The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 36

They could hear the crowds gathering outside Parliament for the momentous vote that day. A new Act of Parliament forbidding children under the age of twelve from working in factories and down the mines. It would replace the 1833 Factory Act which sought to improve the conditions of children working in such places. The new bill had been the life work of Nicole's father, believing children needed protecting from greedy employers who were out to exploit poor families. He had fought hard for over a decade to get to this moment, hoping to have persuaded sufficient numbers of his fellow Parliamentarians this was the right thing to do for the benefit of the nation.

Many resisted, especially those with vested interests in the very factories and mines where young children risked their lives daily. Nicole's decision to open a school for flower waifs was in part prompted by her father's selfless dedication to improving the lives of those who did not have a voice. Had she realised today of all days her father would have crawled to Parliament on his hands and knees simply to be present for this vote, she might not have been so cross with Sherlock. That Blackwood had chosen this very day would have been the focus of her anger instead.

The Thames had receded sufficiently for them to attempt to enter the sewers, finding the entrance blocked by a heavy iron gate and a sturdy padlock. "We'll never make it in time," she said, rattling both to no avail. "My father is up there, and we're stuck outside."

"If you would take these from me," Sherlock said, rummaging in his pocket for whatever he needed. Holding out her hands, he proceeded to empty one pocket, then another. "It's here somewhere."

"What are you looking for?"

"A ball of clay wrapped in greased paper."

"That's it," she said, throwing up her hands. "I'll make my own way in. A ball of clay. Honestly." He watched as she stormed off along the riverbank only to return. "How do I get up to street level?" hands folded across her chest.

"Unfortunately, this is the only way for several miles."

"So, I'm stuck here while you search for something in your pocket."

Sherlock grinned. "Found it. I merely have to remove the powder from one of my bullets, construct a small explosive device, and light the fuse. Et voila."

"Why not simply shoot the lock?" she offered, arms still folded, her left foot tapping repeatedly against the mud and debris. "Or pick it."

"Have you tried shooting off a lock of that size?" he replied. "Practically impossible, and may well give away the fact we're attempting to gain entry. Additionally, my lock-picking tools are currently residing at the bottom of the Thames."

"Fine. Do what you have to do. Ball of clay."

Sherlock worked quickly to construct his miniature bomb, squeezing the clay into the lock, lighting the fuse, standing back. A fizz accompanied a small popping sound, Sherlock yanking on the lock to find it still secure. "Plan B," he announced, taking out his revolver, shooting the lock clean off.

"I thought you said," Nicole yelled, her eardrums ringing. "I swear you simply enjoy torturing me."

Sherlock gave her his look of non-understanding, pulling open the gate. "Shall we? I believe our presence may have been detected. Stay close behind."

As they entered the sewers they were relieved to find no welcoming party, Sherlock with his gun at the ready, Nicole sticking to him like wet clay on a large lock. Their path took them in the direction of voices and hammering, hiding behind one of the many pillars, the stink of the place churning Nicole's stomach. If this was what Sherlock did to capture criminals, she thought, she would much prefer dealing with crimes of passion any day.