Death in the Air tbsh-2 Page 8

“No …” begins The Swallow, stopping in mid-sentence. His eyes seem to register some recollection, then jump back into the present. “No,” he says, “definitely not, just the usual sort.”

  Sherlock notices the pause and places it in his memory. This Swallow is an interesting young man, and he may prove to be even more so in the near future.

  On his way home, Sherlock rushes through Trafalgar Square, then speeds north on a wide, busy street past palatial steps that lead to the huge doors of a towering church. As he turns his head to glance at it, someone violently seizes him and pulls him into the mews across the street on the far side of St. Martin’s ominous granite workhouse. Good and evil are often side by side in London.

  “Master Holmes, I perceive.”

  “Malefactor.”

  The young leader is alone and smiling, his sunken eyes look sharp and mischievous. He clutches a newspaper in his hand, obviously amused at something. His slight Irish accent grows stronger when he’s angry or excited. “Have you seen this?” he asks, his tongue darting out of his mouth like a reptile’s. He is holding up The Illustrated Police News to display its headline: “MURDER AT THE PALACE?”

  “I know of it,” answers the boy, trying to recover his equanimity without showing he ever lost it, fixing the disturbed collar on his frock coat.

  “Care for a clue?” asks Malefactor pompously.

  “I have several.”

  Sherlock has actually been thinking precisely the opposite: that he has none. He is back at the beginning of this investigation, miles from his reward. If The Swallow didn’t do it and neither did the meek Eagle, then his only suspect is The Robin and she isn’t a good one. El Niño had described her as disloyal, and she didn’t seem terribly impressed with her beau when Sherlock saw them talking, so it seems doubtful that she really cares for the younger man or the older – that she has the passion to kill Mercure, or would sacrifice anything for The Eagle. Her only loyalty is to the troupe’s name and the fame and money it brings her, whether its leader is alive or dead. She has no real motive.

  “I am in possession of information about the chap known to the applauding masses as … The Swallow,” says Malefactor smugly, bowing deeply as if he were on the Alhambra stage.

  There is a brief pause. Sherlock is reluctant to ask about it. But his rival will make him. The young master thief is greatly enjoying the attentions of Irene Doyle these days and having something important to tell Sherlock about this case, something the boy is anxious to know, just adds to his fun. He grins at Holmes, waiting for him to grovel, to beg to know what he knows.

  What could this criminal, an expert among thieves and murderers, know about one of London’s greatest young trapeze stars?

  “What is it?” the boy detective finally inquires brusquely.

  “He was born and spent his early days in Brixton.”

  Sherlock grins.

  “Oh really?”

  “Really,” says Malefactor, examining his fingernails. “You seem unimpressed.”

  “Because I discovered that fact long ago.” It is only partly a lie. He begins to examine his own nails, then notices and stops. He straightens his hair, notices that too, and puts his hands at his side.

  “I was just getting started, Master Genius.” Malefactor looks daggers at him and smoothes out his precious tailcoat. “But given your attitude, I don’t think I shall go on. Suffice it to say that you should be aware of more than just the simple whereabouts of Master Swallow’s early years. Rather, you should consider its significance. I shall tell you nothing more. I have said too much as it is, anyway.”

  “That is fine with me,” snaps Sherlock. “I don’t need help from the likes of you anymore. I suggest you go back to stealing.”

  “While you seek justice and do what is right for the British Empire?” growls Malefactor.

  “I shall do the first part, anyway.”

  “You are no better than me. There is none of us any better than the other.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “There are no such things as good and evil. There are simply human machinations: people trying to survive and thrive. I learned that long ago.”

  Sherlock has deduced a great deal about the other boy since he first met him last year: from things he has said, from that precious, once-luxurious tailcoat that he cleans almost daily. This boy was once in much better circumstances, perhaps in Ireland. He has suffered a great fall. Someone caused it. He has about him the mental wherewithal to be much more than he is – he’s been well educated and taught social graces.

