Death in the Air (20 page)

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.

He takes to his heels at top speed, churning up the distance, shoes whacking the cobblestones. If either of these two roughs catch him, they will surely kill him.

Sherlock darts past the lane, not even looking toward the boy, and is gone. He doesn’t bother with the tunnel and runs until he gets all the way to London Bridge. He scrambles along its old stone surface without breaking stride. He thinks he can feel at least one pursuer close behind, but can’t take time to look. Back in the City proper on the north side, he follows every small artery he can, winding and swerving his way through central London. It is a long trip, but even when he finally nears Bell’s dwelling, his pursuer isn’t shaken. Sherlock scoots along the footpath near the buildings on Denmark Street and then pauses outside the shop door, hears footsteps nearing, and runs again. Deep in The Seven Dials he finds an alley where he can hide.

Many hours later, as the sun is rising, he makes his way back to the apothecary. As he enters the front part of the shop, fear fills his stomach like a vat of chemicals dumped from a boiling cauldron. The lights are on in the laboratory but there is no sound …
absolutely
none. It is an eerie silence. Thinking about how he had stupidly led whomever was pursuing him right to the very door of his old friend’s home and about his dear mother’s death, he rushes into the lab, his heart pounding.

Sigerson Bell is lying on the floor. And he isn’t moving.

SUSPECTING MALEFACTOR

S
herlock drops to his knees and collapses beside the old man. He is numb. Life is over for him. Why had he believed that he, a poor half-Jew, a child really, could gain this reward, battle evil … make a difference in the world?

Then he hears a noise beside him.

It sounds like someone getting to his feet.

“My boy?” asks Sigerson Bell. “Are you not well?”

“W-what?” stammers Sherlock, rolling onto his side and looking out of a teary eye. He sees the old man gazing down at him, trying to place his fez back on his head, a little wobbly on his legs, but very much alive, an expression of concern on his face. He is holding a damp handkerchief in one hand, and it smells.

“I thought you were … were …” says Sherlock.

“What?”

“Were …”

“A dinosaur? A dog with seven legs? An extremely handsome man for my age? What?”

“Dead.”

“Dead!” shouts Bell, looking momentarily petrified. “I don’t think so.” He feels his heart, his jugular artery, his rear end. “Oh … oh … I see,” he exclaims, glancing down at the spot where he had been lying motionless on the floor.

“It was an experiment,” he explains sheepishly.

Sigerson Bell likes to take his own medicine, as it were.

“I have been fascinated for some time, as you know,” he continues, “with the effects of chloroform on the nervous system of Homo sapiens. Dr. John Snow, the esteemed physician to the queen and perspicacious seer into the true cause of typhoid and consumption and the like, uses it during every child-birthing he attends. One pours it on a cloth and holds it to the nasal apertures. Women experience no pain whatsoever, even though God decrees they must in Genesis … which is hogwash!”

Sherlock sits up on the floor.

“You gave yourself … chloroform? How much?”

Bell looks guiltily down at the rag.

“A substantial amount, I fear, my boy. Wanted to see what it felt like firsthand. It is a good thing to know. I wonder how long I was unconscious? It felt disturbingly good, I must confess. One could even grow to like it.” He arrests his smile and scowls at his listener. “Addiction, my boy, is an evil thing!”

Sherlock leaps to his feet and hugs the old man who responds by growing as stiff as the knifeboards on the top of the city’s omnibuses. Then he gently pats the lad on the back.

“Come, come, now Master Holmes, I am fine. And I am glad to see that you are too. You did not return at all last night.” He wags a finger at the boy.

“No, I didn’t, sir.”

“Where you in Brixton?”

“No sir, Rotherhithe.”

Sigerson Bell looks shocked. It certainly isn’t the sort of neighborhood he would advise young Sherlock Holmes to frequent.

“Well, I am not pleased about this, not at all.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“Were you accompanied by an officer of the law?”

“I didn’t draw close, sir, I promise. I merely investigated.”

The old man regards the lad for a moment.

“I shan’t pursue the significance of the word
merely
nor the past tense of
investigate
as employed upon your lips just now. But I shall caution you to be careful. Should you go again … the Force should be with you!”

Sherlock nods, two fingers on his right hand crossed behind his back.

Lord Redhorns had given the apothecary four days. The boy hadn’t told the old man. Bell is aware that an ax is about to come down upon his neck, but he isn’t exactly sure when. Sherlock knows: there are just forty-eight hours left.

He must go back to Rotherhithe tonight. And he must
go
completely
alone. All he needs to do is confirm where the Brixton Gang is holed up, just see them with his own two eyes. Then he can make his way quickly to Scotland Yard in Whitehall and tell the authorities. But there will be conditions asked of the police: he will reveal nothing to them until they all get to Rotherhithe. He will demand that a member of the press accompany them – he doubts Lestrade will be able to refuse even this. No one, not the senior detective or anyone else, will take the credit due Sherlock this time. No one will be able to deny him his reward.

But first, he must make sure that he isn’t followed. That is of paramount importance.

He tries to sleep a little in his wardrobe but can’t. His mind is racing. He must get moving. But first, he has to tend to his chores.