Death in the Air Read online

The upstairs sounds are getting clearer. It is plain that they aren’t solely human. The boy hears a dog snarling and the squeals and painful cries of other, smaller animals; and desperate scurrying and scrambling across the floor. Men seem to be encouraging them. It sounds like fighting and it frightens Sherlock to his Wellington shoes.

  Perhaps it is time to go?

  But he doesn’t know anything of value yet. He has to get closer. He spots a crumbling staircase that rises straight up in the center of this fishy, foul-smelling ground floor.

  What if I go up there?

  He wants to move toward it, but can’t. He is simply too scared. His whole body is shaking.

  Then the big, outside door closes behind him.

  Sherlock drops flat on the floor and lies as still as possible. The garbled sounds from above pause again and then resume. On the ground level, there is silence. No footsteps, nothing. Sherlock waits. Was it just the wind? But the humid night had been still outside. He twists his head around and peers in the direction of the door.

  Nothing.

  Going back to that entrance seems as perilous now as moving to the staircase and up its rotting steps. So he waits a little longer and then crawls to the center of the room. At the stairs, his hawk-like nose almost resting on the stinking bottom plank, he casts his eyes upward. Sweat drips off his forehead and into his eyes, making them sting. There’s a board pulled across the opening at the top and a small crack of light emitting from the next floor. He can hear those horrific sounds better here; can clearly make out the dog’s growls and cries of pain, the other animals’ screams and whistles, and men shouting encouragement.

  “Go to ’em, Killer! Face ’em, me boy! Face ’em!”

  Sherlock slides onto the first step and begins to move upward, still on his belly, using his feet to secure footing on each step and push himself forward. Without warning the third step gives way and his foot goes right through with a loud crack. To him, it sounds like an air gun going off.

  He freezes. The men upstairs stop talking momentarily, but then start again. Sherlock looks down at the ground floor. As he does, for an instant he thinks he sees a tall boy standing against the far wall in a top hat and long black tailcoat. Sucking in his breath, he closes his eyes hard and opens them again. The image is gone. All he sees is a greasy rope hanging on a big curving hook on that wall, just below a little shelf with a section of a black stove pipe resting on it.

  He looks up again, takes another step, and feels his hair touch the floorboard. Placing his fingers ever so slowly into the crack, he tries to shove the board back, but it won’t budge. Maybe it is nailed. He braces his feet on the step below – it feels steady – and shoves harder on the board. It loosens and snaps back, slamming down as it lands. Again Sherlock holds his breath; again the men momentarily stop talking … and then go on.

  The boy waits for a count of one hundred before he lifts his head, very slowly, hair’s breadth by hair’s breadth, just high enough so he can see into the room, readying himself to leap down and run from the building. But from where he is, he can’t spot anyone. He turns his head in every direction and surveys the space. There are fewer dirty remnants of the seafaring life here; in fact the floor is almost empty, its only real inhabitant, a thick layer of dust.

  Moments later Sherlock Holmes is standing in the room, aware that whatever is going on up above is directly over him. No more than a few steps away from the opening in the floor through which he has just ascended, an old wooden ladder is propped straight up into the ceiling. Sherlock glides silently over to it. The sounds from above grow louder as he nears. He peers up. The ladder was obviously placed here after a staircase collapsed because it leads to another, sealed-off opening. This building has evidently not been in use for a long time. The trapdoor has an iron handle, and is cut just right, so the butts at the top of the ladder fit tightly into two holes.

  That’s where he must go.

  Only now he really wonders if he should. Again, he has no idea what the Brixton Gang look like (though it sounds like four men on the upper floor, the group’s exact number). What would he accomplish by actually seeing them?

  But he can’t report to Scotland Yard that he’s simply found four strange men doing something suspicious in a Rotherhithe warehouse. They could be anyone having illicit fun – sporting men, tradesmen, even politicians or police employees. No…. He has to go up there and try to spot something that identifies them.