  But Sherlock and his family fell too – his mother from a mighty height – and he has chosen to seek good while Malefactor hasn’t. They both came to a crossroads in life and made their choices.

  “I am someone whose morals you profess to abhor,” hisses Malefactor. “Yet you use me to get what you want.” He is seething, barely restraining himself. “And you will continue to try to use me as long as you get something from it! As long as it helps you become something greater than you are, makes you feel like someone special … the great detective!”

  “I –”

  “You cannot deny it!”

  A middle-class couple, dressed up to look as upper-class as they can in matching blue silk dress with crinoline and navy bonnet, and black frock coat and blue waistcoat with tall top hat, are passing on St. Martin’s Lane near the church beyond the mews. They stop for an instant and look down the narrow alley toward the two tall boys dressed in their worn outfits. The couple quickly moves on.

  “You would use evil to make good,” snarls Malefactor.

  “That is nonsense.” Sherlock swallows and tries not to look away from his opponent.

  “But it seems … that I have the girl.”

  There is silence. Their big heads are close and, neither blinking, they look into each other’s gray eyes. When Sherlock speaks, a dab of spittle flies out of his mouth and lands on Malefactor’s cheek.

  “I don’t need her … or you.”

  And with that he turns and stomps down the mews without looking back, heading toward his Denmark Street lodgings.

  “The Swallow pretends that he is reformed! No one reforms!” shouts the young criminal after him. Then he smiles, thinking of the seed he has sewn in Holmes’ mind. In an instant he is heading south to find his gang.

  Sherlock holds his hands over his ears as he marches away. He is trying not to think of what Malefactor said and why he said it, or what he means by … He stops himself and tries to shift his mind to other things.

  He runs angrily through the early morning crowds, amidst the noise of London: the roll of iron wheels and the clap of horses’ hooves on stones, shouts of people wanting and needing things; that admixture of colors, of gentlemen and ladies and beggars and singing vendors. He swings away from the dangerous little streets of The Seven Dials, thinking about good and evil, imagining the desperate folks who congregate there, some bad people indeed, others simply half-clothed and needy. He thinks of the strange alloy of buildings on Endell Street on the Dials’ east side: another massive workhouse for those who have fallen, side by side with a hospital. Good and bad together there too. It’s that way all over London. Desperation is here in St. Giles, but just north above Oxford Street, the rich float through life. It is said that if you want to see poverty in the city, just cross the street; if you want luxury cross back.

  “Watch it, blackguard!” shouts a crazy, old toothless woman with dead flowers in her hand, which she is trying to sell. Sherlock had dodged a smelly cart pushed by a cheesemonger and nearly knocked her down.

  He tries to shut off his mind and focus on getting home quickly. The corner of Crown and Denmark streets is just seconds away. But Malefactor’s words keep intruding.

  What game is that rat playing? Why did he say that about The Swallow? What does he mean? Sherlock can’t stop himself. What significance can there be to the boy being born and raised in Brixton?

  He turns the corner and sees the bulging
latticed windows on the front of the apothecary’s ancient shop down the street, its brightly colored bottles on display. But the cobwebs obscure them, visible from a long distance – he must clean that up.

  He has been longer than he intended. How will he explain this? He approaches the shop and reaches out for the door latch.

  Boom!

  An explosion sounds at the back, rattling the windows. Sherlock rushes across the reception room’s wooden floor and enters the laboratory.

  “My boy!” shouts the stooped old man. His face is blackened and his long hair sticks straight out in places, but there’s a smile on his face.

  “Are you injured, sir?”

  “Why, no. I expected a concussion, but not quite what ensued.”

  Sherlock looks down at the shards of a shattered flask gathered around the Bunsen Lamp on the examining table.

  “Methane, acquired from the private area of a cow, held tightly in a flask also containing various chemicals and liquids. I ignited it all … and you see the combustible result. Tells me things I need to know about various properties, though.”

  The apothecary turns to wash his face in the sink. Sherlock surveys the lab. Breakfast is done – his clean mortar and the tea flask sit farther down the table.

