Becoming Holmes Read online

  “Thank God.”

  “Unless the need arises.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I need two things from you. Neither involves any injury to you or my telling anyone of any sort that you, coward that you are, live here in disguise.”

  Though Sutton winces at the word “coward,” he looks relieved.

  “Ask me, just ask me and I will do it.”

  “First, you must promise not to tell anyone at Scotland Yard that I was here, that I know of your whereabouts. If you do, I shall return here and shout your name in the town square, the name of Sutton, villainous squeak, thief, and accessory to murder.”

  The man swallows. “Agreed.”

  “Secondly, you must tell me where a man named Crew lives.”

  Sutton swallows much harder. “Crew? No … no, not Crew. I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “You seem awfully sure of that. Why should I tell you anything about him?”

  “Because if you do not I shall do my shouting in the town square here this very day, and also announce you in the East End of London in the criminal quarters, and then they will come for you, all those villains who hate you, all those beasts who wouldn’t think twice about murdering you in cold blood, in a gruesome way, I should think. Perhaps a man like Crew might do the job himself?”

  Even in the dim light of the Falstaff tavern, it isn’t hard to detect that all the blood appears to be draining from Sutton’s face.

  “Answer the question, and I shall leave this tavern and never speak to you or of you again to anyone.”

  The rat has been cornered. He has no choice.

  “We feared Crew more than anyone else, other than Malefactor himself.”

  The mention of Sherlock’s old nemesis, uttered in fear, coming from the lips of one of the most hardened and powerful criminals in London, stops Holmes in his tracks. He can’t say a word. He lets Sutton talk.

  “It is singular, you know, what Malefactor has done. He gained much of his power as a youth. How did he gather such force in the London underworld?”

  “Brilliance,” says Sherlock, almost against his will.

  “Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “But you are right. It is brilliance, indeed. I believe he is a genius. He is like a giant invisible spider now, with a web he has spun throughout the criminal world. He is no longer a boy. He is a young man destined for greatness. There is no power like his.”

  “He must be stopped.”

  “No one can do it. No one will do it. There would need to arise in London a man of equal genius, of equal bravery, of equal dedication to countering what he is and what he believes in. There would need to be a sword of justice more deadly than his great weapon of evil. There will never be a man like that.”

  Sherlock Holmes says nothing. He merely sets his jaw tightly.

  “Malefactor is –” begins Sutton.

  “Tell me about Crew!” spits Sherlock, almost shouting.

  The turncoat looks alarmed. When he speaks, he is barely audible, as if begging Sherlock to talk softly too. “Even Charon feared him. Even Charon! Crew is Malefactor’s main one, you know. Grimsby is just for show, a little fellow who will do anything he is asked and can be used.”

  “Grimsby is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Murdered in a most vicious manner and thrown into the Thames. He crossed Malefactor. I spoke to the doctor who examined his body. He said that what was done to him was inhuman.” Sherlock stares off into the distance.

  “How do you know this?” The man almost gets up. “Who are you, really? Are you with the –”

  “Never mind who I am.”

  “I –”

  “Someday you will know. Everyone will know,” snarls Sherlock Holmes.

  Sutton doesn’t like the look on the young man’s face. The lunatic in him has returned. His gray eyes seem to have turned black. They stare out at nothing.

  “Grimsby crossed Malefactor? Then it must have been Crew who killed him.”

  “Yes,” says Sherlock, nodding to himself.

  “He did it as surely as we are sitting here.” Sutton actually looks afraid. “It was inhuman? Is that what you said? I … I cannot tell you anything more, not a single word.”

  “You must,” says Sherlock. He grins at his listener.

  “Well, I don’t know where he lives.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  It doesn’t make sense for Sutton to hide anything. He knows I will expose him if I am not satisfied, or that I will come back for him if he gives me an answer I find to be false. It is in his interest to tell me the truth. I will make him tell me what he knows. And I will use it.

  “I will tell you what I know.”

  “I have every confidence in that. Begin.”

  Sutton had known that night in Rotherhithe a few years ago that this was a unique boy, but now, as he sits here with him, cleverly cornered by him, bested at every turn in their dealings, and becoming aware that he knows things that someone of his age and experience has no right to know, he is aware that this young man is even more than he first thought, unlike anyone he has ever met. It is as if this young genius can look at him, examine him, and know his very thoughts. It is in his best interest to spill every bean in his jar.

  “Crew is a very unpleasant human being. There is something wrong with him, something not right in his brain. He is ill up there. If you have ever been in his presence, you will know that he seldom speaks.”

  Sherlock thinks again that he actually knows almost nothing about Crew. Though reading others by their appearance is a specialty of his and he has honed that skill more and more over the years, for some reason he has never tried it on Crew. Perhaps there is nothing to read. The big, fat boy with that little brush mustache and the straight blonde hair parted way over on one side and hanging down over his forehead is like a blank slate, quiet by Malefactor’s side every time Sherlock has been with them, allowing his boss and the talkative little Grimsby to take center stage. He has only heard his voice once or twice – high-pitched and nasal, uttering just a few syllables, his blue eyes dead even when he speaks.

