Death in the Air Page 14

  Many hours later, as the sun is rising, he makes his way back to the apothecary. As he enters the front part of the shop, fear fills his stomach like a vat of chemicals dumped from a boiling cauldron. The lights are on in the laboratory but there is no sound … absolutely none. It is an eerie silence. Thinking about how he had stupidly led whomever was pursuing him right to the very door of his old friend’s home and about his dear mother’s death, he rushes into the lab, his heart pounding.

  Sigerson Bell is lying on the floor. And he isn’t moving.

  SUSPECTING MALEFACTOR

  Sherlock drops to his knees and collapses beside the old man. He is numb. Life is over for him. Why had he believed that he, a poor half-Jew, a child really, could gain this reward, battle evil … make a difference in the world?

  Then he hears a noise beside him.

  It sounds like someone getting to his feet.

  “My boy?” asks Sigerson Bell. “Are you not well?”

  “W-what?” stammers Sherlock, rolling onto his side and looking out of a teary eye. He sees the old man gazing down at him, trying to place his fez back on his head, a little wobbly on his legs, but very much alive, an expression of concern on his face. He is holding a damp handkerchief in one hand, and it smells.

  “I thought you were … were …” says Sherlock.

  “What?”

  “Were …”

  “A dinosaur? A dog with seven legs? An extremely handsome man for my age? What?”

  “Dead.”

  “Dead!” shouts Bell, looking momentarily petrified. “I don’t think so.” He feels his heart, his jugular artery, his rear end. “Oh … oh … I see,” he exclaims, glancing down at the spot where he had been lying motionless on the floor.

  “It was an experiment,” he explains sheepishly.

  Sigerson Bell likes to take his own medicine, as it were.

  “I have been fascinated for some time, as you know,” he continues, “with the effects of chloroform on the nervous system of Homo sapiens. Dr. John Snow, the esteemed physician to the queen and perspicacious seer into the true cause of typhoid and consumption and the like, uses it during every child-birthing he attends. One pours it on a cloth and holds it to the nasal apertures. Women experience no pain whatsoever, even though God decrees they must in Genesis … which is hogwash!”

  Sherlock sits up on the floor.

  “You gave yourself … chloroform? How much?”

  Bell looks guiltily down at the rag.

  “A substantial amount, I fear, my boy. Wanted to see what it felt like firsthand. It is a good thing to know. I wonder how long I was unconscious? It felt disturbingly good, I must confess. One could even grow to like it.” He arrests his smile and scowls at his listener. “Addiction, my boy, is an evil thing!”

  Sherlock leaps to his feet and hugs the old man who responds by growing as stiff as the knifeboards on the top of the city’s omnibuses. Then he gently pats the lad on the back.

  “Come, come, now Master Holmes, I am fine. And I am glad to see that you are too. You did not return at all last night.” He wags a finger at the boy.

  “No, I didn’t, sir.”

  “Where you in Brixton?”

  “No sir, Rotherhithe.”

  Sigerson Bell looks shocked. It certainly isn’t the sort of neighborhood he would advise young Sherlock Holmes to frequent.

  “Well, I am not pleased about this, not at all.”

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  “Were you accompanied by an officer of the law?”

  “I didn’t draw close, sir, I promise. I merely investigated.”

  The old man regards the lad for a moment.

  “I shan’t pursue the significance of the word merely nor the past tense of investigate as employed upon your lips just now. But I shall caution you to be careful. Should you go again … the Force should be with you!”

  Sherlock nods, two fingers on his right hand crossed behind his back.

  Lord Redhorns had given the apothecary four days. The boy hadn’t told the old man. Bell is aware that an ax is about to come down upon his neck, but he isn’t exactly sure when. Sherlock knows: there are just forty-eight hours left.