  Sherlock places one boot gingerly on the bottom rung, then the next, and then the next, until his eyes are right at the handle.

  Dare he lift the trapdoor?

  The sounds of the dog and other animals are pitiful now – it is obvious that the canine is fighting the others. Every last beast sounds desperate.

  “Lay ’em bets down, Charon!” cries one horrible voice.

  Charon. That’s one name.

  “But the poor brute ain’t got naught left in ’im! Look, ’e’s puffin’ like a steer! ’e’s bleedin’ all over the bleedin’ place!”

  There is laughter.

  “You got enough left from the Palace job, Sutton! Lay it down!” demands a whiny higher-pitched player.

  The Palace job. And another name.

  “’ow many rats left?” growls the first, rough voice.

  A sinking feeling passes through Sherlock. He knows what these fiends are doing. They are pitting rats, likely dozens of them, maybe hundreds, against a bull terrier in a fight to the death; and betting on it. He’s read of this sort of thing, but never really believed it happened, or if it did, that he would ever be near it. He has entered a den of evil indeed, a sort of Hades. He wishes he had the strength and the numbers to burst into that room and arrest them all.

  But he isn’t gaining enough evidence to do anything, not standing here blind below these fiends. He has two names, some talk of a “job,” and an illegal animal fight. That might be enough to bring the police … or it might not. To be sure, he needs more. He has to get a look at their faces, at least one of them. He has to be able to recognize them. No one has ever seen a member of the Brixton Gang. Despite the danger, this is too much for Sherlock Holmes to resist. He imagines handing the money to Redhorns, the look on Lestrade’s face, and the glory it will bring him.

  He grips the handle with one hand and the other sneaks into his coat and pulls out the three-foot long hunting crop. It is a hard, formidable weapon, meant to get the attention of a two-thousand-pound animal. If he can use it right, bring this horsewhip violently to bear on any villain who might come at him, it may buy him enough time to get away.

  He is betting that the men are enthralled with what they are doing and that he can lift up the trapdoor a few inches and look into the room undetected, only his eyes in view. He will be well ahead of any potential pursuers. When he broke into four mansions in search of the Whitechapel murderer two months ago, Malefactor had given him sound advice – to locate an avenue of escape ahead of time. He knows exactly how to get out of this warehouse: down the ladder, down the stairs, and through the maze of narrow streets. He purposely left the floorboard pulled back.

  He’s ready.

  He pushes the trapdoor up slowly, inch by inch. He can’t see anything clearly: just boots and trouser cuffs and the short wooden walls of an enclosure, obviously the pit for the animals, all lit by the soft glow of candles and a few gas lamps. The sounds almost turn his stomach. The fight has obviously been going on for a long time and the poor beasts are suffering. Sherlock hears their pitiful cries of pain and sees blood splattered on the tops of the walls. It makes him angry. He recklessly lifts the trapdoor farther up, nearly a foot.

  Three men turn to him and smile. They look calm. Why is that? They seem to be expecting him. Why is that?

  And where is the fourth man?

  The answer comes instantly.

  A big black boot, worn by someone standing directly behind the trapdoor, wedges under its elevated surface and snaps the whole thing back with a crash, leaving
it wide open. An evil, whiskered face with black eyes stares down at him, smiling too.

  Sherlock has seen all four members of the Brixton Gang! He doesn’t hesitate. Gripping his hunting crop, he jerks his feet off the rung and slides down the ladder to the floor. He lands with a thud. But when he turns he gets the shock of his life.

  The dark-dressed boy is standing directly in front of him, inches from his face, his breath as foul as a skunk’s.

  Sherlock thinks of the apothecary’s movements when he practices his martial arts. It seems to be all about balance and leverage and getting the right distance, the distance you need to employ the weapon you have. He steps back and raises his horsewhip. He intends to lay it across this fiend’s face.

  But the other boy isn’t interested in fancy maneuvers. He is a street person, a hardened criminal who has learned from experience how to react instantly in desperate situations. He knows to stay in close to his opponent.

