Death in the Air

last night.” He wags a finger at the boy.

“No, I didn’t, sir.”

“Where you in Brixton?”

“No sir, Rotherhithe.”

Sigerson Bell looks shocked. It certainly isn’t the sort of neighborhood he would advise young Sherlock Holmes to frequent.

“Well, I am not pleased about this, not at all.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“Were you accompanied by an officer of the law?”

“I didn’t draw close, sir, I promise. I merely investigated.”

The old man regards the lad for a moment.

“I shan’t pursue the significance of the word merely nor the past tense of investigate as employed upon your lips just now. But I shall caution you to be careful. Should you go again … the Force should be with you!”

Sherlock nods, two fingers on his right hand crossed behind his back.

Lord Redhorns had given the apothecary four days. The boy hadn’t told the old man. Bell is aware that an ax is about to come down upon his neck, but he isn’t exactly sure when. Sherlock knows: there are just forty-eight hours left.

He must go back to Rotherhithe tonight. And he must go completely alone. All he needs to do is confirm where the Brixton Gang is holed up, just see them with his own two eyes. Then he can make his way quickly to Scotland Yard in Whitehall and tell the authorities. But there will be conditions asked of the police: he will reveal nothing to them until they all get to Rotherhithe. He will demand that a member of the press accompany them – he doubts Lestrade will be able to refuse even this. No one, not the senior detective or anyone else, will take the credit due Sherlock this time. No one will be able to deny him his reward.

But first, he must make sure that he isn’t followed. That is of paramount importance.

He tries to sleep a little in his wardrobe but can’t. His mind is racing. He must get moving. But first, he has to tend to his chores.

“Master Holmes,” says Bell before the chimes of St. Giles strike five, “have you noted that you placed the bat urine in my extra hat, poured the strychnine poison into the flasks from which we drink, and threw the dust from the floors into a retort and placed it in the ice-box? Your mind, shall we say, is not exactly riveted upon your work.”

“Uh, no sir, it isn’t.”

“I am listening to the gods, and getting the message, foretelling as it were, that you would … like to go for a stroll. Have I erred?”

“No, sir.”

Moments later, he is out the door, racing for Montague Street. There was indeed only one person who knew he would pursue the Brixton Gang last night; only one who told him to follow a certain someone … only one who could have entrapped him.

Malefactor.

Was his rival’s intention murder? Would he actually have him killed?

It is time for a confrontation unlike any they have ever had. If Sherlock wants to succeed in this case, he has to make the young villain back off. Another trip like last night’s could be lethal. Tonight’s investigation must take place under perfect conditions.

He doubts that Malefactor will be anywhere he might be expected today. The snake will be avoiding him, will have slithered into one of his holes for a while. But Sherlock is guessing that he visits Montague Street almost daily whether he sees Irene at home or not – the crook finds the princess irresistible. Malefactor knows that Sherlock has taken a vow to stay away from the girl in order to protect her from danger. The young thief lord, therefore, won’t expect him to be on this very street. Sherlock has also promised that he won’t stand between Malefactor and Irene. But that doesn’t matter anymore – his rival is obviously not the man of honor he claims to be, something that Sherlock never should have believed in first place.

Sherlock hides himself behind the stone steps that lead to an unused door on the east side of the Museum. He is completely hidden and yet commands a view of the Doyle home across the street. He gazes over at the long windows behind the flower boxes. Figures move inside. A slim, golden-haired one makes Sherlock sad … so he exerts all his energy and deadens the feeling.

It doesn’t take long for the street fiends to make their appearance. First to materialize is Grimsby Sherlock spies him instantly from his vantage point: only the rascal’s head and neck are in view, topped by his crushed-in black bowler. He bends around the corner by a gas-lamp, seeing if the coast is clear. The nasty little head vanishes, then pops out again. Within a few seconds, three figures turn up the street, Grimsby and Crew and their boss. The two ruffians look like royal guards escorting their criminal king. Malefactor obviously doesn’t trust any other members of the Irregulars to accompany him near Irene’s house; no one else is allowed to know that he has any tender feelings, that he needs a friend, an angel. They cross the street so they won’t pass directly in front of her home and head up the foot pavement … toward Sherlock. They are all acting nonchalant, but their leader glances over at the Doyle home every few strides to see if he might catch a glimpse of her.

Sherlock coils himself into a ball and presses his back against the steps. He is a good ten feet from the road, behind a wrought-iron fence and open gate, mostly out of view.

The three scoundrels pass.

Sherlock stands and follows them. He says nothing. It is almost comical. But suddenly the three in front stop.

“Sherlock Holmes, I perceive,” says Malefactor in a deadened tone without turning around. Then he pivots and walks back down the street, passing Holmes without even looking at him. There is nothing remotely like guilt on his face. Once past, he picks up his pace.

“You have some explaining to do!” shouts Sherlock, the anger he has been holding back beginning to rise.

Instantly, he feels a sharp pain in the back of his legs and falls face forward onto the footpath, losing most of the air in his lungs and almost smashing his teeth into the hard surface. Grimsby’s shoulder has taken him down as surely as it floored that drunken gentleman in the night. Sherlock remembers what came next; a blow to the temple. Somehow, he rolls quickly over onto the street and staggers to his feet. When he looks at Grimsby, his foot is indeed poised to strike. Blond Crew stands silently nearby, a kind of cold, dead calm in his blue eyes. Sherlock doesn’t trust either of them not to maim him for life. They are both sadistic and violent.

“You don’t speak to the leader like that, Jew-boy!” hisses Grimsby, a vein popping out on his forehead as his face turns red.

Sherlock glances down the street where Malefactor is moving away at top speed, crossing the street as he goes, heading south, his long black coattails and the back of his top hat in view. Holmes barely hesitates: he springs forward and makes for him, walking quickly, immediately feeling the other two breathing down his neck.

“Follow him if you choose, mongrel,” whispers Grimsby into his ear, “but you won’t ’ave your ’ealth by the end of the street.”

Sherlock knows he means it. He is scared but keeps following. If he can just get close enough to Malefactor, maybe he can make him talk. The other two boys will likely hurt him whether he stands or runs.

But there is a little lane that juts off Montague Street a few dwellings before it reaches Great Russell Street. As Sherlock nears it, both lads seize him. They drag him down the lane and into a little mews that runs parallel to the road along the rear of the houses. Sherlock sees the back of the Doyle house several dwellings to the north. Now he is very scared.

Grimsby begins to beat him, while Crew, dressed all in brown today, stands guard, smiling. Resisting will likely make them angrier and Sherlock cannot fight both of them. He takes the blows from fists and feet, trying his best to shield himself, desperate to do something but not sure what.