  “I went out for a morning stroll.”

  “Did you, now. A long one, I should think.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rather a departure for you, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Wanted air … isn’t that what you said last night too?”

  “I …”

  “I was just about to perambulate myself.”

  As the old man reaches for his bright-green, tweed frock coat, Sherlock rushes over to help him into it.

  “I shan’t ask you more about where you went. I am simply pleased you are here. I have outings with three more ladies today.” He places his fez hat at an angle on his head. There’s another smile on his face – it betrays nothing. He leans forward.

  “Women’s complaints, but I have just the thing.” He utters a characteristic burst of laughter as he waves a sealed vial of a mud-colored liquid in the air.

  “The Telegraph is here for you. Spot of interesting news that I’m sure you will want to read, about the Crystal Palace … uh … incident.”

  He picks up the paper and hands it to the boy with a wink.

  “I saw the article,” remarks Sherlock softly, smiling back.

  “You did?” Bell looks disappointed. “Oh … well …” he glances up and down the front page, “there are … uh … other things of the sort you enjoy here …” His eyes rest on something farther down the front page. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Here’s one.” He points to the story and holds it up for Sherlock to see. “The Brixton Gang. They’ve struck again; killed someone this time as well.”

  The apothecary picks up his huge plaid medical handbag, as big as a portmanteau, and struggles through the narrow laboratory entrance, into the shop’s front room, over to the door, and opens it. Noises rush in from the street.

  “Keep an eye on things, my page,” he barks. The thick wooden door closes with a bang.

  The noises are shut out and the old man disappears into the day, off to sit on that bench in Soho Square. There is silence.

  But Sigerson Bell’s plight isn’t on Sherlock’s mind now. Something else has lit it up.

  The notorious gang is from Brixton … and so is The Swallow!

  A CONFESSION

  With a stiff straw broom in hand, Sherlock heads for the front window and those cobwebs, thinking. He doesn’t have the stomach to deceive Bell again, and has decided that he should stay in and truly clean up the shop. But his mind is on The Swallow.

  The borough of Brixton lies between Lambeth, where the young acrobat spent his criminal days, and Sydenham, where the Crystal Palace rules. It isn’t particularly large but has been growing of late. Though many of its inhabitants are middle-class suburban folk, there is also an increasing underclass of criminals. London’s reigning gang comes from there … and so does The Swallow. Do these two facts go together? And if so, what do they have to do with the fall of Monsieur Mercure?

  The bell above the front door tinkles before Sherlock can even reach the window, and a man enters. Or at least, his nose does.

  “I’m feeling poorly,” says the nose.

  “You may come in, sir.”

  Despite the strangeness of this entrance and the rancid smell that is filling the room, Sherlock is pleased. Bell has been averaging perhaps two visitors a week lately, and what they pay him for his poisons has been barely enough to feed them. Perhaps the boy can make a sale. He would sell something to the devil today, if he had to, to help the old man.

  The nose, hair billowing out each nostril, looks one way, then another, and finally enters, leading a very thin man with a very small cranium and receding forehead inside. He glances furtively around, and then motions to three others, who follow. They look remarkably alike, all dressed in wet, smelly clothes, black from head to foot, matted hair clinging to their skulls. Sherlock immediately recognizes the dress and attitude of four toshers, who find their living in the sewers and always work in groups so they won’t get lost. They search the subterranean arteries of London for prizes, wary of being spotted through the gratings on the streets by pedestrians in the upper world, and of rats, who live in gangs in the underworld, their poisonous bites fatal. A Londoner has to be vigilant indeed to ever see a tosher. Once or twice, Sherlock thought he glimpsed their shadows through a sewer hole, but toshers always darken their lanterns when they near the light.

  “Fortune shone upon me today, young man,” says the one with the prominent proboscis. “And when we comes up, we is here on this street, and we sees your shop. Have you leeches, sire? Or arsenic?”

  “We have both, sir.”

