Death in the Air tbsh-2

by Shane Peacock

  “Give me something else,” the young boss says, eyeing Sherlock as if he were looking into him. The boy has the feeling that Malefactor is checking to see his reaction to the refusal, to see if it is giving anything away.

  Sherlock wonders what else he can possibly offer. He looks around the workhouse grounds and his eyes glance north momentarily toward Bloomsbury … Montague Street … and Irene Doyle. He must be dispassionate about this, thrust aside all his emotions … all his feelings.

  “I shall no longer stand between you and Irene. If you want her friendship, I shall not discourage her. I shall speak highly of the way you have helped me. And I shall give you any further information I gain about these villains.”

  Malefactor’s eyes narrow. Behind him, both Grimsby and Crew are shaking their heads. Would their boss really give up information about the dangerous Brixton Gang simply to impress a young lady? It would put them all in peril.

  “You would hand her over to the dark side?” inquiries Malefactor.

  “That is not how I would put it.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  The taller boy paces, his heavy, black boots crunching the bits of sand and gravel on the cobblestones. Then he stops and strolls over to Sherlock, coming to within a few inches of his face. His appearance is disconcerting: his face radiant in the dim gaslight, his eyes glowing as if he has an idea that thrills him. His minions gather closer to hear what he will say. But he speaks softly.

  “I know someone who knows someone who knows whom you seek. His name is Dante. He is stunted in growth … one of his ears was torn off in a tussle with a butcher’s boy at a dog-and-rat fight last year. You shall find him in The Seven Dials. Do not speak to him. Mention me at your immense peril. I wish you luck.”

  Malefactor’s face suddenly darkens. If there is such a thing as evil in an expression, it is there in his – his eyes are dead. A cold chill runs down Sherlock’s spine. He is seldom truly afraid of the other boy, but feels that way now. He finds himself speechless. He merely turns and walks away not looking back. Behind him, Grimsby is protesting and Malefactor is calming him. He soothes them all with a few words. Whatever he says makes them laugh. Sherlock can hear Grimsby’s malicious giggle above the others.

  He returns to the apothecary’s home still feeling frightened. Malefactor has put him onto a scent that may lead him right to the most brutal men in England. Why did the young criminal do it? And why with such relish?

  His employer is fast asleep, snoring so loudly up above that it almost shakes the building. Sherlock doesn’t try to wake him. He crawls into his bed in the chemical laboratory and leaves him in peace.

  A DANGEROUS TRAIL

  “I should like to go for a stroll, sir, if I may, beginning late this afternoon. I might not return for supper.”

  Sigerson Bell knows what Sherlock means. And he isn’t happy about it. Seeking the Mercure solution is one thing, dealing with London’s murderous, reigning gang is entirely something else. He and the boy are sitting in the laboratory taking another of their unique bachelor breakfasts: tea and headcheese this time, the latter speared upon their scalpels.

  The apothecary thinks for a moment. He adjusts his red fez on his stringy white hair.

  “If you must do this, I shall only give you permission if you promise me that, whilst you are on your stroll, you will not approach anyone in the Brixton Gang or anyone connected with them without an officer of the law attending you.”

  “I promise,” says Sherlock instantly.

  “A promise involves one’s honor, my boy. To break it is disgraceful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You may leave early then.”

  Holmes is in The Seven Dials the instant he is set free. It doesn’t take him long to spot the stunted, one-eared boy. Dante is dressed in a ragged red shirt and red trousers and sports a bowler hat on his head. While Sherlock watches and swelters in his dark clothes in the oppressive afternoon heat, the boy snakes up and down the seven narrow streets that emanate from the middle of the Dials like spokes on a wheel. He speaks to several dozen people, often secretively exchanging small items for coins, looking about as he does. Sherlock sits on a rotting wooden bench, under a statue, pretending to read the Daily Telegraph. He shifts his gaze each time the boy goes down another little artery, observing him as though he were sitting in the center of a clock, his view the hands, and the boy various numbers. He could swear that the lad spots him several times, in fact looks right at him, almost as if to be sure that he is being observed. But the rascal never approaches him or attempts to fly away. The swarms of poor folk buzz about in their dull soot-stained clothing. In order to be inconspicuous, Sherlock twice gets up and leaves, but each time he returns to his watch, he easily spots the colorfully dressed boy, still making his rounds in the neighborhood. Eventually the lamplighters arrive and the sun begins to set.

