Death in the Air (3 page)

That is what makes this case so tempting.
No one
else knows.

He has little interest in telling the police. If he takes
this on, he will try to solve it himself, and then hand the Force his proof. This time, Inspector Lestrade and Scotland Yard wouldn’t be able to deny him his genius. The senior detective would have to admit that the boy had solved a dramatic crime, and know in his heart that the boy had unraveled two cases in just his thirteenth year. His usefulness would be obvious, and his career hopes, his impossible dream, enhanced.

But what does he really have to go on? Nothing. There isn’t anything to which he can apply his scientific method. He has a victim who, if he isn’t already dead, soon will be – unable to say another word about what happened in that terrifying moment high in the air. His most significant clue, the trapeze bar, will by now have been rendered useless, and his other – the man’s dying gasp – isn’t remotely helpful.
Silence … me
. It sounds like the statement of a shocked human being realizing that his life has come to a sudden halt:
Silence!
In a harrowing split second, Mercure was simply aware that he was entering the darkness that comes when you die.

Sherlock won’t tell Sigerson Bell anything, either. He won’t tell anyone … except maybe Malefactor. The boy crime lord and his little mob, with their extraordinary knowledge of the London underworld, may be useful.

But if Sherlock throws himself into this, takes this tantalizing chance and pursues another dangerous case with another violent perpetrator behind it, he will have to use every scrap of evidence and every bit of genius available to him. And the apothecary, with his marvelous, eccentric
brain, is very much a genius. There are questions the boy can pose to the old man without betraying his object.

He likes living with the crazy apothecary. In fact, he considers it a stroke of good fortune that he found him. When he first saw the notice on Bell’s door, he had been looking for a place to live in central London because he couldn’t go home anymore. He had been to see his traumatized father after his mother’s death and their conversation hadn’t gone well. Wilber could barely speak. He was dragging himself to work at the Palace and, though he wouldn’t say as much, he seemed to find it difficult to forgive Sherlock for drawing his mother into a situation that had cost her life. It seemed like Wilber wanted to be left alone. And so did Sherlock. The boy was trying to remove emotions, affection, and tenderness from his personality. He had “much to do.” He hoped to build a Frankenstein … himself.

Sigerson Bell was perfect: he didn’t ask the lad questions about his past, had an inventive, encyclopedic mind, a chemical laboratory, and human skeletons and organs like exhibits for a university anatomy course. The boy could disappear into this shop and re-create himself.

“Sherlock?” shouts a young voice. Sherlock hears someone crossing the street behind him.

He is near the Mint area in Southwark, not far from his old home over the hatter’s shop. He has left busy
Borough High Street and cut through the alleys away from their flat, trying to avoid his neighborhood. But just outside big ominous St. George’s Workhouse, an old acquaintance has spotted him.

“’aven’t seen you in ages,” she says, almost out of breath, rushing up as if she were aware that he might flee. There are beads of perspiration on her forehead.

It’s the hatter’s granddaughter. She is about his age with black hair and eyes, and pale skin, and she’s wearing a blue bonnet. She’s one of the few of his peers who ever speaks to him. She never teases him about his fancy old clothes, about his Anglo-Jewish heritage, nor does she resent his form-leading school grades – achieved despite poor attendance – or the fact that he seldom says much to those who try to talk with him. In fact, she actually appears to admire him, especially his remarkable intelligence and ability to size up other human beings at a glance.

“Beatrice,” he says without emotion, not looking at her, though she has stepped to within a foot of him. He wants to get moving. He straightens his coat, combs his hair into place with his fingers.

“I’m sorry about your mum, Sherlock,” she offers, taking another step forward, making sure she is in front of him on the pavement.

“Much obliged,” he answers softly and stops trying to move away.

“It was a mystery, ’er going all of a sudden like that.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, so she changes the subject.

“There’s been a fancy girl around ’ere, asking for you.”

“Her name is Irene Doyle, and she won’t come anymore. She knows I have new lodgings. She was just a passing acquaintance.”

It hurts Sherlock to say it out loud. Irene should have been much more than that. She is the most wonderful person he has ever met, but his involvement in the Whitechapel murder case almost got her killed. It would be terribly wrong to keep bringing her into danger – he must be strong about that. These days, he tries not to think of her. He had cut short their meeting at the Crystal Palace. She had been frequenting the hall, knowing he would come one day to see his father. Sherlock told her that he had other concerns in life these days and was too busy to spend any time with her. He’d nearly lost his composure and had to look away. There had been tears in her eyes.

Sherlock steps past Beatrice and starts walking, but the industrious girl turns and keeps pace, speaking with him as they move.

“You have new dwellings? Might I ask where? Are you working?”

“Over the river, and yes, I am.”

“You weren’t at school much before the summer began. You know, we girls see all you boys on the way up to your classroom. Are you going back next year? There’ll be entrance tests for every form, you know.”

“I’m studying.”