  “What ’ave we ’ere?”

  He steps forward as Sherlock steps back, seizing the hand with the hunting crop and twisting it violently, almost snapping the bone.

  “Ahhh!”

  Sherlock shrieks in pain and drops his weapon. In the blink of an eye, he feels a deep sting across one of his thighs and then another, making him buckle and drop to the floor. He raises his arms to protect his face and looks up at his enemy. The other boy has the hunting crop in his hand and has stepped back; four grimy, blood-splattered men are standing beside him, forming a semi-circle around Sherlock Holmes.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” growls one of them with a horrible grin.

  All that is going through Sherlock’s mind is: The Brixton Gang kills people, without thinking twice.

  IN WITH THE RATS

  But they don’t kill him, at least not yet. He knows, however, that his time is nearly up. Why hadn’t he accepted Bell’s offer of learning fighting techniques? While it may not have enabled him to capture these villains, he might have at least gotten away. If he comes out of this alive, he must ask the old man to teach him. But that seems beside the point – he doubts he will ever see his dear friend again.

  The dark-dressed boy’s appearance is clear now. He’s a lad not much older than Sherlock, similar to him in many ways – black-haired, an attempt at respectability in his frayed black coat and hounds-tooth waistcoat. But he isn’t as well turned out as Sherlock. His hair is unkempt, his teeth are dark yellow, almost brown, and there is a vacant, violent look in his eyes. The other four men have the appearance of modern-day pirates. Two have knives tucked into belt buckles, another has a patch over an eye, and he sees glints of gold in their mouths. All keep their hair unusually long, wear loose flannel shirts that were once white, unbuttoned well down their chests, trousers of bright colors, and sport flat straw hats on their heads. And yet, somehow they are ordinary too, much like any other desperate folk you might see on the street, with appearances that can melt into a crowd.

  The two younger gang members, mere youths beside their accomplices, seize Sherlock and roughly haul him up the ladder. On the top floor they pick him up and pitch him head-first into the bloody rat pit. He nearly lands on his face, just getting his hands up in time. He is terrified almost beyond control. He wonders if he will soil his pants. He wants to cry. He wants to throw up. He needs his mother, his father, Sigerson Bell, even Inspector Lestrade. Why hadn’t he at least told the apothecary exactly where he was going? Because … he wasn’t supposed to draw close. The old man didn’t expect him to be in this sort of fatal danger. His recklessness, his chutzpah (as the his father calls it) has put him in this situation, like a condemned Fagin in Newgate Prison waiting for the jailers to take him out to the scaffold to be hanged by his neck.

  “You shall be disposed of,” says one of the two older thieves, better spoken than the others, perhaps the brains behind the gang.

  Sherlock wonders how they will do it.

  “But we have a few inquiries to make of you first,” says the other adult. He speaks well too. It is obvious that these two run things. The others – two strong lads – are the thugs.

  “We have been aware of you since last night and have had your movements observed,” says the first gang member with a glance at the dark-dressed boy. “We must discover what else you know.”

  “Before we carve you up and feed you to the fishies!” barks one of the thugs.

  Sherlock wants to know just one thing before that happens. Was it Malefactor who betrayed him? But he can’t bring himself to ask. He doesn’t want to say anything that might make them hurt him even sooner than they plan.

  “Crowley Sticks, go downstairs with Brim.”

  The two young ones descend the ladder with the dark-dressed boy on command – discipline seems to be a strength of this group – leaving the two older men to examine Sherlock. They can see that he is trembling and it makes them smile.

  “We shall be discussing matters downstairs and then we shall arise and discuss similar matters with you. Killer will watch you. This room is sealed from the inside. Don’t try anything. Should you attempt an escape, we shall discover it and commence with your fate instantly.”

  The first one turns to go.

  “Make yourself at home,” says the other.

