“Speed, you vermin! Speed!” spits Grimsby under his breath.
They are scurrying north-east, human rats on the run. Sherlock keeps low and stays on their trail, following them past a smelly brewery, a church, a school, and then the hospital near the Bloomsbury and St. Giles Workhouse. They are heading to a spot in a poor neighborhood … not far from where Irene Doyle lives in the more genteel Bloomsbury area, a fact not lost on Sherlock.
They turn up Drury Lane and slither down a little mews that leads right onto the workhouse grounds. This dark “house,” one of many feared by the poor, who are put in these places when they can no longer survive on their own, is a big, granite building. It is silent now, its desperate, ill-nourished inmates asleep, or tossing and turning on their hard little beds.
Sherlock sees Malefactor instantly. He always stands out from his gang. He is leaning against the cool, stone workhouse wall in his tailcoat and top hat, twirling his walking stick in anticipation of Grimsby’s return. When he spots Sherlock, he scowls angrily at his lead lieutenant, who, as the mob’s thief extraordinaire, should have known that he was being followed. The young boss turns to the other, smaller thief, knocks the gentleman’s rich garments from his hands, and drives the end of his cane deep into the little boy’s ribs, eliciting a shriek of pain. Somehow the lad ducks the ensuing blow, directed at his cheekbone. Malefactor pivots and glares at Grimsby again, who slinks away into the shadows, looking daggers at Holmes. The gang’s other lieutenant: blond, silent Crew, grins nearby.
“Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive,” Malefactor growls, his dark, sunken eyes turning to the boy, trying not to betray his anger. “I see you have returned to my presence.” There is an undertone of interest in his voice, as if he had hoped that Sherlock would come back some time.
“Intriguing location,” says Holmes, looking about. “Bloomsbury is to your taste these days?”
“Unquestionably,” smiles Malefactor.
“I –”
“She often comes to see me.”
“Who?” asks Sherlock.
Malefactor merely snorts.
There is a long silence. The criminal knows why Sherlock is here and is forcing him to speak first, shaming him. He examines his fingernails.
“I …” begins Sherlock.
“Yes?”
“I need some information.”
“Let me quote you, Master Holmes, upon the occasion of your last interview with me. ‘ I don’t need help from the likes of you anymore.’ It was said with some mustard in your tone. I believe I have that correct, do I not?”
Sherlock hates this, but he must endure it. At first he doesn’t reply.
“Do I not?” repeats Malefactor.
“Yes.”
“I did not hear you.” He is cupping an ear in one of his white-gloved hands.
“Yes!”
“Thank you. Now, what brings you here? For what, specifically, are you groveling now?”
“I am after the Brixton Gang.”
Malefactor says nothing at first. Then he laughs so loudly that it seems he may wake all the inmates of the Bloomsbury and St. Giles Workhouse. And almost instantly there is a chorus joining in, lead by Grimsby and the others – Crew, as usual is mute, though his smile, visible in the shadows, is cheek-splitting.
“I know they killed Monsieur Mercure!” shouts Sherlock.
It brings the laughter to a halt.
“Perhaps you should announce that on the top of Nelson’s Column at Trafalgar Square,” says Malefactor quietly. “Even if it isn’t a fiction, keep your gob shut about it!”
“It is true. And I intend to lay my hands upon them and bring them to justice for it.”
The crime boss looks at him closely saying nothing.
“They planned his murder,” continues Sherlock through his teeth, “and robbed The Crystal Palace of one hundred thousand pounds simultaneously, in a crime of misdirection. They took the money from the vault and left a locked room behind.”
Crew takes a coin from his pocket, places it in the palm of his hand, showing it to the other boys. He points at the coin, closes his hand over it, then opens the palm to reveal that it is empty. In a smooth move, he swirls the other hand in front of his chest and opens it … revealing the coin.
“Misdirection,” mutters Grimsby.
Sherlock ignores both of them. “If it helps me get what I want,” he offers, “I shall tell you exactly how they did it.”
Malefactor appears to be considering this. Information is, to him, like gold, especially information about the activities of other members of the criminal world. He understands that Sherlock wants to exchange it for something. His eyes shift about as he thinks. A chess game has begun. This time, he intends to win.
“No thank you,” he responds.
The boy finds this surprising. And Malefactor has a strange look too, a sort of poker-face set on his features, as if he were trying to keep his thoughts concealed. What is he thinking? Why did he refuse?
“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.