Death in the Air

Street. And he isn’t walking with the characteristic spring in his step. In fact, it looks like the weight of the Empire is on his stooped shoulders. The boy slows and watches him turn west onto Rose Street, past the charity school.

Why is he so distraught?

Sherlock decides to follow him.

The old man doesn’t go far. He stops at Soho Square and sits on a black iron bench, ignoring the beautiful flowers, with his eyes cast straight down. Sherlock can’t understand it. He can’t recall even a hint of any sort of trouble at the shop from the moment he took on the job. There doesn’t appear to be a happier man on the face of the earth than Sigerson Trismegistus Bell.

Sherlock slides onto another bench not far away – there are several big trees between them. Bell doesn’t move an inch. And he stays like that, as still as the square’s statue, for half an hour.

“Oi, there’s the old man again.”

Two street urchins are walking past, likely heading into the center of the Soho district to beg or steal on its busy, spidery arteries. It is hard to distinguish where their torn shirts end and dirty trousers begin, but each wears a cap, cocked at a devilish angle.

“Seen him every day this week, ain’t we?”

“Same spot, mate, same ’ead down.”

“Lost in the clouds, ’e is.”

“Black ’uns.”

“Let’s relieve ’im ’o somethin’.”

A second later, the lead boy is on the hard, sun-baked ground, deposited by a swift kick from Sherlock Holmes that takes his bare feet out from under him. Sherlock glares down at him and then at his accomplice. The little boys run.

The young detective reluctantly leaves, heading for Lincoln’s Inn Fields, leaving Bell sitting in the same spot, staring at the ground. The apothecary didn’t even stir when the street boy was felled.

Sherlock is remembering something now, something he should have taken note of before. It had happened nearly three weeks ago. He had been cleaning the laboratory with a mop and a smelly cleaning liquid Bell had concocted from horse hooves, when a customer came into the shop. The alchemist had responded to the doorbell’s tinkle in his typically breezy manner and headed to the front room.

“I shall see to this individual, Master Holmes. Carry on.”

But he had instantly returned, with a forced smile on his face.

“I shall close the door. This gentleman’s inquiry is of a sensitive nature. The bowel, you know, and the exit from said bowel. Arduous journeys have been taking place.”

Sherlock had smiled back. But Bell had never closed that door before, not for any patient who had dropped by sensitive rear end or not. There had been shouts in the front room, all coming from the customer. The apothecary was either speaking very softly in return, or saying nothing at all. The issue appeared to be money. Sherlock had assumed that Bell had been asking for too much for one of his wares. But now, when he considers it, he realizes that wasn’t the case. When the gentlemen left, Bell immediately returned to the lab, another grin fixed on his red face. At that moment, the shop’s front door had suddenly opened again and Sherlock saw the customer as clear as day. He was dressed in an expensive black evening suit, a red waistcoat tightly fitted by a Savile Row tailor over his bulging stomach. His face was covered with a big black beard, black nose hairs, and bushy eyebrows that went in an unbroken line across his brow and ascended almost to his hairline. There was a monocle stuck in his left eye and he carried a tall black top hat, white gloves, and walking stick. His voice was big and blustery.

“I shall give you two weeks, old man. Mind what I say!”

“Well,” sighed Sigerson Bell, turning back to Sherlock after the door slammed. “Some customers are demanding indeed. Don’t know if I can acquire the tonic he requires … in two weeks. Carry on, Master Holmes.”

Sherlock puts two incidents together and realizes that that confrontation had nothing to do with a much- needed tonic. The very next day, he had noticed the same gentleman walking past the shop, and stopped a tradesman to ask if he knew who the man was.

“That’s Lord Redhorns, that is. He owns this here whole parish.”

All of it, thinks Sherlock, as he walks toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields, including the apothecary shop. Sigerson Bell owes him rent money, likely a great deal of it, more than he has, or ever will have. In less than a week, the boy’s savior will lose his dwellings and his livelihood with it. And Sherlock will be out on the streets with him.

It is a moiling Holmes who spots the Trafalgar Square Irregulars a short while later. They are gathered in front of their young chief in the shade under the trees inside the black iron fence of the big park at Lincoln’s Inn Fields – a quiet place amid the deafening noise and bustle of London. Malefactor sees him at a distance and cuts his speech short, motioning for his acolytes to step aside. Sherlock immediately spots the gang’s two omnipresent lieutenants: dark, talkative Grimsby and silent, blond Crew. He watches them warily. They are the nastiest of a nasty lot.

“Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”

The crime boss is just a little older and taller than Sherlock. As always, he is a presentation in ragged black, wearing his ever-present tailcoat, his black chimney-pot top hat, and carrying his crude stick. Sweat is glistening on his face, his coat is soaking wet.

“Malefactor,” says Sherlock steadily, searching the other’s eyes for lingering signs of disdain.

“To what pleasure do I owe this call? I sense another crime.”

“Perhaps.”

There is always a hint of competition between the two boys and Malefactor, the way a superior might, doesn’t appreciate Sherlock withholding anything from him.

“You had better keep your nose out of whatever you are contemplating,” he spits.

“I will tell you in time.”

Malefactor wants to hit him. But his curiosity gets the better of him. His regard for the boy, which he tries to hide, has indeed grown, though he would never ask the half-Jew to be part of his organization. Holmes would be an irregular among Irregulars, incapable of the subservience demanded. The young street lord sets aside his anger. He shall know what the boy is up to soon. If he isn’t told, he will find out.

But something stops their verbal duel in its tracks. Malefactor looks beyond Sherlock, over his shoulder. His face softens; a rare occurrence.

Sherlock turns.

Irene.

She is walking toward them, after stepping out of a carriage on the street at the far end of the big park. For a few minutes she is out alone in London, not safe behavior, but something this unusual girl has been courageous enough to try several times. A few beggars immediately start following her and a couple of men leer nearby. Malefactor snaps his fingers and three dirty Irregulars are dispatched across the park to her, sending the beggars flying and the men discreetly moving away.

She comes up to the little gathering, passes Sherlock without looking at him, and stands close to Malefactor. She is wearing a red silk dress with crinoline, no shawl, and a fancy bonnet. Her golden hair shines in the hot sun and, despite the absence of a parasol, not a drop of perspiration is evident on her face. One of her shoulders is almost touching the young criminal’s.

What is she doing, wonders Sherlock?

“It is a pleasure to see you,” she says to Malefactor, looking happy to see him. Irene Doyle is an excellent actor.

“It is?” returns the gang leader, sounding unsure.

“Irene, I don’t think you should –” begins Sherlock, but she cuts him off.

“You aren’t speaking to me, remember Master Holmes?” She lifts her dark eyes and glares at him.

“I am speaking to you,” retorts Sherlock, shifting his weight from foot to foot, thinking he should reach out and pull Irene away from the young thief. “I just don’t think we should –”