  “The word among the few who know anything of Crew is that he came from a military family. That upbringing is still there in the way his hair is shaved up so high on the back of his neck. His father believed that affection was not for boys. Crew was rarely touched as a child, not even by his mother, that’s what the street says. There was never any tenderness. He grew to hate his father and murdered both his parents, horribly and effectively. He escaped prosecution. Malefactor was intrigued. He investigated the celebrated crime and collected evidence that proved the identity of the murderer. Then he brought Crew into his employ with the threat of exposing his despicable deed. But soon he discovered that Crew was happy to be with him, anxious to commit whatever atrocities were required, simply in need of a brutal leader to tell him what to do. It is a perfect marriage. If Malefactor wants you dead, you will be, silently and viciously, and Crew will do it.”

  Sherlock thinks of Malefactor’s threats in the apothecary shop and feels a little faint.

  “Crew is incapable of affection of any sort,” continues Hopkins. “It is certain that he lives alone and has no friends. He hates many people and things. He hated Grimsby, for sure, and hates even Malefactor, though his loyalty to his boss is unswerving. He also hates animals – it is said that he kills them for amusement. He doesn’t like anyone who isn’t English. He hates the Germans, the Dutch, the Irish, especially the black Africans, and, of course, the Jews.”

  Sherlock winces.

  “There is only one thing that he loves.”

  “What is that?”

  “The dead, human dead. He has been seen lingering over bodies after he kills, fascinated by corpses, the human shell with the life and spirit gone from it. It is said that he likes to talk to the dead too. Someone once heard him screaming at his fathe
r.”

  “Can you, at least, harbor a guess,” asks Sherlock in a shaky voice, “about his residence?”

  “I have never spoken to anyone who knows where he lives. I am sure that is by design. We all know not to follow him. We know that if we ever tried, that would be the last thing we did. But I do know this: he is often seen crossing London Bridge heading south late at night. Crew does not like to walk. He does not like exercise of any sort. So, one would guess that wherever he lives is just over the bridge in Southwark.”

  That is both good and bad news for Holmes. Bad because the mad and brutal Crew obviously lives close to his school and not far from Beatrice, but good because Grimsby’s body was thrown into the Thames not far from there, making the chance that Crew committed this crime and could be made a suspect and perhaps convicted a better possibility.

  “I take it that you have seen him crossing the bridge?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Can you tell me anything about that? You are schooled in examining others. Is there ever anything in his dress, his person, his attitude, that might indicate where he is going?”

  “Nothing. He is an empty human being. He has no character. There is only evil in him.”

  “Does he ever carry anything? Does he buy a meal anywhere and bring it with him?”

  “He sometimes has a sack. But I don’t think it contains food.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They are always thick canvas sacks, usually large, sometimes so large he can barely handle them, and there is often something moving inside them.”

  “Moving?”

  “Squirming, writhing.”

  Sherlock swallows. “What could that be?”

  “I am loath to guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  Sutton wants to do all he can to help this brilliant young man. The more he can give him, the more satisfied he will be. He is no fool and knows he must please his inquisitor. Only that will keep him safe.

  “I feel I misspoke when I said that he hates animals. He doesn’t hate them all. There are stories that he buys exotic creatures. No one knows what, though many say they are of the lethal sort. Everything I know about Crew has been told to me. I never ask questions about him. So, I have never enquired further.”

  An idea has come into Sherlock’s brain. He immediately gets to his feet.

  “That is all I need from you.” He turns to go.

  “You,” says Sutton, “you won’t tell them, will you? You won’t tell anyone?”

  “I am a man of my word.”

  “I thank you for that. Might I shake your hand?”

  Sherlock looks at the extended hand as if it were a cloven hoof. “You, sir, are on the wrong side.” He walks briskly from the tavern.

  All the way back to London on the train he tries to concentrate on the next part of his plan. But it is difficult to do. He had always known that Crew was a dangerous fellow, but the fear he saw in the eyes of the men in the sewers and in Sutton is alarming. Would it not be beyond dangerous to pursue Crew? Would it not be almost suicidal? No one dares, not even the toughest and most evil of London’s criminals.

  Should I?

  But he can’t resist the opportunity that is before him. Grimsby is dead; Crew can be fingered as his murderer, and perhaps Malefactor as the man who commissioned the deed. This chance may never come again.

  I can wipe out the heart of evil in London. I, Sherlock Holmes. I can destroy all of them.

  18

  SCUTTLEBUTT

  The next morning, after meticulously informing Sigerson Bell of his intentions, Sherlock makes his way southwest to the Cremorne Gardens. It was here that he did much of his investigating while pursuing the magicians last year during the Hemsworth-Nottingham dragon case. He is hoping that a certain someone still resides in the park.

  “Master Sherlock ’olmes, under-the-covers man for Scottish Yard, agent of great renown, is that you?”

  Scuttle is lying on the ground, half in and half out of his overturned old dustbin. He was fast asleep when Sherlock roused him with a slight tap of his boot to a shoulder. He is still focusing his eyes.

  “It is me, sir. How are you keeping?”

