Death in the Air (2 page)

In mid-May he had been a broken, weeping thirteen-year-old boy, lying in a rain-soaked alley inside a dark city rookery called The Seven Dials. When his mother had died he had momentarily convinced himself that he could go on. But then he had collapsed. For three days, he had been without food or drink, getting little sleep, immobile on hard cobblestones, smelling the overflowing sewers and the rotting offal around him.

But on the fourth day he had risen.

With her dying breath, Rose Holmes had told him
that he had much to do in life. He knew she was right. It had taken those three days to truly believe her.

There was a reason to go on living and he started at that moment. He had the brains, the street connections, and the desire to help bring justice to the world around him. If he began immediately, worked every day without pause, he might, by the time he was an adult, be rebuilt into a crime-solving machine. He would be a new sort of London detective, the scourge of every villain: not just to the one who had taken Rose’s life and swung from a rope outside Newgate Prison last week, his neck snapped solely due to evidence Sherlock’s own daring had produced. The boy’s involvement in the Whitechapel murder had drawn his mother into the killer’s lair and the evil inside the villain’s heart had slain her. He would never forgive or forget.

But several times over the last month he has broken down and descended into black depressions. He misses his mother terribly and wishes he had his father back. How can he, half-breed, poverty-stricken Sherlock Holmes, aspire to the heights he harbors in his mind? Involving himself in this trapeze incident would be a mistake, just as sticking his big nose into the Whitechapel case had been. Some day he will be capable of such endeavors, but it doesn’t make sense now – it is far too dangerous. He had better just tell the police what he knows, let them take the credit if they must.

And yet … an opportunity is before him.

He thinks of his mother again. He made her an unbreakable vow.

THE STRANGE MAN IN THE LABORATORY

O
ld Sigerson Bell isn’t really waiting for Sherlock. At least he’d never admit it. But he’s grown fond of the boy. He has given him the afternoon off and misses him terribly. He polishes his three statues of Hermes, fusses with his two gaslights, pulls his pocket watch out of his worn silk smoking jacket, and glances toward his door. It has been a month since the lad first rapped the knocker against his big, wooden entrance in the night, smelling even worse than the miasmatic London air. He was soaking wet from the pouring rain of a crashing thunderstorm and was dressed in the most tattered frock coat, waistcoat, and necktie Bell had ever seen – all arranged as neatly as the boy could manage. Had it not been so pitiable, it would have made one smile. Sherlock’s gray eyes were intense below his black hair, and his hawk-like nose almost seemed to sniff the aging apothecary and his dwelling, looking for answers. In his hands was a drenched piece of paper: the old man’s notice, which had fallen off the outside of the arched, shop door in the violent downpour.

It had taken Bell some time to respond to the knock, and when he arrived he didn’t unbolt the door, but simply drew back its sliding peep-hole with a snap.

“Speak!” he demanded.

“It says on this notice that you are looking for an apprentice?”

Only the old man’s big, bulb-tipped nose was visible through the opening. The lad’s eyes were almost even with his.

“No, it does not.” The peep-hole slammed shut again.

The boy kept pounding. Bell finally returned in a huff

“If you don’t clear off, I’ll …”

“I
need
this position, sir.”

The old man examined the intruder this time, noticed his teeth chattering and saw him wipe the rain from his prominent brow. His words were enunciated clearly, like someone of breeding, and there was a remarkable earnestness in his voice. And yet, he was dressed in such rags.

“If you observe closely, reading from top to bottom and left to right, as one does in the western hemisphere, you shall see that I require a ‘partner/investor’ foremost, then, in small print at the bottom of the page, an ‘apprentice,’ the position to which you refer. One is contingent upon acquiring the other. Good day.”

“I shall work for free!” barked Sherlock.

The peep-hole had stopped in mid-slam.

Sigerson Trismegistus Bell smiles in recollection. He doesn’t really need an apprentice. He is too aged for that. The number of patients he sees is dwindling. He mostly gives advice now to the few who will have him. He’s always had what others consider crazy ideas about health anyway: that colds and influenza, typhoid and tuberculosis, do not come from bad air, but from things like microscopic bugs – germs and bacteria, carried in London’s putrid river water and in the human body. He has known that for many years, but others don’t believe him – even now, when men like the Frenchman Pasteur and the queen’s physician, John Snow, are writing about it.

Along with his advice, Bell dispenses medicines to his patients: herbs, tonics, carbolic acid mixtures for infections, pinches of arsenic and other alloys of poisons and chemicals. But he’s more than a medical man. He’s a scientist, an alchemist: a wizard in search of magical solutions and gold. As he grows older, he seems to grow stranger.

He lives in the middle of foggy, dun-colored central London, on Denmark Street near where the rookeries of St. Giles and The Seven Dials meet Charing Cross Road and lead to seedy Soho. This little cobblestone artery is so narrow that its old, three-storey buildings block out the sun at street level, making it dark and frightening. There are gangs in the neighborhood and the old man must look out for himself.

