Death in the Air

murderer. But he doesn’t care; he has no choice but to move. It is a strange sensation, fleeing into nothing, as if there is no guidance in life, no God nor parents – nothing except blind fear. He wants there to be some form again, some idea of where he is going…. For some reason he prays for a sense of right and wrong.

Eventually, the tunnel lightens a little and before long, he can see the dim way out at the far end. He heads for it like a racehorse seeing the finishing line at The Derby. He doesn’t even think about the boy he is pursuing – he just wants to get to the light.

There is no one in the building at the other end, a near replica of the one on the north side. He climbs the marble steps carefully and quietly, his fear finally beginning to recede.

The grand doors in the big rotunda are locked from the outside but open easily from inside. He steps out into the humid July London air and hears the sounds of the river – steamers chugging gently, men’s voices shouting in the distance. This is an industrial area, filled with factories, warehouses, and dominated by the Grand Surrey Docks. There aren’t many gaslights. There are few people about and any that are, will be tough characters indeed. The black-looking Thames, punctured here and there by its many wharves and gray stone stairs, is still and ominous. The Surrey Gas Works are behind him, a flour mill down at the water. The many pools, timber yards, and offices of the Docks surround him.

Sherlock sees no one at first. Where has the dark figure with the knife gone? Does he really want to find him?

But then he spots the lad, a few hundred yards away stepping out from behind the corner of a big brown building topped with a crowd of chimney stacks and marked with a huge dirty sign reading BEELZEBUB’S BISCUIT FACTORY. It is curious. Again, Sherlock has the sense that his prey actually showed himself on purpose, that he glanced back to make sure he was observable before he slithered away.

Holmes follows. The boy heads up cobble-stoned Rotherhithe Street which runs next to the Thames, winding along the river’s Lower Pool in the direction of Lime House, before it turns down the peninsula toward the Isle of Dogs. The very sound of those names frightens Sherlock. It is a witheringly dangerous area, absolutely fit for the likes of the Brixton Gang. He is descending into London’s darkest place.

Sherlock can smell the big chemical works nearby, the filth and grease in the tanneries. He passes the Surrey Dock Tavern, and then the Queen’s Head Inn, containing the only signs of human life, with glowing windows in run-down wooden buildings, filled with drunken shrieks and laughter.

Somewhere near here, thinks Sherlock, brutal Bill Sikes had been pursued by the Force, accidentally hanging himself on a rooftop in front of a bloodthirsty mob in Mr. Dickens’ frightening novel, Oliver Twist. That chapter had always scared the liver out of the boy, but he had loved it too…. He doesn’t now. He has no desire to meet a real-life ruffian like that. The reality of confronting the members of the Brixton Gang is looming in his imagination.

The boy with the knife slows his pace. He is approaching the Whiting Asphalte Works, a grimy, sprawling factory with massive black smokestacks. Across from it sits a series of warehouses that look like they are falling down as they lean against one another, the whole lot about to crumble.

Sherlock hears a sound behind him and turns to see a shadowy figure, obviously a boy, moving swiftly toward him along a narrow lane. He is caught; just as he feared; between the two lads in the night. He looks at the one with the knife and sees him turn back as if making his mind up about something. He, too, is coming in Sherlock’s direction. They are closing in on him. He can’t see either face. There is but one option: flee! He can only get away if he runs as hard as he possibly can, back the way he came, on Rotherhithe Street. If he doesn’t fly this instant, the boy coming up that lane will get to the street first and intercept him. He is sure the Brixton Gang is nearby, but he can’t stay a second longer: he must scramble for his life.

He takes to his heels at top speed, churning up the distance, shoes whacking the cobblestones. If either of these two roughs catch him, they will surely kill him.

Sherlock darts past the lane, not even looking toward the boy, and is gone. He doesn’t bother with the tunnel and runs until he gets all the way to London Bridge. He scrambles along its old stone surface without breaking stride. He thinks he can feel at least one pursuer close behind, but can’t take time to look. Back in the City proper on the north side, he follows every small artery he can, winding and swerving his way through central London. It is a long trip, but even when he finally nears Bell’s dwelling, his pursuer isn’t shaken. Sherlock scoots along the footpath near the buildings on Denmark Street and then pauses outside the shop door, hears footsteps nearing, and runs again. Deep in The Seven Dials he finds an alley where he can hide.

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