Death in the Air

them. No one has ever seen a member of the Brixton Gang. Despite the danger, this is too much for Sherlock Holmes to resist. He imagines handing the money to Redhorns, the look on Lestrade’s face, and the glory it will bring him.

He grips the handle with one hand and the other sneaks into his coat and pulls out the three-foot long hunting crop. It is a hard, formidable weapon, meant to get the attention of a two-thousand-pound animal. If he can use it right, bring this horsewhip violently to bear on any villain who might come at him, it may buy him enough time to get away.

He is betting that the men are enthralled with what they are doing and that he can lift up the trapdoor a few inches and look into the room undetected, only his eyes in view. He will be well ahead of any potential pursuers. When he broke into four mansions in search of the Whitechapel murderer two months ago, Malefactor had given him sound advice – to locate an avenue of escape ahead of time. He knows exactly how to get out of this warehouse: down the ladder, down the stairs, and through the maze of narrow streets. He purposely left the floorboard pulled back.

He’s ready.

He pushes the trapdoor up slowly, inch by inch. He can’t see anything clearly: just boots and trouser cuffs and the short wooden walls of an enclosure, obviously the pit for the animals, all lit by the soft glow of candles and a few gas lamps. The sounds almost turn his stomach. The fight has obviously been going on for a long time and the poor beasts are suffering. Sherlock hears their pitiful cries of pain and sees blood splattered on the tops of the walls. It makes him angry. He recklessly lifts the trapdoor farther up, nearly a foot.

Three men turn to him and smile. They look calm. Why is that? They seem to be expecting him. Why is that?

And where is the fourth man?

The answer comes instantly.

A big black boot, worn by someone standing directly behind the trapdoor, wedges under its elevated surface and snaps the whole thing back with a crash, leaving it wide open. An evil, whiskered face with black eyes stares down at him, smiling too.

Sherlock has seen all four members of the Brixton Gang! He doesn’t hesitate. Gripping his hunting crop, he jerks his feet off the rung and slides down the ladder to the floor. He lands with a thud. But when he turns he gets the shock of his life.

The dark-dressed boy is standing directly in front of him, inches from his face, his breath as foul as a skunk’s.

Sherlock thinks of the apothecary’s movements when he practices his martial arts. It seems to be all about balance and leverage and getting the right distance, the distance you need to employ the weapon you have. He steps back and raises his horsewhip. He intends to lay it across this fiend’s face.

But the other boy isn’t interested in fancy maneuvers. He is a street person, a hardened criminal who has learned from experience how to react instantly in desperate situations. He knows to stay in close to his opponent.

“What ’ave we ’ere?”

He steps forward as Sherlock steps back, seizing the hand with the hunting crop and twisting it violently, almost snapping the bone.

“Ahhh!”

Sherlock shrieks in pain and drops his weapon. In the blink of an eye, he feels a deep sting across one of his thighs and then another, making him buckle and drop to the floor. He raises his arms to protect his face and looks up at his enemy. The other boy has the hunting crop in his hand and has stepped back; four grimy, blood-splattered men are standing beside him, forming a semi-circle around Sherlock Holmes.

“We’ve been expecting you,” growls one of them with a horrible grin.

All that is going through Sherlock’s mind is: The Brixton Gang kills people, without thinking twice.

IN WITH THE RATS

But they don’t kill him, at least not yet. He knows, however, that his time is nearly up. Why hadn’t he accepted Bell’s offer of learning fighting techniques? While it may not have enabled him to capture these villains, he might have at least gotten away. If he comes out of this alive, he must ask the old man to teach him. But that seems beside the point – he doubts he will ever see his dear friend again.

The dark-dressed boy’s appearance is clear now. He’s a lad not much older than Sherlock, similar to him in many ways – black-haired, an attempt at respectability in his frayed black coat and hounds-tooth waistcoat. But he isn’t as well turned out as Sherlock. His hair is unkempt, his teeth are dark yellow, almost brown, and there is a vacant, violent look in his eyes. The other four men have the appearance of modern-day pirates. Two have knives tucked into belt buckles, another has a patch over an eye, and he sees glints of gold in their mouths. All keep their hair unusually long, wear loose flannel shirts that were once white, unbuttoned well down their chests, trousers of bright colors, and sport flat straw hats on their heads. And yet, somehow they are ordinary too, much like any other desperate folk you might see on the street, with appearances that can melt into a crowd.

The two younger gang members, mere youths beside their accomplices, seize Sherlock and roughly haul him up the ladder. On the top floor they pick him up and pitch him head-first into the bloody rat pit. He nearly lands on his face, just getting his hands up in time. He is terrified almost beyond control. He wonders if he will soil his pants. He wants to cry. He wants to throw up. He needs his mother, his father, Sigerson Bell, even Inspector Lestrade. Why hadn’t he at least told the apothecary exactly where he was going? Because … he wasn’t supposed to draw close. The old man didn’t expect him to be in this sort of fatal danger. His recklessness, his chutzpah (as the his father calls it) has put him in this situation, like a condemned Fagin in Newgate Prison waiting for the jailers to take him out to the scaffold to be hanged by his neck.

“You shall be disposed of,” says one of the two older thieves, better spoken than the others, perhaps the brains behind the gang.

Sherlock wonders how they will do it.

“But we have a few inquiries to make of you first,” says the other adult. He speaks well too. It is obvious that these two run things. The others – two strong lads – are the thugs.

“We have been aware of you since last night and have had your movements observed,” says the first gang member with a glance at the dark-dressed boy. “We must discover what else you know.”

“Before we carve you up and feed you to the fishies!” barks one of the thugs.

Sherlock wants to know just one thing before that happens. Was it Malefactor who betrayed him? But he can’t bring himself to ask. He doesn’t want to say anything that might make them hurt him even sooner than they plan.

“Crowley Sticks, go downstairs with Brim.”

The two young ones descend the ladder with the dark-dressed boy on command – discipline seems to be a strength of this group – leaving the two older men to examine Sherlock. They can see that he is trembling and it makes them smile.

“We shall be discussing matters downstairs and then we shall arise and discuss similar matters with you. Killer will watch you. This room is sealed from the inside. Don’t try anything. Should you attempt an escape, we shall discover it and commence with your fate instantly.”

The first one turns to go.

“Make yourself at home,” says the other.

They both descend and the room is quiet. Sherlock hears them talking down below. His mind reels. What is in store for him? Will they cut off parts of his body, kill him slowly, and make him tell everything he knows as they bring him painfully to his death … over many hours … or days? He wanted to fight evil. Well, evil is here, in this building, and it isn’t what he imagined – it’s far worse – and it has him at its mercy.