  Dante makes his move. In an instant Sherlock is off his bench and following. The one-eared boy darts down White Lion Street and heads through Covent Garden near the Opera House (where Sherlock used to crouch outside with his dear mother to listen to the swirling violins), and on like a thoroughbred rodent toward the river. He turns east at The Strand, apparently anxious to stay on the busiest streets, vanishing and materializing in the thick masses like an escape artist. He is making sure that no one is following. Or is he? At times it seems as though he is checking to be certain that Sherlock is on his trail.

  They walk for what feels like an hour, and throughout the entire time Sherlock Holmes suspects that he is being followed too. If he is, it is expertly done, because every time he turns he cannot spot anyone in pursuit. Dante goes all the way to the old city, through it, and into the East End. It isn’t an area where Sherlock wants to be. It’s where Lillie Irving was murdered in the little lane north of Whitechapel Road, where he came several times to investigate her gruesome death – once with Irene, other times alone in the dead of night.

  Working-class people, returning home, dominate the wide street. Jewish old-clothes salesmen who ply the trade his poor grandfather once pursued, trudge past with hats piled high on their heads, glancing at him with distant looks of recognition. He passes a street named Goulston, then sees Old Yard off to his left. That’s where it happened. He can’t even look that direction: remembering its narrow darkness, the poor children lying on its foot pavements, and the lane where all that blood …

  Dante veers and Sherlock follows. At first he fears they are heading for Lime House, the area southeast of the Thames where the scariest parts of Mr. Dickens’ latest novel are set, where perhaps the roughest, most violent men in all of London live – those who make their living from the docks and the river. If he is indeed being led toward the haunt of the Brixton Gang, this area would be perfect. But Dante goes straight south instead, through poor residential neighborhoods with dirty little brick houses packed together along many small winding streets. This is a bad parish too, but Sherlock keeps his wits about him, ready in case he is pounced upon. He wishes he knew more about defending himself.

  Several times, he thinks he loses the scurrying boy in the red clothes, but the lad keeps reappearing, far ahead on narrow cobblestone roadways like a tattered fox still in view of the hunt. Behind Sherlock, another hunter seems to keep following, but when Holmes looks again, no one is apparent. Soon they are at the London Docks, where giant British ships are built, or simply loaded. From here they make for Canada, India, the Orient – the world.

  There isn’t much activity this time of the evening, just the sounds of a few men working, cursing, and grunting as they struggle with heavy cargo loads in the night.

  Is this Dante’s destination? Could the Brixton Gang be holed up on a ship? Do they make their escapes by sea?

  Ahead, the one-eared fox stops. He looks back. Sherlock ducks down behind a big wooden crate. He peers through its cracks and sees that someone has come out of the shadows and is approaching, a figure just a little taller, dressed in black, apparently
wearing a frock coat and tattered top hat. They talk in hushed tones for a moment.

  Sherlock wonders if this might actually be a member of the Brixton Gang. His heart rate increases. The sweat drips from his face to his clothes. He must get nearer. He needs to hear what they are saying, know exactly where his prey is lodged.

  Just as he rises, the two figures part, moving in opposite directions. Quickly! Whom should he follow?

  “I know someone who knows someone who knows whom you seek.” That’s what Malefactor had said.

  He chooses the second figure.

  This one moves even faster. At times Sherlock has to run. That means taking more chances. He glances back again to make sure that no one is pursuing, and sees shadows flitting about in the darkness, hears sounds – perhaps just the rustlings of the big cat-sized rats that live here. He presses on. Before long they are almost on the banks of the river.