  He must go back to Rotherhithe tonight. And he must go completely alone. All he needs to do is confirm where the Brixton Gang is holed up, just see them with his own two eyes. Then he can make his way quickly to Scotland Yard in Whitehall and tell the authorities. But there will be conditions asked of the police: he will reveal nothing to them until they all get to Rotherhithe. He will demand that a member of the press accompany them – he doubts Lestrade will be able to refuse even this. No one, not the senior detective or anyone else, will take the credit due Sherlock this time. No one will be able to deny him his reward.

  But first, he must make sure that he isn’t followed. That is of paramount importance.

  He tries to sleep a little in his wardrobe but can’t. His mind is racing. He must get moving. But first, he has to tend to his chores.

  “Master Holmes,” says Bell before the chimes of St. Giles strike five, “have you noted that you placed the bat urine in my extra hat, poured the strychnine poison into the flasks from which we drink, and threw the dust from the floors into a retort and placed it in the ice-box? Your mind, shall we say, is not exactly riveted upon your work.”

  “Uh, no sir, it isn’t.”

  “I am listening to the gods, and getting the message, foretelling as it were, that you would … like to go for a stroll. Have I erred?”

  “No, sir.”

  Moments later, he is out the door, racing for Montague Street. There was indeed only one person who knew he would pursue the Brixton Gang last night; only one who told him to follow a certain someone … only one who could have entrapped him.

  Malefactor.

  Was his rival’s intention murder? Would he actually have him killed?

  It is time for a confrontation unlike any they have ever had. If Sherlock wants to succeed in this case, he has to make the young villain back off. Another trip like last night’s could be lethal. Tonight’s investigation must take place under perfect conditions.

  He doubts that Malefactor will be anywhere he might be expected today. The snake will be avoiding him, will have slithered into one of his holes for a while. But Sherlock is guessing that he visits Montague Street almost daily whether he sees Irene at home or not – the crook finds the princess irresistible. Malefactor knows that Sherlock has taken a vow to stay away from the girl in order to protect her from danger. The young thief lord, therefore, won’t expect him to be on this very street. Sherlock has also promised that he won’t stand between Malefactor and Irene. But that doesn’t matter anymore – his rival is obviously not the man of honor he claims to be, something that Sherlock never should have believed in first place.

  Sherlock hides himself behind the stone steps that lead to an unused door on the east side of the Museum. He is completely hidden and yet commands a view of the Doyle home across the street. He gazes over at the long windows behind the flower boxes. Figures move inside. A slim, golden-haired one makes Sherlock sad … so he exerts all his energy and deadens the feeling.

  It doesn’t take long for the street fiends to make their appearance. First to materialize is Grimsby Sherlock spies him instantly from his vantage point: only the rascal’s head and neck are in view, topped by his crushed-in black bowler. He bends around the corner by a gas-lamp, seeing if the coast is clear. The nasty little head vanishes, then pops out again. Within a few seconds, three figures turn up the street, Grimsby and Crew and their boss. The two ruffians look like royal guards escorting their criminal king. Malefactor obviously doesn’t trust any other members of the Irregulars to accompany him near Irene’s house; no one else is allowed to know that he has any tender feelings, that he needs a friend, an angel. They cross the street so they won’t pass directly in front of her home and head up the foot pavement … toward Sherlock. They are all acting nonchalant, but their leader glan
ces over at the Doyle home every few strides to see if he might catch a glimpse of her.

  Sherlock coils himself into a ball and presses his back against the steps. He is a good ten feet from the road, behind a wrought-iron fence and open gate, mostly out of view.

  The three scoundrels pass.

  Sherlock stands and follows them. He says nothing. It is almost comical. But suddenly the three in front stop.

  “Sherlock Holmes, I perceive,” says Malefactor in a deadened tone without turning around. Then he pivots and walks back down the street, passing Holmes without even looking at him. There is nothing remotely like guilt on his face. Once past, he picks up his pace.

  “You have some explaining to do!” shouts Sherlock, the anger he has been holding back beginning to rise.