  They both descend and the room is quiet. Sherlock hears them talking down below. His mind reels. What is in store for him? Will they cut off parts of his body, kill him slowly, and make him tell everything he knows as they bring him painfully to his death … over many hours … or days? He wanted to fight evil. Well, evil is here, in this building, and it isn’t what he imagined – it’s far worse – and it has him at its mercy.

  There is blood all over the pit. The smell is horrific: animal sweat and fear and urine. At least a hundred dead rats lie in gruesome poses, some still quivering. A white bull terrier, covered with blotches of scarlet blood and terrible wounds, shivers on its haunches at the other end, eyeing him, trying to get to its feet, but falling back. Rats are smarter than dogs. He remembers his father telling him that. They are like the crows, hated by others for the way they look, but brilliant in their own way. Perhaps it is fitting that Sherlock should die amongst them. He begins smoothing out his clothing and combing his hair with his fingers.

  Then he hears a sound up above.

  There is a row of windows in the roof of the building on this floor, probably placed there to provide ventilation for what once was a very close, smelly working area. Bad air causes diseases; good air heals.

  The sound doesn’t seem like anything to pay attention to at first. It is barely audible, like a leaf brushing against the glass surface. When Sherlock looks up he can’t even tell which window it is coming from – they are all grimy and opaque, brown like the surface of the Thames.

  But then something miraculous happens. Like a moment from one of his dreams…. A window opens.

  Someone, or some thing, has lifted it from the outside and propped it ajar. These windows were likely designed to be pushed wide with long poles from down on the floor, here inside.

  Then a figure steps through.

  It grips the frame and lets its legs hang down. Then it swings and flies just under the ceiling like a bird! Catching a beam, it swings again and flies to another, until it reaches the wall. There, it descends down the crisscrossing iron supports bars like a spider. Finally it lands on the floor, alighting without a sound.

  Sherlock stares at the figure. Slowly it emerges out of the shadows at the far end and comes into the light.

  The Swallow!

  One of his hands is to his lips, cautioning Sherlock to remain absolutely silent, and the other is motioning for him to advance quietly toward him. The bull terrier is too wounded to make a sound. In seconds, the two boys are scaling the wall, the taller one clinging to the acrobat’s back. The building has thick support beams that are suspended across the building about six feet from the peak of the roof. The Swallow mounts one and makes his way along it like Blondin with a passenger o
n his back. Sherlock closes his eyes. Slowly, they near the window. It isn’t far away from the beam, but the acrobat will have to lean to reach it. He reaches out … and grips the window’s frame, keeping his feet on his “high wire.”

  “Hold on,” he whispers.

  The Swallow steps off the beam.

  For an instant, they hang over the rat pit far below, the trapeze star’s legs swinging in the air. Sherlock’s pulse races and he closes his eyes again, clinging tightly. He understands that his job is to simply hold on. Any sudden movement from him, a jerk or an adjustment, will send them to the floor. He must depend on The Swallow’s expertise … and it is monumental.

  The acrobat proceeds to perform a feat of strength that any strongman on any stage in London would be proud of – he lifts both his own body weight and Sherlock’s slowly up to the open window, chinning himself. But from there, he must somehow get the two of them through to the outside.

  “Hang on, I have to let go for a second,” he says quietly.

  What? thinks Sherlock. But he must trust the other boy. He remains perfectly still.

  The Swallow releases one hand for an instant. They begin plummeting. He thrusts the same arm up and gets his elbow through the opening and onto the roof. But he can’t hold on to the tiles.

  They start sliding back!

  The Swallow then makes a desperate move. He releases the other hand and reaches up with that elbow too. For an instant their heads are through the opening and Sherlock can smell the river in the outside air. He grabs at the tiles and gets a grip, lessening The Swallow’s load.

  Together they lift themselves through the opening and onto the roof.

  The Swallow puts a finger to his lips again. He closes the window gently and motions for Sherlock to follow him and move the way he does. So off they go on the steep roof, on their hands and knees, heading for the river-side of the building. There, The Swallow indicates a wooden drainage pipe and within minutes both boys are on the ground, running along Rotherhithe Street, back toward central London.