Death in the Air

“But, Master Holmes helped us so much. He deserves –”

“This!” says Lestrade, pulling a banknote from his pocket and tossing it out the coach window. It lands on the fallen boy. “Are you coming with us?” the Inspector demands once more, glaring at his son. “We shan’t wait.”

The young man hesitates and turns back to his father. In the coach he looks out the window at Sherlock Holmes, who is still on the cobblestones, now in a sitting position, looking stunned. A dirty five-pound note lies in his lap.

What happened?

AWAKENING

Sherlock sleeps on the streets that night. He doesn’t want to go back to Sigerson Bell until he gets the whole reward. But when will that be? His brain is usually able to understand or at least grapple with any problem with which it is presented, but he can’t unravel this one – Lestrade’s actions are a mystery.

In the morning he makes his way to Montague Street. It isn’t where he wants to be. He’d rather confront the police again at Scotland Yard, or even track down The Times reporter.

But at this moment, he just wants comfort. His mother is gone, so affection must come from Irene Doyle. He wishes he didn’t need her, wishes he was tougher, but on this morning, he simply isn’t. He feels as if he were that hot-air balloon that The Flying Man used a few years ago to sail high above the Cremorne Gardens, only to have it suddenly deflate and drop him to the earth like a stone … where he died, spit upon a church steeple, of all things.

He wants to see Irene’s wonderful face again, hear her strong and caring voice, and tell her that he is sorry, that he needs her friendship.

But when Sherlock turns the corner onto Montague Street, he spots three people on the far side of the road: Grimsby, Crew, and Malefactor. He hates them. He can’t admit any weakness, any failure, to them, and prays they will go away.

At first, all four walk in the direction of Irene’s house: the three young crooks on the east side, Sherlock on the west. He and Malefactor eye each other all the way. The young crime boss seems emboldened. He struts right up to the Doyle home and stands there – he must know that Irene is alone in the house today, as she often is, that she might come out to see him. The curtains pull back in a window on the ground floor and a face peeks out. At first, it notices only Malefactor and his henchmen and the fine white muslin material seems about to close. Then she looks out, across the street to where Sherlock is standing. Moments later, Irene descends the short front stone staircase and walks past the black wrought-iron fence to the footpath. She keeps her eye on the boy across the street.

The young mobsman near her looks pleased with himself. He takes Irene’s gloved hand and kisses it. She looks ashamed and turns her eyes from Sherlock. But Malefactor keeps his gaze on him as he holds out his other hand. Grimsby produces a newspaper from an inner pocket in his coat and hands it to his boss with a grin. Malefactor is smiling too.

What is this about? wonders Sherlock.

“Master Holmes, I perceive,” the young criminal genius announces across the street.

“Malefactor.”

“Read the news, sir?” he enquires. “A sort of … hold-the-presses-early-morning-last-minute special?”

“I don’t care about the news. I have a question for you that I want answered.”

Malefactor yawns and puts his hand to his mouth.

“I’m sure we’ve heard it before.”

“But you haven’t answered it yet!” growls Sherlock. He strides across the street. Irene can’t suppress a smile and steps away from Malefactor, moving closer to her friend. Excitement is growing on her face. Holmes notices, but tries to ignore it. He wants his answer first.

“Did you try to have me killed? Were you helping the Brixton Gang?”

“They are no longer a factor,” responds Malefactor, tapping on the newspaper.

Why is he so happy about the gangs downfall?

Sherlock could understand the young crime boss being pleased, if the Brixton group was merely eliminated from the streets – there would be more treasures to go around for the likes of his mob, fewer complications, and fewer Peelers on the alert. But he must know that Sherlock played a huge role in their spectacular capture. That must disturb him deeply somewhere inside.

“You are well aware that I was at the scene of the arrest,” intones Holmes, “and that it was through my deductions and actions that those fiends have been put into the custody of the Force!”

Irene glows at him.

“Oh, am I?” answers Malefactor with a smile.

Why is he acting this way?

“I asked you a question!” repeats Sherlock.

“And I told you, some time ago, that such things are mysteries … and shall remain so.”

Then the boss turns to his two companions.

“Master Crew?” he says, handing the newspaper to his second lieutenant. “Do the honors, please.”

Silent Crew, the hint of a short, toothbrush moustache beginning on his upper lip, takes the newspaper and spreads it open at the front page so Sherlock can read it. A huge black headline runs across the top.

“MERCURE AWAKES!” it shouts.

Sherlock almost staggers.

“TWO CRIMES SOLVED! BRIXTON GANG CAPTURED!” the headline continues.

“Seems the great man has roused from his brain concussion,” smiles Malefactor, “and has told Inspector Lestrade what he saw in the vault room of the Crystal Palace. The good inspector then informed the press that the Force was suspicious that the Brixton Gang was involved from the start, had been on their trail for some time, and tracked them to their lair.”

Sherlock is speechless. His mouth actually hangs open. He has never, in all the time he’s known the Trafalgar Square Irregulars, heard the frightening Crew utter a single word. But now he does. His voice is high-pitched and nasal.

“They don’t mention you,” he squeaks.

“Why yes, you are correct Master Crew, they don’t,” adds Malefactor. “I neglected to note that. It seems that Lestrade was in possession of an extraordinary amount of information about this crime … and the press is more than willing to accept that Scotland Yard’s hard work coupled with the submission of the only eyewitness to the crime, was what shed such a clear light upon this entire mystery and led to their brilliant solution.”

“There’s somethin’ ’bout a boy ’elpin’ out at the scene,” snickers Grimsby “but ’e ’as no name! ’em Peelers and press boys is good friends, Master ’olmes!”

There is still Irene. She looks at Sherlock with an expression of the deepest sympathy. She was with him through much of the Whitechapel case and knows what he is capable of, knows that he doesn’t lie, is sure that whatever his version of the Brixton Gang’s capture is, it is the truth.

The moment has come for her to reach out to him, make it all right between them. She turns away from Malefactor and steps toward him.

But Sherlock Holmes is boiling.

He cannot believe that he came here to seek comfort, cannot believe he was so weak. Comfort is not what he wants anymore. He wants his due; he wants his mother’s due. He will rise from this … and bring down evil again in a resounding crash that no one, not Lestrade or the press or the entire populace of London will be able to ignore.

Redhorns plans to descend on Sigerson Bell today. That dirty five pounds will put him off for now. But before long, the boy will have to strike.

He violently pulls his hand away from Irene Doyle and steps back from all of them. He will work this out. He