  Then the dark figure does something surprising. He rushes up to the doors of an octagonal, marble building. It is the entrance to the Thames Tunnel that runs under the brown river to industrial Rotherhithe on the south side. The world’s first underwater tunnel, it was a tourist attraction in the past, with shops down its descending stairs, along some of its thirteen-hundred-foot length, and up the ascent on the other side. But lately things haven’t been going well: folks fear for their safety inside these days – the shops are not as numerous or respectable as they once were, thugs loiter in the vacated alcoves, robbing victims who dare to enter alone. A few months ago, it was purchased by a railroad company, and shut down this very week to investigate the laying of tracks.

  Up ahead the dark young figure is doing something to the latch of one of the great doors with a knife of some sort. He toils for an instant and then slips inside. It seems foolhardy to approach. That boy has a weapon. And what if Sherlock has been spotted? This would be a perfect place for someone to wait in hiding, and attack him.

  Holmes crouches outside the building for a while, not knowing what to do. But he can’t wait for long. He has to decide. He thinks of Sigerson Bell sitting alone and distraught in Soho Square, of the five hundred pounds that would change their lives.

  Sherlock rises and approaches the door. It obviously had been locked, but then pried open and … left slightly ajar, just a crack, as if inviting him to follow.

  He grasps the door with a trembling hand … and opens it. It creaks. He slides in and drops to the floor. The sound of the door closing echoes in the big rotunda. But it’s the only sound he hears.

  There’s no one in here.

  He’s heard stories about this place being haunted – many men died when it was being built, buried under collapsing soil or horribly drowned in an inescapable underwater underworld.

  There are a few dim gaslights left on. The rotunda is impressive, at least fifty feet across, walls lined with deserted vendors’ stalls, a little ghost town of sorts. Across the round room sits a cage for the penny-ticket collector and a turnstile, abandoned too. Sherlock, with his long legs, steps over its iron spindles. In front of him is a set of steps leading downward. What awaits him in that hell below?

  His legs feel like jelly. He approaches the stairs nervously and starts down. At the bottom of this first flight another flight descends the opposite way, then another, and another. He is dropping deep below the River Thames. The air is hot and thick down here.

  Up above he hears a sound … like someone entering the building and walking across the rotunda!

  What if they have him in a trap, one brute in front and the other behind? It would be a perfect maneuver. No one goes after the Brixton Gang and comes out alive. Another terrifying thought passes through his mind. Is this Malefactor’s doing? Is this why he had that strange look on his face – the evil expression? Has he been drawing his rival in these last few days, setting him up for this? Sherlock remembers how quickly Malefactor’s words had calmed Grimsby how the bloodthirsty lieutenant had laughed. Malefactor is not to be trusted … he could easily want Sherlock dead.

  He turns to face whoever is coming down the stairs, but there are no footsteps anymore. Is it the ghost of the Thames Tunnel?

  He stands still near the bottom of the last flight, holding his breath. Still, no one comes out of the dimly lit space above. He reminds himself of the prey he is pursuing. He turns and scurries toward the tunnel.

  Before him is a dirty, gray-bricked archway about six or seven body lengths across with a high ceiling. In its heyday, its alcoves were filled with shops and other enticements, even ladies telling you your future by reading the palms of your hands. But today everything is dank and empty. Sherlock hesitates at the entrance – he can’t hear the dark-dressed boy anywhere, yet this must be where he went. It is pitch-black up ahead: Sherlock can’t see through to the other side. He takes a deep breath and starts to run, his footfalls echoing. The sounds reverberate and multiply. It seems to him that they are coming from up ahead too … and from behind. He stops suddenly, his chest heaving. The sounds continue to echo and then fade.

  BOOM BOOM … Boom Boom … boom boom.

  Silence.

  He is near the middle of the tunnel now and there is nothing but curving dark walls in the gloom around him and the only sounds are his own breathing. When he begins running again he hears those footfalls once more. He stops again. They stop.

  Is there someone up there? Behind?

  Several strides later the gloom turns to utter darkness. Sherlock stops running and walks carefully, his hands stretched out in front of him, into black.

