner and were ages old, and weathered almost as much as ol’ Reef was.  Reef was haggard beyond his years if I am any judge of character.  Deep crevices, head wrapped in some kind of gypsy scarf that appeared to have been haphazardly wrapped around a shock of greying hair,  with signs of having been black in his youth.  Reef swaggered ‘round as if he’d had one or two pints of ale too many and about to fall, but never broke stride as he worked his way around the patrons, who all appeared fond of the old salt. 

    Overhearing some discussion coming forth from a table nearby I caught bits and pieces of stories about Reef being friendly with the band of gypsies, and occasionally joining in with the gypsy lute player that Charlie spoke of, Jean Baptiste.  Gypsies had a bad reputation around London and most of the farmers and ranchers out toward the countryside near the Thames hated them, because whenever the gypsies came round, livestock and eggs, dried meats and pelts always ended up missing.  There were few gypsy-friendly Londoners, and even fewer farmers, so a place where they were welcome was indeed unique.  Many of these caravaning gypsies came over from France, via Belgium and settled.  They made a living collecting discards and things they could refurbish and sell at a profit, along with hosting musical and comedy acts off the rear of their caravans.  They fabricated small makeshift stages off the read entrances of their brightly coloured caravans and their performances were something to see, so I’ve been told. 

    My attention, or should I say eavesdropping, came to an end when Anita returned with a large glass of dark brown ale with a huge head on top.  I thanked her and gave her a generous tip, to which she replied, “Well, you are a gentleman, and to be sure, not many of your type ‘ang their ‘ats in Reef’s place, but you are surely welcome anytime.”   “Anita?”   I whispered in one last attempt to gather information, “Have you ever heard, among the patrons of Ye Olde Tumblin’ Dice, anyone at all ever mention the name of Moriarty?” 

    With that, Anita turned a whiter shade of pale, and refused to speak with me at all, storming off to the crowded bar amongst a group of men who listened to her speak for a few seconds and then looked directly at me in a very threatening way.  I finished my ale abruptly and departed without drawing anyfurther attention, other than what my foolish question had already stirred. 

    The trip home, on the 5:15, was uneventful with the exception of the continuous questioning of my actions that I repeatedly did to myself.  A fool for certain, Holmes will surely find me.  However, I couldn’t help feeling, as the hansom arrived at Baker Street, that somehow, someone had followed me home.

© L. Guy Campbell