Death in the Air

I KNOW SOMEONE WHO KNOWS SOMEONE

It is an ambitious, intoxicating idea, and exceedingly dangerous. But what if Sherlock Holmes could actually deliver the notorious Brixton Gang, the most violent, most wanted collection of villains in all of London, into the hands of Scotland Yard? He could fund his education forever, save Sigerson Bell, truly begin his attack on crime … and Lestrade would not be able to deny him his due.

“That is not feasible!” blurts out the old alchemist, getting to his feet and making several little circles around the boy. “How could you possibly do such a thing? The Brixton Gang members are not only frighteningly brutal in their manner, murderers, but they are as elusive as phantoms. They have disappeared again. The police have no idea who they are, let alone where they are. No one does!” “I know someone who just might know something,” says Sherlock and he springs to his feet, swipes his coat from the hook, and heads out the door.

“Master Holmes, it is nearing midnight!” cries the old man. “I … I shan’t keep you if you …” But the boy is gone.

He has been on his feet since the early hours of the morning. If he persists much longer, he will have spent an entire day pursuing the case. But that doesn’t matter – he hardly thinks of it. There are fiends to catch and the time to strike is now. The prize is irresistible. Alert for his prey he sweeps along streets lit by the soft yellow glow of gaslights, heading into the bowels of the city. The fog is heavy in the humid night.

If it were his choice, he would have nothing more to do with Malefactor. But events are compelling him in the young crime lord’s direction. He needs him. Whatever must be done to succeed, to bring those culprits to justice, shall be done. Sherlock will sign a deal with the devil if he must.

The master criminal had been near St. Martin’s Workhouse just off Trafalgar Square earlier in the day, so the boy starts off in that direction. Shadowy Lincoln’s Inn Fields can be searched later if necessary.

He sees ragged beggars, brightly dressed and painted women, drunk men, and the shoeless, pale-skinned poor, either staggering about or creeping along in the yellow fog, but no matter where he looks, he cannot find Malefactor. The shadows are hiding him well tonight.

But rounding a corner off St. Martin’s Lane he spies someone else: the Irregulars’ most disgusting operator, hard at work. Nasty, dark-haired Grimsby dressed completely in black with his face charcoaled too, and hatless, is toiling in tandem with a younger thief tonight. The smaller boy is more nattily attired: cleaned up as best as possible, a tattered greatcoat fitting loosely on his boney frame. They have been out hunting and have spotted an easy mark: a gentleman in evening dress, silk white scarf around his neck, black top hat on his graying head, elegantly mustached, but obviously confused, and more than a little lost as he shambles about trying to go westward toward his wealthy neighborhood, but heading north.

“Hansom cab? Cabbie? Why can’t a gentleman find a driver!” he shouts in a slurred voice.

The younger thief, standing next to a Horse and Carriage Repository where vehicles are built and kept, beckons him to approach. Several carriages are gathered around in its small yard behind a black iron fence, some unfinished. To the man’s inebriated brain, this must look like an enormous cab stand.

“Cab, guvna?” shouts the little Irregular. “Stand ’ere and I’ll bring one along, sir.”

Sherlock slides up against a building. He can see Grimsby crouching in the lane that runs to the front doors of the Repository. He is hidden from view, ready to pounce, and shaking his fist at another group of boys, not Irregulars, who have obviously also been following the gentleman. He is letting them know that this is not their prize tonight.

The gentleman sways toward the younger Irregular and then reaches into his pocket for a coin, turning his back to the entrance to the lane. Grimsby shuffles into perfect position from behind and suddenly drives forward, striking his victim violently in the back of the knees with his shoulder, knocking him, face down, onto the cobblestones. The man groans. The next blow comes from the hard toe of the boy’s boot driven against the gentleman’s head. This time the man goes limp. Grimsby and his accomplice pull him into the lane, go through his pockets, strip him to his undergarments, and make off through the streets with his clothes and money, running low to the ground.

“To your heels!” he hears Grimsby hiss.

Sherlock is after them in a flash. It had pained him to watch them operate. He had wanted to shout out, stop them in their tracks, save that man from them. But he couldn’t: he had to watch it all transpire so he could follow them when they were finished. He has larger prey to ensnare. Allow a crime in order to end greater evil – it is the price he has to pay.

“Speed, you vermin! Speed!” spits Grimsby under his breath.

They are scurrying north-east, human rats on the run. Sherlock keeps low and stays on their trail, following them past a smelly brewery, a church, a school, and then the hospital near the Bloomsbury and St. Giles Workhouse. They are heading to a spot in a poor neighborhood … not far from where Irene Doyle lives in the more genteel Bloomsbury area, a fact not lost on Sherlock.

They turn up Drury Lane and slither down a little mews that leads right onto the workhouse grounds. This dark “house,” one of many feared by the poor, who are put in these places when they can no longer survive on their own, is a big, granite building. It is silent now, its desperate, ill-nourished inmates asleep, or tossing and turning on their hard little beds.

Sherlock sees Malefactor instantly. He always stands out from his gang. He is leaning against the cool, stone workhouse wall in his tailcoat and top hat, twirling his walking stick in anticipation of Grimsby’s return. When he spots Sherlock, he scowls angrily at his lead lieutenant, who, as the mob’s thief extraordinaire, should have known that he was being followed. The young boss turns to the other, smaller thief, knocks the gentleman’s rich garments from his hands, and drives the end of his cane deep into the little boy’s ribs, eliciting a shriek of pain. Somehow the lad ducks the ensuing blow, directed at his cheekbone. Malefactor pivots and glares at Grimsby again, who slinks away into the shadows, looking daggers at Holmes. The gang’s other lieutenant: blond, silent Crew, grins nearby.

“Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive,” Malefactor growls, his dark, sunken eyes turning to the boy, trying not to betray his anger. “I see you have returned to my presence.” There is an undertone of interest in his voice, as if he had hoped that Sherlock would come back some time.

“Intriguing location,” says Holmes, looking about. “Bloomsbury is to your taste these days?”

“Unquestionably,” smiles Malefactor.

“I –”

“She often comes to see me.”

“Who?” asks Sherlock.

Malefactor merely snorts.

There is a long silence. The criminal knows why Sherlock is here and is forcing him to speak first, shaming him. He examines his fingernails.

“I …” begins Sherlock.

“Yes?”

“I need some information.”

“Let me quote you, Master Holmes, upon the occasion of your last interview with me. ‘ I don’t need help from the likes of you anymore.’ It was said with some mustard in your tone. I believe I have that correct, do I not?”

Sherlock hates this, but he must endure it. At first he doesn’t reply.

“Do I not?” repeats Malefactor.

“Yes.”

“I did not hear you.” He is cupping an ear in one of his white-gloved hands.

“Yes!”

“Thank you. Now, what brings you here? For what, specifically, are you groveling now?”