Malefactor’s attitude toward Sherlock has changed since he solved the Whitechapel murder. Before, despite a strange connection between the two, he had treated Sherlock with disdain, setting his dozen little Trafalgar Square Irregulars on him from time to time, teasing him, making references to his mongrel blood, sneering at his interest in criminals and the city’s celebrities. But since Rose Holmes’ death, since her son solved the murder, the young crime lord has left him alone, just watching, a look more like respect in his eyes.
Sherlock knows where to find him. The Irregulars will be gathering at a park called Lincoln’s Inn Fields, getting pick-pocketing instructions for the day, discussing the fencing of their latest stolen goods.
But not long after he starts out, Sherlock sees something shocking.
It’s Sigerson Bell. Though he had left the shop nearly five minutes earlier, he’s still barely down Denmark 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, no
t 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 –”
“That is fine with me.” Her voice breaks. She tugs on her sleeve, revealing several inches of her pretty wrist, apparently in order to scratch it. Malefactor stares at the enticing little stretch of soft skin.
“You two were conversing,” she says. “Don’t mind me.”
But Malefactor can’t speak, and Sherlock won’t. Irene decides to take the initiative.
“I am simply here to help this gentleman change his life,” she says, turning to the bigger boy by her side. “It is now a goal of mine. I am sure he will listen to me.”
“I shall,” says Malefactor. “Listening never hurt anyone.”
Now, Sherlock wants to strike him.
“I have been reading about all the robberies,” she continues, turning her back on Sherlock. “Seven major jobs in one month. They suspect a gang from south of the Thames, don’t they?”
She has always had some interest in crime, but mostly because of her father’s philanthropic ways; his desire to visit jails and help the unfortunate. But the interest she is expressing today sounds more personal.
“Yes,” responds the rogue, happy to show off his knowledge of the underworld. “The perpetrators are indeed from the other side of the river. From Brixton to be exact. Four of them, taking the city by storm. They’re skilled at sneaking into places and then disappearing. They are very clever and unconcerned about killing in order to make their getaways. The word is they are good with poisons. The police are offering an unprecedented reward … five hundred pounds.”
Several Irregulars whistle.
“Yes,” says Malefactor, “quite impressive.”
“I must go,” mutters Sherlock under his breath.
“You were saying?” smiles his opponent, regarding him, knowing that Holmes wanted information or he wouldn’t have come.
Sherlock pauses. He might as well ask.
“Do you know anything about crime in the circus world?”
“Ah,” grins Malefactor.
“Are there ever any planned accidents?”
The crime boss launches into his response, a smarmy self-confident look on his face. “Many show-business protégés are found on the streets, especially by those impresarios operating in the realm of dangerous performances. They are looking for children with nothing to lose. We’ve received inquiries. But the life I offer my boys is much safer … and more lucrative.”
Malefactor places his arms across his chest and sticks out his chin, his eyes sliding toward Irene to see if she is impressed.
“So there are ruthless sorts in that world?”
“Many.”
“I must go.”
“Then go,” says Irene, moving closer to Malefactor, actually touching him. “You keep saying you want to go, so go…. I’ll stay here.”
“Irene … I –”
“Go!” she says, raising her voice.
“We shall see her home,” smiles the other boy.
Sherlock turns and walks away, heading toward the Thames, but then he pauses and looks over his shoulder. He wants to call out to Irene and tell her to come with him. But he can’t. Malefactor is smiling at him.
“Perhaps one day the Force shall offer five hundred pounds for your head, Sherlock Holmes,” he calls.
“Or yours, Malefactor,” says Sherlock. But he isn’t thinking about his rival – just something that he said.
A reward. An idea comes into the boy’s brain.
THE FLYING BOY
Sherlock is considering committing a crime: the crime of extortion, in which you force someone to pay you money. His victim will be Inspector Lestrade.
What if I can prove to him that this trapeze accident was murder? he asks himself as he broils through the four-mile walk from Southwark to Sydenham. And what if I can discover who did it, and then not only withhold the evidence, but threaten to give it to the press first, unless I am handed a reward? It wouldn’t be for five hundred pounds. That’s only for upper-class villains. But it just might be enough to solve my problems … and Mr. Bell’s. He steps up his pace.
He knows the police won’t have moved any of the trapeze apparatus from the accident scene. That is routine when something like this happens. Though they suspect no foul play they must examine the area carefully. Everything will be exactly as it was when the incident occurred, or as close to it as possible, given the stampede of spectators afterwards.
