Death in the Air tbsh-2

by Shane Peacock

  “No!”

  It isn’t the other gang leader responding. Charon simply stands stock still, his mouth wide open. It’s Inspector Lestrade.

  “This is highly irregular!” he cries, staggering toward Sherlock.

  The boy speaks without looking at him. “Precisely! Irregularity is now in demand!”

  “The Force does not condone this!”

  “The Force is about to lose three-quarters of the Brixton Gang!”

  The crowd lets out a roar of approval.

  Standing on the boat, the evil Charon gives the order to start the steam launch’s engine. A deadly contest is afoot.

  Sherlock must make a decision. The boat is fewer than twenty yards away – all the players in this dramatic game of chicken can see the expressions on each others’ faces – they can all estimate one another’s resolution.

  Charon smiles.

  Sherlock hesitates … then decides.

  “Kill him!” he screams at the Bobbie holding Sutton.

  “Put the gun down!” warns Lestrade.

  “Kill him!!” repeats Sherlock.

  The policeman lowers his weapon.

  The men on the boat are about to push off, grins on their faces.

  Sherlock grabs the revolver out of the nervous Bobbie’s hand and jams it into the Sutton’s head again, grinding it into his temple.

  “Observe!” he screams at Charon.

  The leader on the steam launch turns and sees who now holds the weapon. He looks into the wild boy’s face and doesn’t see what he hopes for: the gray eyes are like steel, there is anger and retribution in them … absolute conviction … and a sort of greed. This lad will kill his friend right before his eyes.

  “The brain is like tomato aspic!” shouts the incensed youth at the fiend. “Should I unload this piece of steel into it at the velocity my weapon can summon … it shall rip his precious jelly apart!”

  “And I shall have you hanged for murder!” growls Lestrade.

  But Sherlock doesn’t even look at the senior detective, doesn’t care. He thinks of his dead mother, killed by a crook, of the victim of the Whitechapel murder, of Irene nearly crippled by another fiend, of Monsieur Mercure, of all the people these devils and others like them have hurt, indeed killed. He thinks of all the evil that is perpetrated by such villains every day, ravaged upon so many decent people by the few. He thinks of his reward.

  He cocks the revolver, digs it into the man’s ear, and addresses the boat.

  “This will be my pleasure!”

  But the bang doesn’t sound.

  “Hold it!” shouts the gang leader on the steam launch. His shoulders sag. He turns to the others and signals for them to return to shore. Soon they are all disembarking, hands held high.

  In the cobblestone lane, gathered in a huge semi-circle around the inferno and the unfolding drama near the water, a massive crowd of London’s citizens bursts into applause, whistles, and foot stomping. On the water, the night explodes with fog horns and exclamations of admiration.

  Sherlock Holmes looks around. For the first time in his memory, he feels a sense of pure happiness seep through him. It seems to almost reach his soul.

  WHERE CREDIT IS ALWAYS DUE

  Sherlock remains mute all the way back to Scotland Yard. It isn’t because others are insisting he stay silent. Indeed, Lestrade questions him aggressively as aggressively as he dares given the glowing admiration for this anonymous boy that was evident in the huge Rotherhithe crowd. What the senior detective really wants to do is grab the lad by the throat and throttle him, not only for his reckless, uncalled-for actions that may have made the Force look too violent in the eyes of some of the spectators, but also in order to shake the entire story of this mystifying robbery and murder out of him. Inspector Lestrade still has no idea how it transpired. All he knows is that the two crimes are apparently connected, that the entire Brixton Gang is suddenly in custody … that young Sherlock Holmes is about to get every ounce of the credit … and a five-hundred-pound reward.

  “I shall withdraw the offer of money … if you do not come clean!”

  But the boy knows that is hogwash. It isn’t time to speak yet. He is holding back his story and his emotions with an enormous effort of will.

  They move slowly on horseback to Scotland Yard, the reporter on a horse nearby, his presence a large factor in keeping the Inspector from thrashing the boy. Lestrade fumes as they trot onward.

  At the office, Sherlock sits down to explain, making sure the journalist is poised behind Lestrade’s desk with his ink bottle and pen at the ready. The detective and his son have their ears cocked, and the door tightly closed.

  Holmes commences to explain, starting from the very beginning, with his observation of the doctored trapeze bar, moving on to what he learned from and about The Swallow and the other two acrobats, how he eliminated them from suspicion, how he noticed that the inside of the vault could be viewed only from Mercure’s position, how he uncovered that the Brixton Gang knew The Swallow, met the guard, and then put a potion into his drink, how the whole thing was a devilishly clever crime of misdirection, secretly perpetrated by ruthless professionals while the attention of everyone in the Crystal Palace was directed elsewhere, a chaos created by their own handiwork.

  He does all this without once mentioning Malefactor. Their differences are between the two of them.

  Sherlock is almost done when a Bobbie knocks on the door. Lestrade motions to Holmes to keep quiet. He opens the door and the Peeler hands him a note. As he reads, a resplendent smile spreads across his face. It worries Sherlock.

  When the detective lifts his eyes from the page, he is glaring at the boy.

  “You,” Lestrade says gruffly, pointing a finger directly at him, “leave.”

  “But I haven’t finished the –”

  “Leave!”

  “With all due respect sir,” argues the reporter, pulling his glasses from his face to focus on the Inspector, “he must finish his narrative.”

  Lestrade steps toward him, the smile back on his lips. In fact, he is trying to contain it so he won’t burst into a laugh. He leans over the journalist and whispers into his ear. An expression of wonder comes over the bespectacled man’s face.

  “Say nothing,” says Lestrade, “or I shan’t take you with me.”

  In seconds Lestrade, the reporter, and two Bobbies are briskly leaving the police station and Sherlock Holmes is being shoved through the door. Outside, he is thrown onto the cobblestones. The London sky has begun to spit rain.

  “My reward!” he cries.

  The senior detective and the others climb into a police coach that has been brought up from the nearby stables, but the younger Lestrade hesitates to get in, standing near the fallen boy. He has a look of indecision on his face and moves to offer a hand and help Sherlock up.

  “Son!” shouts his father, leaning out the window, looking irritated. “Are you coming with us or not?”

  “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 T
imes 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 will return to the apothecary; learn Bellitsu, boxing, chemistry build his brain every day; he will try hard at school, prepare himself to some day enter a university … by any means. He will outsmart them all. He will continue his plan to turn himself into a crime-fighting machine unlike any England has ever seen. When he becomes a man, he himself will be a mystery. No one will know who he really is and where he came from. He will use whatever he must to fight evil … even evil itself.

  Irene Doyle is no shrinking violet. She has been taught independence and has a great inner strength. Her eyes harden too. She turns away from the good boy to the darker one … and slips her arm through his.

  But Sherlock doesn’t care anymore. He glares at all four of them.

  “This is just the beginning,” he vows. “Just the beginning.”

  He turns on his heels and stalks into the London day.

  The author wishes to thank Patrick Mannix and Motco Enterpises Ltd., U.K., ref: www.motco.com, for the use of their Edward Stanford’s Library Map of London and its suburbs, 1862.

  v3.0

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  Document creation date: 6.6.2012

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  Document authors :

  Shane Peacock

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