  Instantly, he feels a sharp pain in the back of his legs and falls face forward onto the footpath, losing most of the air in his lungs and almost smashing his teeth into the hard surface. Grimsby’s shoulder has taken him down as surely as it floored that drunken gentleman in the night. Sherlock remembers what came next; a blow to the temple. Somehow, he rolls quickly over onto the street and staggers to his feet. When he looks at Grimsby, his foot is indeed poised to strike. Blond Crew stands silently nearby, a kind of cold, dead calm in his blue eyes. Sherlock doesn’t trust either of them not to maim him for life. They are both sadistic and violent.

  “You don’t speak to the leader like that, Jew-boy!” hisses Grimsby, a vein popping out on his forehead as his face turns red.

  Sherlock glances down the street where Malefactor is moving away at top speed, crossing the street as he goes, heading south, his long black coattails and the back of his top hat in view. Holmes barely hesitates: he springs forward and makes for him, walking quickly, immediately feeling the other two breathing down his neck.

  “Follow him if you choose, mongrel,” whispers Grimsby into his ear, “but you won’t ’ave your ’ealth by the end of the street.”

  Sherlock knows he means it. He is scared but keeps following. If he can just get close enough to Malefactor, maybe he can make him talk. The other two boys will likely hurt him whether he stands or runs.

  But there is a little lane that juts off Montague Street a few dwellings before it reaches Great Russell Street. As Sherlock nears it, both lads seize him. They drag him down the lane and into a little mews that runs parallel to the road along the rear of the houses. Sherlock sees the back of the Doyle house several dwellings to the north. Now he is very scared.

  Grimsby begins to beat him, while Crew, dressed all in brown today, stands guard, smiling. Resisting will likely make them angrier and Sherlock cannot fight both of them. He takes the blows from fists and feet, trying his best to shield himself, desperate to do something but not sure what.

  Grimsby seems to have something wrapped around his knuckles, like a piece of iron. He speaks as he works, spitting out his words. Sherlock is in the hands of a bully far worse than any ever seen in a schoolyard. Like all those bullies, he has demons; his anger comes from his fears.

  “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? … You think the boss respects you more? Think … I’m … a … Jew? … I’ll … show … you!”

  “MALEFACTOR!” screams Sherlock, finally hitting on what to do. “YOU’RE A COWARD!”

  It works, thank God. It isn’t something Malefactor can stand to hear, especially on Montague Street.

  “Cease,” says the young chief quietly through clenched teeth. He had returned from Great Russell Street, and had been standing at the edge of the mews, just around the corner out of sight, listening to the beating.

  Sherlock gets up. His ribs ache and there is blood at the corner of his mouth, but he raises himself to his full height and stands as erect as he can despite the pain. Then he turns to Malefactor, whose face is red.

  “I am no coward,” he snarls, smoothing out his tailcoat and using every effort of will to contain his rage. “I am a knight of the streets. You wouldn’t understand my kind of honor.”

  “Then speak to me … and call off these piglets.” Sherlock is gasping for air.

  The roughs glare at him. Malefactor waves for them to stand back.

  “I shall decide if this is to continue,” he pronounces, “depending on what you have to say. But I must warn you that your chances are not good.” He examines his fingernails for flaws.

  “Your honor? Do you call it honorable to trap me in a dangerous part of London, to turn my life over to villains?”

  “Who says I did?”

  “Me.”

  “And you are an expert, no doubt.”

  “Is that not why you are avoiding me today?”

  “I want nothing to do with you, especially now.”

  “Frightened of something, are we, Sir Galahad?”

  Malefactor clenches a fist.

  “Anyone disturbing the Brixton Gang in any way will be removed … from life,” he growls. “We all respect that. If you choose to pursue them, then you are a grievous liability … not just to them but to anyone who knows you, including me. Do not whine about it. You have made your bed, now lie in it!”

  He nods to Grimsby and Crew.

  “Take your medicine!” adds Malefactor as he turns to exit the lane.

  But not a single hand is laid upon Sherlock Holmes. In fact, everyone freezes, though Malefactor looks like he might melt.

