There is a brief pause. Sherlock is reluctant to ask about it. But his rival will make him. The young master thief is greatly enjoying the attentions of Irene Doyle these days and having something important to tell Sherlock about this case, something the boy is anxious to know, just adds to his fun. He grins at Holmes, waiting for him to grovel, to beg to know what he knows.
What could this criminal, an expert among thieves and murderers, know about one of London’s greatest young trapeze stars?
“What is it?” the boy detective finally inquires brusquely.
“He was born and spent his early days in Brixton.”
Sherlock grins.
“Oh really?”
“Really,” says Malefactor, examining his fingernails. “You seem unimpressed.”
“Because I discovered that fact long ago.” It is only partly a lie. He begins to examine his own nails, then notices and stops. He straightens his hair, notices that too, and puts his hands at his side.
“I was just getting started, Master Genius.” Malefactor looks daggers at him and smoothes out his precious tailcoat. “But given your attitude, I don’t think I shall go on. Suffice it to say that you should be aware of more than just the simple whereabouts of Master Swallow’s early years. Rather, you should consider its significance. I shall tell you nothing more. I have said too much as it is, anyway.”
“That is fine with me,” snaps Sherlock. “I don’t need help from the likes of you anymore. I suggest you go back to stealing.”
“While you seek justice and do what is right for the British Empire?” growls Malefactor.
“I shall do the first part, anyway.”
“You are no better than me. There is none of us any better than the other.”
“I beg to differ.”
“There are no such things as good and evil. There are simply human machinations: people trying to survive and thrive. I learned that long ago.”
Sherlock has deduced a great deal about the other boy since he first met him last year: from things he has said, from that precious, once-luxurious tailcoat that he cleans almost daily. This boy was once in much better circumstances, perhaps in Ireland. He has suffered a great fall. Someone caused it. He has about him the mental wherewithal to be much more than he is – he’s been well educated and taught social graces.
But Sherlock and his family fell too – his mother from a mighty height – and he has chosen to seek good while Malefactor hasn’t. They both came to a crossroads in life and made their choices.
“I am someone whose morals you profess to abhor,” hisses Malefactor. “Yet you use me to get what you want.” He is seething, barely restraining himself. “And you will continue to try to use me as long as you get something from it! As long as it helps you become something greater than you are, makes you feel like someone special … the great detective!”
“I –”
“You cannot deny it!”
A middle-class couple, dressed up to look as upper-class as they can in matching blue silk dress with crinoline and navy bonnet, and black frock coat and blue waistcoat with tall top hat, are passing on St. Martin’s Lane near the church beyond the mews. They stop for an instant and look down the narrow alley toward the two tall boys dressed in their worn outfits. The couple quickly moves on.
“You would use evil to make good,” snarls Malefactor.
“That is nonsense.” Sherlock swallows and tries not to look away from his opponent.
“But it seems … that I have the girl.”
There is silence. Their big heads are close and, neither blinking, they look into each other’s gray eyes. When Sherlock speaks, a dab of spittle flies out of his mouth and lands on Malefactor’s cheek.
“I don’t need her … or you.”
And with that he turns and stomps down the mews without looking back, heading toward his Denmark Street lodgings.
“The Swallow pretends that he is reformed! No one reforms!” shouts the young criminal after him. Then he smiles, thinking of the seed he has sewn in Holmes’ mind. In an instant he is heading south to find his gang.
Sherlock holds his hands over his ears as he marches away. He is trying not to think of what Malefactor said and why he said it, or what he means by … He stops himself and tries to shift his mind to other things.
He runs angrily through the early morning crowds, amidst the noise of London: the roll of iron wheels and the clap of horses’ hooves on stones, shouts of people wanting and needing things; that admixture of colors, of gentlemen and ladies and beggars and singing vendors. He swings away from the dangerous little streets of The Seven Dials, thinking about good and evil, imagining the desperate folks who congregate there, some bad people indeed, others simply half-clothed and needy. He thinks of the strange alloy of buildings on Endell Street on the Dials’ east side: another massive workhouse for those who have fallen, side by side with a hospital. Good and bad together there too. It’s that way all over London. Desperation is here in St. Giles, but just north above Oxford Street, the rich float through life. It is said that if you want to see poverty in the city, just cross the street; if you want luxury cross back.
“Watch it, blackguard!” shouts a crazy, old toothless woman with dead flowers in her hand, which she is trying to sell. Sherlock had dodged a smelly cart pushed by a cheesemonger and nearly knocked her down.
He tries to shut off his mind and focus on getting home quickly. The corner of Crown and Denmark streets is just seconds away. But Malefactor’s words keep intruding.
What game is that rat playing? Why did he say that about The Swallow? What does he mean? Sherlock can’t stop himself. What significance can there be to the boy being born and raised in Brixton?
He turns the corner and sees the bulging latticed windows on the front of the apothecary’s ancient shop down the street, its brightly colored bottles on display. But the cobwebs obscure them, visible from a long distance – he must clean that up.
He has been longer than he intended. How will he explain this? He approaches the shop and reaches out for the door latch.
Boom!
An explosion sounds at the back, rattling the windows. Sherlock rushes across the reception room’s wooden floor and enters the laboratory.
“My boy!” shouts the stooped old man. His face is blackened and his long hair sticks straight out in places, but there’s a smile on his face.
“Are you injured, sir?”
“Why, no. I expected a concussion, but not quite what ensued.”
Sherlock looks down at the shards of a shattered flask gathered around the Bunsen Lamp on the examining table.
“Methane, acquired from the private area of a cow, held tightly in a flask also containing various chemicals and liquids. I ignited it all … and you see the combustible result. Tells me things I need to know about various properties, though.”
The apothecary turns to wash his face in the sink. Sherlock surveys the lab. Breakfast is done – his clean mortar and the tea flask sit farther down the table.
“I went out for a morning stroll.”
“Did you, now. A long one, I should think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather a departure for you, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wanted air … isn’t that what you said last night too?”
“I …”
“I was just about to perambulate myself.”
As the old man reaches for his bright-green, tweed frock coat, Sherlock rushes over to help him into it.
“I shan’t ask you more about where you went. I am simply pleased you are here. I have outings with three more ladies today.” He places his fez hat at an angle on his head. There’s another smile on his face – it betrays nothing. He leans forward.