Death in the Air

mind, a chemical laboratory, and human skeletons and organs like exhibits for a university anatomy course. The boy could disappear into this shop and re-create himself.

“Sherlock?” shouts a young voice. Sherlock hears someone crossing the street behind him.

He is near the Mint area in Southwark, not far from his old home over the hatter’s shop. He has left busy Borough High Street and cut through the alleys away from their flat, trying to avoid his neighborhood. But just outside big ominous St. George’s Workhouse, an old acquaintance has spotted him.

“’aven’t seen you in ages,” she says, almost out of breath, rushing up as if she were aware that he might flee. There are beads of perspiration on her forehead.

It’s the hatter’s granddaughter. She is about his age with black hair and eyes, and pale skin, and she’s wearing a blue bonnet. She’s one of the few of his peers who ever speaks to him. She never teases him about his fancy old clothes, about his Anglo-Jewish heritage, nor does she resent his form-leading school grades – achieved despite poor attendance – or the fact that he seldom says much to those who try to talk with him. In fact, she actually appears to admire him, especially his remarkable intelligence and ability to size up other human beings at a glance.

“Beatrice,” he says without emotion, not looking at her, though she has stepped to within a foot of him. He wants to get moving. He straightens his coat, combs his hair into place with his fingers.

“I’m sorry about your mum, Sherlock,” she offers, taking another step forward, making sure she is in front of him on the pavement.

“Much obliged,” he answers softly and stops trying to move away.

“It was a mystery, ’er going all of a sudden like that.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, so she changes the subject.

“There’s been a fancy girl around ’ere, asking for you.”

“Her name is Irene Doyle, and she won’t come anymore. She knows I have new lodgings. She was just a passing acquaintance.”

It hurts Sherlock to say it out loud. Irene should have been much more than that. She is the most wonderful person he has ever met, but his involvement in the Whitechapel murder case almost got her killed. It would be terribly wrong to keep bringing her into danger – he must be strong about that. These days, he tries not to think of her. He had cut short their meeting at the Crystal Palace. She had been frequenting the hall, knowing he would come one day to see his father. Sherlock told her that he had other concerns in life these days and was too busy to spend any time with her. He’d nearly lost his composure and had to look away. There had been tears in her eyes.

Sherlock steps past Beatrice and starts walking, but the industrious girl turns and keeps pace, speaking with him as they move.

“You have new dwellings? Might I ask where? Are you working?”

“Over the river, and yes, I am.”

“You weren’t at school much before the summer began. You know, we girls see all you boys on the way up to your classroom. Are you going back next year? There’ll be entrance tests for every form, you know.”

“I’m studying.”

And he is. Though he only went to school a few times after his mother’s death, he has used the apothecary’s remarkable library and his voluminous knowledge every day. He will write the tests and do well. Those shillings Bell gave him will help pay for the first month or so of schooling, but he’ll need more money soon. How he will get it, he doesn’t know. Perhaps the old man will give him more. Two months ago, Sherlock would have scoffed at the idea of ever going to university, but now he vows to get there. In fact, he must. He needs to know everything he can possibly know.

“Will you have cause, with your work, I mean, to visit this parish often?” She smiles at him, but he cuts off further questions.

“I’ll be over the river this summer. Not here. Good day.”

And with that he runs, not giving her a chance to keep up. Before long, he is back over Southwark Bridge and entering the apothecary’s shop. It is growing dark outside. He has pushed Beatrice, Irene, and even his father out of his mind.

He is thinking of the horrific fall of the trapeze star. Even as he questions whether or not he should be involved, a plan is forming in his head. An examination of the crime scene would be an excellent start. Tomorrow. Couldn’t I just take a look? But first he should speak to Sigerson Bell: he needs to know a few preliminary things and he’s certain the alchemist will have answers. Surely, there is no harm in asking.

MALEFACTOR REVISITED

Sigerson Bell has already been out to the streets and back by the time Sherlock Holmes rises the next morning. As usual, the boy is taking a long time to get himself ready He is standing in front of the cracked mirror in the shop, making sure every thread of his tattered clothes is in place, patting down his straight black hair over and over again.

“A spot of trouble at the Palace of the People’s Pleasure,” announces the old man as he swings into the chemical laboratory from the front room where customers are served, tapping his finger on the front page of the Daily Telegraph. Sherlock’s head snaps around.

The trapeze accident is in the news. Sherlock wishes Bell took The Illustrated News, with its spectacular drawings of London crime and mayhem, or Sunday’s big-selling scandal sheet, The News of the World, but he can’t complain – he doesn’t have to search for newspapers in dustbins anymore – there’s one in the shop every day that is generously shared. The two often engage in discussions of front-page stories.

“Reading, my boy, what a sensation!” the apothecary exclaims, the sweat glistening on his upper lip. He says that almost daily. But Sherlock doesn’t mind. He wholeheartedly agrees.

Though Bell has his charge on a tight work schedule, he always gives him time to read. A massive library towers over the lab, rising in several dozen great teetering stacks, forming a wall inside the walls, placed in order by a particularly complicated decimal system that even Sherlock has yet to master. Each stack is like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Italy, threatening to fall over at any moment, though none ever has. Not a day goes by without the old man pressing a new book upon his apprentice.

Sherlock eyes the newspaper greedily as Bell tucks it under his arm and then examines a particularly precarious pile of books. Approaching it stealthily, he reaches out, secures a thin volume and plucks it. They both wait breathlessly for the column to crash to the floor, but miraculously, it holds on.

“I am thinking that I shall teach you to read French. I am sure you have some rudimentary knowledge, but the best way is to just plunge right in. Here’s a book you shall like.”

Although Sherlock extends his hand to take the book, he keeps his eyes on the paper, tilting his head to see if he can read the headline, crunched in Bell’s armpit.

“ALARMING ACCIDENT AT THE” is all he can see.

“Thank you, sir.” He glances at the book. Voyage au Centre de la Terre.

“A thrilling piece of adventure literature by a Frenchman named Jules Verne.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Later, I shall teach you to read The Divine Comedy in Italian. La Divina Comedia. You get to descend into hell in that one.”

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes, Master Holmes?”

“Shall you be reading the paper first?”

Bell glances down at the Daily Telegraph. “Should we not break our fast before