He is remarkable to behold. Stooped, his body is arched like the top of a question mark; his white hair and goatee long and stringy, his violet eyes active, glasses on the tip of his always-perspiring nose, and a square red fez on his big head.
His high-pitched voice is often hoarse from talking, usually to himself. “What is wrong with enjoying a chat with an intelligent person?” he likes to ask with a twinkle.

But his smelly shop, his livelihood, is in greater disarray than it appears. His advertisement still hasn’t drawn the partner he desperately requires. He knew his chances were slim when he first posted it. There’d be criminals looking to get inside his place or sons of working-class men with rough educations and dreams of medical careers, who would sneak with trepidation into his neck of London, take one glance at him and his laboratory, the human skeletons hanging about, the fresh organs in jars he’d purchased from unregulated gravediggers … and run.

The boy’s presence is some consolation. Almost the minute he came dripping into the shop, he began to fascinate the old man: skeletal, from the streets, but possessing a brain that sparkles and a reluctant tongue that, once employed, can say marvelous things. He is a boy full of mystery, with a great sadness in his soul, but resolution in his voice, who can stay right with the apothecary, no matter the weight of the subjects he broaches. Every time Bell speaks of his scientific discoveries, Sherlock Holmes listens as if he were a tracking hound.

“Eureka!” the alchemist had screamed at the top of his lungs a few weeks ago, dropping a test tube deep into the mess of a cadaver’s guts. “I have isolated a characteristic in the blood of this corpse! Do you know what this means?”

It had been a rhetorical question – Bell had forgotten that he was no longer alone in the shop.

“Yes, I do,” said a fascinated voice right behind him.

Bell had started so badly that he knocked the body off the table, depositing it and various organs on the floor: the pancreas went
splat
near his boot, the gall bladder wobbled away. The boy was not only in the room, but peering over the scientist’s shoulder.

“Some day we will be able to identify individuals by blood types,” said Sherlock.

Bell smiles again. He recalls how just a few days after that, he had held forth on his belief that he could diagnose diseases just by looking at patients, that he could tell almost anything about others by simply observing them. The lad had sat up like a Jack Russell terrier and taken a deep interest, almost as if he were being told something that he too deeply believed.

If the boy
, thinks the apothecary,
will continue to work for just room and board, and remains willing to be about the shop when I am out, and brave enough to keep the street Arabs from breaking in and stealing my chemicals, I shall keep him … for now
.

It is nice to have someone to make his tea, fix his dinner, and talk. He has few friends. When he was younger that hadn’t mattered much.

That sad thought turns his mind toward his teetering financial situation, but he sends it flying with a wave of his hands. “Out with you!” he cries. Sigerson Bell never speaks of such evils, even to himself. He seems, to everyone, including Sherlock Holmes, a jovial man. If truth be told, good humor comes naturally to him. One might say
that optimism, hand in hand with alchemy, is almost his religion.

The night Sherlock arrived, Bell removed some dusty clothes from a big wardrobe in his laboratory and fixed a cot for the lad in there. He even paid him once – two dirty shillings from the shop’s near-empty iron strongbox – and became, in the face of his rapidly oncoming demise,
truly
happier than he had been in months.

The boy who has brightened his life isn’t anywhere near the dwelling in Denmark Street yet. He has other things on his mind. Sherlock is walking five miles back into central London from the Crystal Palace and taking his time, thinking about what he has just observed there, amidst the screams and chaos. It seems incredible.

Monsieur Mercure will surely die. And the boy knows something that
no one
else knows. It was murder.

The smells of sweltering south London, industrial smoke and chemicals and wastes mixing with the refuse of the city’s thousands of horses and its coal and gas, begin to fill his nostrils. The numbers of people have increased as he’s made his way out of the country into the suburbs and now onto the busy foot pavements at the round “circus” roadway of Elephant and Castle. Red omnibuses appear on the circle, plastered with advertisements, brimming with Londoners. The streets are brown, the gentlemen’s clothing black, the thick air yellow, and everything is punctuated
with the color of blood: red bricks, ladies’ bonnets, pillar boxes, and shop canopies. Soon the street vendors will be everywhere, their inventive cries cutting through the rumble of iron-wheeled carriages. The poor will grow in numbers too, the beggars will even beg from him. The injustices of London are about to surround him again.

“Icebox ice! At the right price!” shouts an anxious iceman, his thick cart dripping, the back of his thin, soiled coat soaked through with sweat. The city is as hot as Hades today, and growing hotter. Even the rats are keeping to the shade.

But Sherlock isn’t thinking about the heat.

As he stops at a rusty public pump and waits his turn to dip his necktie in the lukewarm river water, he is seeing the evidence again, just as surely as if he were back at the Palace: a trapeze bar broken at both ends, weakened by two evident cuts in the wood. They were expertly done, calculated to cause the bar to snap when the full weight of the star was applied to it in mid-air. But the police, he is wagering, will deem this an accident. The huge crowd that gathered, bloodthirsty as always at such dangerous performances, will have stepped all over the clue, marked it, splintered it more, destroying the telltale signs … signs that the police were not likely looking for to begin with. Why would anyone assume that a fall from a “flying” trapeze, as this new performing art is called, was murder?