  He feels something. A human face!

  He screams.

  It screams.

  “Who are you!!!” it shouts. It’s an old woman’s voice. His hand has gone into her mouth and feels her toothless gums.

  Sherlock pulls away and begins to run as hard as he can, his stomach burning, heart pounding, sprinting in complete darkness, not knowing if he will run face-forward into another vagrant human being, a wall, a ghost, or a murderer. But he doesn’t care; he has no choice but to move. It is a strange sensation, fleeing into nothing, as if there is no guidance in life, no God nor parents – nothing except blind fear. He wants there to be some form again, some idea of where he is going…. For some reason he prays for a sense of right and wrong.

  Eventually, the tunnel lightens a little and before long, he can see the dim way out at the far end. He heads for it like a racehorse seeing the finishing line at The Derby. He doesn’t even think about the boy he is pursuing – he just wants to get to the light.

  There is no one in the building at the other end, a near replica of the one on the north side. He climbs the marble steps carefully and quietly, his fear finally beginning to recede.

  The grand doors in the big rotunda are locked from the outside but open easily from inside. He steps out into the humid July London air and hears the sounds of the river – steamers chugging gently, men’s voices shouting in the distance. This is an industrial area, filled with factories, warehouses, and dominated by the Grand Surrey Docks. There aren’t many gaslights. There are few people about and any that are, will be tough characters indeed. The black-looking Thames, punctured here and there by its many wharves and gray stone stairs, is still and ominous. The Surrey Gas Works are behind him, a flour mill down at the water. The many pools, timber yards, and offices of the Docks surround him.

  Sherlock sees no one at first. Where has the dark figure with the knife gone? Does he really want to find him?

  But then he spots the lad, a few hundred yards away stepping out from behind the corner of a big brown building topped with a crowd of chimney stacks and marked with a huge dirty sign reading BEELZEBUB’S BISCUIT FACTORY. It is curious. Again, Sherlock has the sense that his prey actually showed himself on purpose, that he glanced back to make sure he was observable before he slithered away.

  Holmes follows. The boy heads up cobble-stoned Rotherhithe Street which runs next to the Thames, winding along the river’s Lower Pool in the direction of
Lime House, before it turns down the peninsula toward the Isle of Dogs. The very sound of those names frightens Sherlock. It is a witheringly dangerous area, absolutely fit for the likes of the Brixton Gang. He is descending into London’s darkest place.

  Sherlock can smell the big chemical works nearby, the filth and grease in the tanneries. He passes the Surrey Dock Tavern, and then the Queen’s Head Inn, containing the only signs of human life, with glowing windows in run-down wooden buildings, filled with drunken shrieks and laughter.

  Somewhere near here, thinks Sherlock, brutal Bill Sikes had been pursued by the Force, accidentally hanging himself on a rooftop in front of a bloodthirsty mob in Mr. Dickens’ frightening novel, Oliver Twist. That chapter had always scared the liver out of the boy, but he had loved it too…. He doesn’t now. He has no desire to meet a real-life ruffian like that. The reality of confronting the members of the Brixton Gang is looming in his imagination.

  The boy with the knife slows his pace. He is approaching the Whiting Asphalte Works, a grimy, sprawling factory with massive black smokestacks. Across from it sits a series of warehouses that look like they are falling down as they lean against one another, the whole lot about to crumble.

  Sherlock hears a sound behind him and turns to see a shadowy figure, obviously a boy, moving swiftly toward him along a narrow lane. He is caught; just as he feared; between the two lads in the night. He looks at the one with the knife and sees him turn back as if making his mind up about something. He, too, is coming in Sherlock’s direction. They are closing in on him. He can’t see either face. There is but one option: flee! He can only get away if he runs as hard as he possibly can, back the way he came, on Rotherhithe Street. If he doesn’t fly this instant, the boy coming up that lane will get to the street first and intercept him. He is sure the Brixton Gang is nearby, but he can’t stay a second longer: he must scramble for his life.