When he arrives at the Crystal Palace, he blends with the growing throngs and sneaks through the front entrance at the top of the palatial stone steps. He checks the iron clock ticking inside the doors: just past noon.
The accident took place at the far end of the central transept, where events that need great space occur. Blondin once walked the high rope here above twenty thousand spectators, carrying a child on his back. The sun sparkles through the acres of curving glass ceiling, leaving flecks of light on the planked floor. The air is humid and heavy.
On his way down the transept, Sherlock notices his father, tidying up after having released the thousands of doves of peace at noon. Wilberforce Holmes doesn’t even live in the family’s old flat anymore. A Palace owner heard of his wife’s tragic death and offered him a room in one of his homes here in Sydenham. Wilber accepted the charity immediately. He is far from Sherlock now, both in spirit and place. He barely speaks these days, and just thinking of his son reminds him of what happened to his wife, so he tries not to. Their conversation yesterday had been stilted.
The boy stands still, watching his father for a moment, working industriously despite his sadness, his mind riveted on his job. Sherlock is thankful for that: Wilber Holmes will have peace, at least for a while. The boy still loves his brilliant father, the man with the wonderfully scientific brain – they are much alike both in appearance and mind.
Mr. Holmes seems to sense him, glances up … then looks away, pretending that he hasn’t seen his son. Soon, he turns his back. Sherlock wilts for a moment, but he understands. It must be this way. Maybe some day he can prove himself worthy to his father. Some time in the future everyone will know the name of Sherlock Holmes and Wilber will be proud. He can start this very minute.
Sherlock turns toward the crime scene and steels himself. The area where the trapeze artist fell has been cordoned off. A half dozen sweating Bobbies dressed in their heavy blue uniforms and black helmets, keep nosey people away.
Sherlock strolls past, pretending to be disinterested. None of the Peelers pay him the slightest attention, and yet he has a strange sensation of being watched. He looks way up at the trapeze apparatus: platforms, ropes, bars, all tied now and still. He’s often imagined what it would be like to be up there, actually flying, hearing the roar of the crowds. Leotard, Blondin, the Flying Farinis, the Mercures, are all like idols to him, as heroic as Britain’s warriors at the Battle of Waterloo. If his family had had the money to buy portraits of such daring stars, he would have filled a photograph album with them.
As he passes, Sherlock sees one of his heroes. He can’t believe his good fortune. It’s The Swallow or L’Hirondelle, Mercure’s dynamic flying son. Sherlock had seen the boy gazing down from the perch yesterday, a look of horror on his face. He seems collected now, tying up ropes at the base of a pole, tightening bolts, reaching into a sack for tools as h
e works. He wears a pair of checked brown trousers, the sleeveless top of his performing costume, a green felt hat with a feather tipped at a jaunty angle. His face is turned away, but surprisingly, given what happened to his father less than twenty-four hours before, he is whistling a merry tune.
Holmes glances back at the Bobbies. All of them are looking away, not vigilant in the tiring humidity. Again, he has the feeling he is being observed, though when he looks up and down the nearly empty hall, he can’t spot who it might be. He moves quickly toward The Swallow. Sherlock is not sure how to address this awe-inspiring performer, but he has more than just a rudimentary knowledge of the French language. In fact, his French grades, like his others, are always high – he can speak in the young artiste’s native tongue.
“Excusez-moi” he asks respectfully.
The boy abruptly stops whistling and turns. For an instant an expression of fear crosses his face. But it passes quickly.
“Are you addressin’ me?”
Sherlock can’t believe it. The Swallow has a cockney accent.
“Y-Yes,” is all he can sputter.
“Well I ain’t answerin’,” says the trapeze star and turns back to his job. Up close he looks no more than eleven or twelve years old, but he’s full of the regard for himself that starring on the flying trapeze in one of Europe’s great troupes would give anyone.
“I just wanted to express my sorrow at what happened to your father,” offers Sherlock.
“Weren’t me father. You’d better get away, boy.” The lad turns again as he speaks and gives Sherlock a hard look. “The Force won’t take kindly to yer snoopin’ about. ’alf a minute and they’ll remove you without warm regards.” He crosses his arms over his chest and his little biceps bulge.
Sherlock looks toward the Bobbies. They haven’t even glanced his way yet.
“Was there anyone who didn’t like your … Monsieur Mercure?”
Death in the Air Page 3