  Irene Doyle is standing at the entrance to the lane dressed in a white silk dress, a white bonnet tied with flowered laces on her head.

  “I heard a shout,” she says quietly.

  Malefactor snaps around and holds a hand up to Grimsby and Crew.

  “What is happening here?” she asks, looking at Sherlock’s face, an expression of pain crossing her own. She takes a few steps toward him.

  “He fell down, Miss Doyle,” says Malefactor, “and we were helping him.” He moves between her and Holmes.

  Irene is unconvinced but doesn’t resist. She looks back and forth between the two tall boys. The three of them standing in this triangle are a lonely trio, each desperate for friendship, but caught up in life’s circumstances. Irene knows that gentleness can solve all this. Her eyes plead with Sherlock’s, but he steels himself and looks away.

  She takes Malefactor by the hand. Holmes steps forward and almost cries out. But he stops himself and stands still.

  “Thank you for being so kind,” Irene says to the young dark knight, but her eyes are watering.

  “This gentleman,” spits Sherlock, pointing a stiff, accusing finger at Malefactor and backing away from the others while nearing the entrance to the street, “was just telling me about his sense of honor.”

  Malefactor bows.

  “He said I wouldn’t understand it. I wonder if you would, Miss Doyle?”

  She gently removes her hand from Malefactor’s and says nothing.

  “I have one question for him before I leave,” adds Sherlock, taking a few more steps toward the street, still warily facing the ruffians. “I want to ask this, straight out. Did you have me trailed last night, and will you have me trailed again?”

  Malefactor looks from Irene to Sherlock. Then he regards his enemy with a deathly stare.

  “Such things are mysteries,” he says coldly.

  Sherlock turns to leave.

  “You know what they say about playing with fire, Master Holmes,” adds Malefactor. He reaches out and takes one of Miss Doyle’s gloved hands and kisses it. She can’t resist a smile.

  Sherlock walks away. No one follows. They wouldn’t dare chase him in Irene’s presence. He wishes he could go back, wrench her from that devil’s grasp and escort her safely home. But he can’t. He has bigger fish to fry … in Rotherhithe.

  BELL’S SOLUTION

  Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know how he will do it. He walks back to Denmark Street puzzling over his problem. He’s gained no assurance that Malefactor isn’t plotting against him and doesn’t know if others are onto him either. How can he get from here
to those crumbling Rotherhithe warehouses without being detected and trailed? And then there’s the potentially more dangerous problem of how he will confirm that the Brixton Gang is actually in one of those buildings. But he must take one difficulty at a time.

  He enters the apothecary’s shop.

  “Attack!” Bell screams from the lab. Sherlock rushes through the reception room to see the stooped alchemist and a well-dressed woman in a respectable, mauve bonnet, facing one of the skeletons that hangs on a nail in the lab. The woman is approaching it stealthily. She lifts her dress slightly and gives the bone-man a tap with her foot. Bell sighs.

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Hawkins, that would not do much harm to a wood fairy. No, no, no. I want you to attack this villain. Look at the way he leers at us! Observe.”

  He takes up his walking stick, pivots, and turns upon another skeleton. With his feet splayed in a wide stance, somehow perfectly balanced despite his crooked frame, he wields the stick like a sword, confronting an enemy. He thrusts it forward, parrying first and then smacking the skeleton with an alarming blow as he shouts an equally alarming oriental word at the top of his lungs.

  “ KI-AI!”

  Then he closes in on his target, releases the stick, allowing it to clatter on the floor, and seizes the skeleton in a complicated grip. From that position he sweeps one of his legs forward to knock his skinny combatant to the floor. He takes the boney fiend down hard, with an elbow dug into its neck. In an instant, he springs back to his feet and turns to Mrs. Hawkins.

  “Now, I want to see that sort of evil attitude in your combat, though you shall do it as you are attired, sans the walking stick. A lady would not be carrying one, would she? I have taught you the technical skill, the maneuver, but I want to see attitude! You must identify his tender regions and strike them without mercy! ATTACK!”