  Scuttle gets up to a sitting position.

  “It is pleasurable to see you. Scuttle is tolerably fit. I ’ave been taking to the exercising of my brains and the thinking more of my muscles. Mr. Starr, ’e the king and president of the World’s End ’otel, whom the acquaintance of whom you made, is giving me more occupations. ’E is threatening to deliver up to Scuttle an abode in the ’otel in the basement where ’e will feed my mouth more victuals to make my insides more ’appy, in exchange for more work from Scuttle.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  “So is Scuttle.”

  “Do you still note the famous people who frequent this area? Do you still speak with them? I remember being impressed by the folks you encountered.”

  “Well, they wants to speak with Scuttle, no doubt, but I shuns them now. I do not even look at the papers anymore, at the illustrious-stations. I ’ave learned that most celebrantites are not people of substances. Famousness isn’t of value unless substances are involved.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do say. In fact, I ’old forward, I oral ate. This very week, the Queen wanted to speak with me again!”

  “The Queen?”

  “And I said no. Florence Nightingale too.”

  “Actually, Master Scuttle, the Queen is a woman of substance, and so is Miss Nightingale, real substance. You could have spoken with them.”

  “I could ’ave?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, I did not. I even turned Mr. Dickens down, just yesterday.”

  “Uh, Scuttle?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Mr. Dickens is dead. He was dead yesterday too, as dead as a doornail.”

  Scuttle somehow turns whiter than his regular complexion. “Mr. Dickens is dead? Then who will speak up for us?” A tear comes to his eye and runs down his cheek. He wipes at it so aggressively that he seems to be tearing it from his face. “Never mind! It may not ’ave been him Scuttle conversated with. It was, no doubt, in short, some sensationalist novelist, and I shunned him! Magnificantly!”

  “Good for you. What about His Highness Hemsworth, the great magician? Have you seen him nearby lately?”

  Sherlock had brilliantly caught the red-haired Hemsworth and the Wizard of Nottingham in the attempted murder of His Highness’s former wife some ten months ago. But they had eluded that serious charge, been convicted of a lesser one, and served only brief jail terms. Just a few weeks past, they had gained their freedom. Now they were using their notoriety to debut a series of sold-out shows in a West End theater.

  “I have no interests in such a parsonage,” says the disgusted little boy. “ ’E is a bad man. Scuttle is ashamed that ’e took any noticing of ’im before. All of London should be em-bare-assed! But I ’ears that the Sunday papers were of great interest in ’im after ’e and Notting’am did their terrible deeds of intentional murder and napping kids. I ’ears that the papers were aroused too when the villains were ejaculated from prison, and sent many men to cover them up in their columns and pillars.”

  Sherlock can barely follow him, but it doesn’t matter. He is edging him toward the point of this little interview.

  “You are in and out of the hotel, my friend, so you can tell me this. It is of extreme importance to Scotland Yard. Is Hemsworth still operating his den of magical tricks and strange animals in the space under it?”

  “I shall impregnate you with this information, for Scottish Yard. It is with much sorrow that I say that I ’ave spied him, yes, comings and goings from ’ere these last few weeks since ’e was ejaculated from behind bars.”

  “Do you know if he still keeps the animals?”

  “I do.”

  “And?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”
/>   “ ’E carries sacks at times, when ’e intrudes the premises late at night, some of them very gigantic, indeed, with things squirming in their innards.”

  Sherlock Holmes absolutely hates to do this. But he must.

  He has offered his card, his homemade card, at the box office of the Egyptian Hall theater. Hemsworth and Nottingham’s show has just opened here. He knows they will be rehearsing in the hall this very afternoon. The show is still working out its imperfections, though it is currently the biggest thing on the London stage. The woman in the box office takes the boy’s card and slips through the doors leading into the main hall. She returns in seconds, motioning for him to come forward.

  “Ah! Sherlock Holmes!” says Hemsworth in his big voice the instant the boy is ushered down the aisle. The magician’s hair and goatee are glistening with oil even in the afternoon. His face, as always, looks false. Nottingham, his darker hair in a similar style, is sitting on a guillotine at the back of the stage, smiling too. “What can I do for you? It is so lovely to see you!”

  “I have one question, and then I will leave.”

  “Would you like an admission for the show? You know, though we have had our disagreements, I admire you, your prodigious brains. We are alike in some ways.”

  “We are nothing alike,” spits Sherlock. “Are you still purchasing and importing exotic animals?”

  “Like a dragon, for example?” Nottingham lets out a roar from behind.

  “Like things in sacks that squirm.”

  Both the magicians are silenced by this.

  “That is a secret thing, which few know. You astound me, Holmes. And just for that, just in admiration, I shall answer you. It seems you know a great deal anyway. Yes, I am still importing. In fact, I did so from behind bars. And the things in bags that squirm, they would be … snakes.”

  “Snakes?” says Sherlock, his voice breaking.

  “I see a little fear in your eyes, Holmes. Not a fan of snakes? You don’t like the world’s biggest constrictors, the Orient’s most frightening pythons, the earth’s most poisonous vipers?”

  “Is that what you acquire?”