  “Well, sire, I promised me wife that if I ever found a treasure like this here half-crown, that I would buy her some arsenic, so as to make her cheeks pink.” He looks around the room for thieves and then holds out his hand to reveal a silver coin nestled deep in his filthy hand, while the others lean forward to look. “And I also says to meself, I says, Lazarus, get yourself some leeches, sir, and suck the bad blood from your veins.”

  “He’s been feelin’ poorly,” another tosher squeaks, to remind Sherlock.

  “I recall.”

  “What would you be chargin’ for a pinch of arsenic and a bottle of leeches?”

  Sigerson Bell doesn’t believe in using leeches to suck “bad blood” from the veins of the ill. It is a medieval practice that does more harm than good. But the apothecary does have a bottle of those slimy little devils, swimming in green liquid back in the lab. He only uses them for experimentation. Women, mostly well-to-do ladies, do indeed take poisonous arsenic, sometimes too much of it, to give an alluring glow to their cheeks. But Bell frowns on that too. This is not a sale the old man would make.

  “Two shillings,” says Sherlock.

  Lazarus hands over the half-crown. The boy opens the strongbox behind the counter. There are eight coppers inside. He returns six to the tosher. Moments later, the men slip smiling from the shop with a bottle of leeches and a pinch of arsenic in hand, sliding through the doorway like wafer-thin creatures of the underworld. Sherlock watches them through the window. They look suspiciously up and down the street, pull off a sewer grating, and vanish.

  Not long after, as the boy lies awkwardly in the shop window, sweeping the cobwebs away, he turns toward the street and cries out.

  A huge face is staring back at him, inches away through the glass. It has black eyes and black eyebrows. Lord Redhorns.

  “A message for Mr. Bell,” he shouts through the thick window. “Four days. Tell him, that boy. Four days!” Redhorns stomps off down the street, the crowds parting in front of him like the Red Sea did for Moses.

  By mid-afternoon, Sherlock has both the front room and the chemical laboratory cleaned up like never before. But h
e is restless. He can hardly wait for the apothecary to return, and not just because he has polished the half-crown and set it on the examining table for Bell to see, but because he desperately wants to be free to do something about the Mercure case. What, he isn’t sure.

  He keeps hearing Redhorns’ threat.

  Four days.

  This business about The Swallow’s upbringing is tantalizing. But in the end, is it helpful? It just doesn’t make sense to him that the young acrobat is involved in the murder. If he is, why didn’t he let me fall from the trapeze perch? And what could the Brixton Gang possibly have to do with all of this?

  Pacing and frustrated, he carefully plucks some books from the precarious stacks and tries to read. Usually these are his moments of greatest joy: with a Charles Dickens novel, a new tract by Darwin, a Richard Francis Burton tale of a far-off land, or the latest Mrs. Henry Wood sensation in his hands. A favorite lately has been Samuel Smiles’ Self-Help, which puts forth a new belief that Englishmen of any class can achieve nearly anything: it simply takes imagination and especially, hard work. Sherlock loves drifting off into other worlds to feed his mind with information.

  But he can’t concentrate today.

  He makes tea and picks up the Telegraph again. He’d only glanced at it in the morning. His eyes fall on “DOINGS AT THE PALACE,” on the entertainment pages. This is a short column by a society sort containing a series of single lines about ongoing attractions, upcoming sensations, and statistics. He learns that a balloonist will attempt a leap in something called a parachute over the archery grounds on Wednesday next, that the wonder named Professor Inferno will set himself on fire in an “incendiary” return engagement in the central transept, the four-hundred-year-old Californian sequoia tree in the tropical area needs seventeen imperial gallons of water a day … and that the writer has heard whispers that money is missing from the Palace vault.

  What?

  He reads that last line again, the final note in the column, presented sparely, as if the writer has a good source, but no confirmation. As if the authorities are being tight-lipped about it. It is almost as if something doesn’t make sense to them, as if the money went missing and, somehow, wasn’t noticed. Sherlock has the feeling that there won’t be any publicity about this, at least until details become clearer.