And he is. Though he only went to school a few times after his mother’s death, he has used the apothecary’s
remarkable library and his voluminous knowledge every day. He will write the tests and do well. Those shillings Bell gave him will help pay for the first month or so of schooling, but he’ll need more money soon. How he will get it, he doesn’t know. Perhaps the old man will give him more. Two months ago, Sherlock would have scoffed at the idea of ever going to university, but now he vows to get there. In fact, he must. He needs to know everything he can possibly know.

“Will you have cause, with your work, I mean, to visit this parish often?” She smiles at him, but he cuts off further questions.

“I’ll be over the river this summer. Not here. Good day.”

And with that he runs, not giving her a chance to keep up. Before long, he is back over Southwark Bridge and entering the apothecary’s shop. It is growing dark outside. He has pushed Beatrice, Irene, and even his father out of his mind.

He is thinking of the horrific fall of the trapeze star. Even as he questions whether or not he should be involved, a plan is forming in his head.
An examination of the crime scene would be an excellent start. Tomorrow. Couldn’t I just take a look?
But first he should speak to Sigerson Bell: he needs to know a few preliminary things and he’s certain the alchemist will have answers. Surely, there is no harm in asking.

MALEFACTOR REVISITED

S
igerson Bell has already been out to the streets and back by the time Sherlock Holmes rises the next morning. As usual, the boy is taking a long time to get himself ready He is standing in front of the cracked mirror in the shop, making sure every thread of his tattered clothes is in place, patting down his straight black hair over and over again.

“A spot of trouble at the Palace of the People’s Pleasure,” announces the old man as he swings into the chemical laboratory from the front room where customers are served, tapping his finger on the front page of the
Daily Telegraph
. Sherlock’s head snaps around.

The trapeze accident is in the news
. Sherlock wishes Bell took
The Illustrated News
, with its spectacular drawings of London crime and mayhem, or Sunday’s big-selling scandal sheet,
The News of the World
, but he can’t complain – he doesn’t have to search for newspapers in dustbins anymore – there’s one in the shop every day that is generously shared. The two often engage in discussions of front-page stories.

“Reading, my boy, what a sensation!” the apothecary exclaims, the sweat glistening on his upper lip. He says that almost daily. But Sherlock doesn’t mind. He wholeheartedly agrees.

Though Bell has his charge on a tight work schedule, he always gives him time to read. A massive library towers over the lab, rising in several dozen great teetering stacks, forming a wall inside the walls, placed in order by a particularly complicated decimal system that even Sherlock has yet to master. Each stack is like the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Italy, threatening to fall over at any moment, though none ever has. Not a day goes by without the old man pressing a new book upon his apprentice.

Sherlock eyes the newspaper greedily as Bell tucks it under his arm and then examines a particularly precarious pile of books. Approaching it stealthily, he reaches out, secures a thin volume and plucks it. They both wait breathlessly for the column to crash to the floor, but miraculously, it holds on.

“I am thinking that I shall teach you to read French. I am sure you have some rudimentary knowledge, but the best way is to just plunge right in. Here’s a book you shall like.”

Although Sherlock extends his hand to take the book, he keeps his eyes on the paper, tilting his head to see if he can read the headline, crunched in Bell’s armpit.

“
ALARMING ACCIDENT AT THE
” is all he can see.

“Thank you, sir.” He glances at the book.
Voyage au Centre de la Terre
.

“A thrilling piece of adventure literature by a Frenchman named Jules Verne.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Later, I shall teach you to read
The Divine Comedy
in Italian.
La Divina Comedia
. You get to descend into hell in that one.”

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes, Master Holmes?”

“Shall you be reading the paper first?”

Bell glances down at the
Daily Telegraph
. “Should we not break our fast before turning to the news?” He tilts the arm of one of his hanging skeletons upward and sets the newspaper in its hand.

Sherlock tries to rush the meal preparation along. As he wipes the tall, wooden lab table, which is used as often for digging into corpses and mixing chemicals as eating food. In fact, he sees traces of blood and poison as he cleans it this morning. He moves about, looking toward the skeleton, trying to read the whole headline. Finally, he makes it come fully into view.

“
ALARMING ACCIDENT AT THE CRYSTAL PALACE
”

Bell is bending over a pan, cooking sausages, and tending to the tea he is boiling in a flask, both on tripods over Bunsen lamps. Sherlock turns back to his task, racing back and forth from the counters to the table, grabbing mortars to use as bowls, and two scalpels for utensils. He sits down at the table, hoping this will speed up the process. Finally, the old man plops the meat into the bowls and
pours the tea. The newspaper is still clutched in the skeleton’s hand.

“Sir?”

“Yes, my boy?”

“Shall I retrieve the
Tely …
and read the front-page story out loud?”

Bell furrows his brow and looks suspicious.

“Shan’t we eat first? What is the hurry?”

“I shall read to you as we eat. It would be my pleasure.”

Sherlock has the paper in hand and is back at the table in an instant. He leans forward, sticking his eagle nose almost onto the sheet, consuming the story, but trying to read without emotion: