Death in the Air

“I am after the Brixton Gang.”

Malefactor says nothing at first. Then he laughs so loudly that it seems he may wake all the inmates of the Bloomsbury and St. Giles Workhouse. And almost instantly there is a chorus joining in, lead by Grimsby and the others – Crew, as usual is mute, though his smile, visible in the shadows, is cheek-splitting.

“I know they killed Monsieur Mercure!” shouts Sherlock.

It brings the laughter to a halt.

“Perhaps you should announce that on the top of Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar Square,” says Malefactor quietly. “Even if it isn’t a fiction, keep your gob shut about it!”

“It is true. And I intend to lay my hands upon them and bring them to justice for it.”

The crime boss looks at him closely saying nothing.

“They planned his murder,” continues Sherlock through his teeth, “and robbed The Crystal Palace of one hundred thousand pounds simultaneously, in a crime of misdirection. They took the money from the vault and left a locked room behind.”

Crew takes a coin from his pocket, places it in the palm of his hand, showing it to the other boys. He points at the coin, closes his hand over it, then opens the palm to reveal that it is empty. In a smooth move, he swirls the other hand in front of his chest and opens it … revealing the coin.

“Misdirection,” mutters Grimsby.

Sherlock ignores both of them. “If it helps me get what I want,” he offers, “I shall tell you exactly how they did it.”

Malefactor appears to be considering this. Information is, to him, like gold, especially information about the activities of other members of the criminal world. He understands that Sherlock wants to exchange it for something. His eyes shift about as he thinks. A chess game has begun. This time, he intends to win.

“No thank you,” he responds.

The boy finds this surprising. And Malefactor has a strange look too, a sort of poker-face set on his features, as if he were trying to keep his thoughts concealed. What is he thinking? Why did he refuse?

“Give me something else,” the young boss says, eyeing Sherlock as if he were looking into him. The boy has the feeling that Malefactor is checking to see his reaction to the refusal, to see if it is giving anything away.

Sherlock wonders what else he can possibly offer. He looks around the workhouse grounds and his eyes glance north momentarily toward Bloomsbury … Montague Street … and Irene Doyle. He must be dispassionate about this, thrust aside all his emotions … all his feelings.

“I shall no longer stand between you and Irene. If you want her friendship, I shall not discourage her. I shall speak highly of the way you have helped me. And I shall give you any further information I gain about these villains.”

Malefactor’s eyes narrow. Behind him, both Grimsby and Crew are shaking their heads. Would their boss really give up information about the dangerous Brixton Gang simply to impress a young lady? It would put them all in peril.

“You would hand her over to the dark side?” inquiries Malefactor.

“That is not how I would put it.”

“Nevertheless.”

The taller boy paces, his heavy, black boots crunching the bits of sand and gravel on the cobblestones. Then he stops and strolls over to Sherlock, coming to within a few inches of his face. His appearance is disconcerting: his face radiant in the dim gaslight, his eyes glowing as if he has an idea that thrills him. His minions gather closer to hear what he will say. But he speaks softly.

“I know someone who knows someone who knows whom you seek. His name is Dante. He is stunted in growth … one of his ears was torn off in a tussle with a butcher’s boy at a dog-and-rat fight last year. You shall find him in The Seven Dials. Do not speak to him. Mention me at your immense peril. I wish you luck.”

Malefactor’s face suddenly darkens. If there is such a thing as evil in an expression, it is there in his – his eyes are dead. A cold chill runs down Sherlock’s spine. He is seldom truly afraid of the other boy, but feels that way now. He finds himself speechless. He merely turns and walks away not looking back. Behind him, Grimsby is protesting and Malefactor is calming him. He soothes them all with a few words. Whatever he says makes them laugh. Sherlock can hear Grimsby’s malicious giggle above the others.

He returns to the apothecary’s home still feeling frightened. Malefactor has put him onto a scent that may lead him right to the most brutal men in England. Why did the young criminal do it? And why with such relish?

His employer is fast asleep, snoring so loudly up above that it almost shakes the building. Sherlock doesn’t try to wake him. He crawls into his bed in the chemical laboratory and leaves him in peace.

A DANGEROUS TRAIL

“I should like to go for a stroll, sir, if I may, beginning late this afternoon. I might not return for supper.”

Sigerson Bell knows what Sherlock means. And he isn’t happy about it. Seeking the Mercure solution is one thing, dealing with London’s murderous, reigning gang is entirely something else. He and the boy are sitting in the laboratory taking another of their unique bachelor breakfasts: tea and headcheese this time, the latter speared upon their scalpels.

The apothecary thinks for a moment. He adjusts his red fez on his stringy white hair.

“If you must do this, I shall only give you permission if you promise me that, whilst you are on your stroll, you will not approach anyone in the Brixton Gang or anyone connected with them without an officer of the law attending you.”

“I promise,” says Sherlock instantly.

“A promise involves one’s honor, my boy. To break it is disgraceful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may leave early then.”

Holmes is in The Seven Dials the instant he is set free. It doesn’t take him long to spot the stunted, one- eared boy. Dante is dressed in a ragged red shirt and red trousers and sports a bowler hat on his head. While Sherlock watches and swelters in his dark clothes in the oppressive afternoon heat, the boy snakes up and down the seven narrow streets that emanate from the middle of the Dials like spokes on a wheel. He speaks to several dozen people, often secretively exchanging small items for coins, looking about as he does. Sherlock sits on a rotting wooden bench, under a statue, pretending to read the Daily Telegraph. He shifts his gaze each time the boy goes down another little artery, observing him as though he were sitting in the center of a clock, his view the hands, and the boy various numbers. He could swear that the lad spots him several times, in fact looks right at him, almost as if to be sure that he is being observed. But the rascal never approaches him or attempts to fly away. The swarms of poor folk buzz about in their dull soot-stained clothing. In order to be inconspicuous, Sherlock twice gets up and leaves, but each time he returns to his watch, he easily spots the colorfully dressed boy, still making his rounds in the neighborhood. Eventually the lamplighters arrive and the sun begins to set.

Dante makes his move. In an instant Sherlock is off his bench and following. The one-eared boy darts down White Lion Street and heads through Covent Garden near the Opera House (where Sherlock used to crouch outside with his dear mother to listen to the swirling violins), and on like a thoroughbred rodent toward the river. He turns east at The Strand, apparently anxious to stay on the busiest streets, vanishing and materializing in the thick masses like an escape artist. He is making sure that no one is following. Or is he? At times it seems as though he is checking to be certain that Sherlock is on his trail.

They walk for what feels like an hour, and throughout the entire time Sherlock Holmes suspects that he is being followed too. If he is, it is expertly done, because every time he turns he cannot spot anyone in pursuit. Dante