A DANGEROUS TRAIL
“I should like to go for a stroll, sir, if I may, beginning late this afternoon. I might not return for supper.”
Sigerson Bell knows what Sherlock means. And he isn’t happy about it. Seeking the Mercure solution is one thing, dealing with London’s murderous, reigning gang is entirely something else. He and the boy are sitting in the laboratory taking another of their unique bachelor breakfasts: tea and headcheese this time, the latter speared upon their scalpels.
The apothecary thinks for a moment. He adjusts his red fez on his stringy white hair.
“If you must do this, I shall only give you permission if you promise me that, whilst you are on your stroll, you will not approach anyone in the Brixton Gang or anyone connected with them without an officer of the law attending you.”
“I promise,” says Sherlock instantly.
“A promise involves one’s honor, my boy. To break it is disgraceful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may leave early then.”
Holmes is in The Seven Dials the instant he is set free. It doesn’t take him long to spot the stunted, one-eared boy. Dante is dressed in a ragged red shirt and red trousers and sports a bowler hat on his head. While Sherlock watches and swelters in his dark clothes in the oppressive afternoon heat, the boy snakes up and down the seven narrow streets that emanate from the middle of the Dials like spokes on a wheel. He speaks to several dozen people, often secretively exchanging small items for coins, looking about as he does. Sherlock sits on a rotting wooden bench, under a statue, pretending to read the Daily Telegraph. He shifts his gaze each time the boy goes down another little artery, observing him as though he were sitting in the center of a clock, his view the hands, and the boy various numbers. He could swear that the lad spots him several times, in fact looks right at him, almost as if to be sure that he is being observed. But the rascal never approaches him or attempts to fly away. The swarms of poor folk buzz about in their dull soot-stained clothing. In order to be inconspicuous, Sherlock twice gets up and leaves, but each time he returns to his watch, he easily spots the colorfully dressed boy, still making his rounds in the neighborhood. Eventually the lamplighters arrive and the sun begins to set.
Dante makes his move. In an instant Sherlock is off his bench and following. The one-eared boy darts down White Lion Street and heads through Covent Garden near the Opera House (where Sherlock used to crouch outside with his dear mother to listen to the swirling violins), and on like a thoroughbred rodent toward the river. He turns east at The Strand, apparently anxious to stay on the busiest streets, vanishing and materializing in the thick masses like an escape artist. He is making sure that no one is following. Or is he? At times it seems as though he is checking to be certain that Sherlock is on his trail.
They walk for what feels like an hour, and throughout the entire time Sherlock Holmes suspects that he is being followed too. If he is, it is expertly done, because every time he turns he cannot spot anyone in pursuit. Dante goes all the way to the old city, through it, and into the East End. It isn’t an area where Sherlock wants to be. It’s where Lillie Irving was murdered in the little lane north of Whitechapel Road, where he came several times to investigate her gruesome death – once with Irene, other times alone in the dead of night.
Working-class people, returning home, dominate the wide street. Jewish old-clothes salesmen who ply the trade his poor grandfather once pursued, trudge past with hats piled high on their heads, glancing at him with distant looks of recognition. He passes a street named Goulston, then sees Old Yard off to his left. That’s where it happened. He can’t even look that direction: remembering its narrow darkness, the poor children lying on its foot pavements, and the lane where all that blood …
Dante veers and Sherlock follows. At first he fears they are heading for Lime House, the area southeast of the Thames where the scariest parts of Mr. Dickens’ latest novel are set, where perhaps the roughest, most violent men in all of London live – those who make their living from the docks and the river. If he is indeed being led toward the haunt of the Brixton Gang, this area would be perfect. But Dante goes straight south instead, through poor residential neighborhoods with dirty little brick houses packed together along many small winding streets. This is a bad parish too, but Sherlock keeps his wits about him, ready in case he is pounced upon. He wishes he knew more about defending himself.
Several times, he thinks he loses the scurrying boy in the red clothes, but the lad keeps reappearing, far ahead on narrow cobblestone roadways like a tattered fox still in view of the hunt. Behind Sherlock, another hunter seems to keep following, but when Holmes looks again, no one is apparent. Soon they are at the London Docks, where giant British ships are built, or simply loaded. From here they make for Canada, India, the Orient – the world.
There isn’t much activity this time of the evening, just the sounds of a few men working, cursing, and grunting as they struggle with heavy cargo loads in the night.
Is this Dante’s destination? Could the Brixton Gang be holed up on a ship? Do they make their escapes by sea?
Ahead, the one-eared fox stops. He looks back. Sherlock ducks down behind a big wooden crate. He peers through its cracks and sees that someone has come out of the shadows and is approaching, a figure just a little taller, dressed in black, apparently wearing a frock coat and tattered top hat. They talk in hushed tones for a moment.
Sherlock wonders if this might actually be a member of the Brixton Gang. His heart rate increases. The sweat drips from his face to his clothes. He must get nearer. He needs to hear what they are saying, know exactly where his prey is lodged.
Just as he rises, the two figures part, moving in opposite directions. Quickly! Whom should he follow?
“I know someone who knows someone who knows whom you seek.” That’s what Malefactor had said.
He chooses the second figure.
This one moves even faster. At times Sherlock has to run. That means taking more chances. He glances back again to make sure that no one is pursuing, and sees shadows flitting about in the darkness, hears sounds – perhaps just the rustlings of the big cat-sized rats that live here. He presses on. Before long they are almost on the banks of the river.
Then the dark figure does something surprising. He rushes up to the doors of an octagonal, marble building. It is the entrance to the Thames Tunnel that runs under the brown river to industrial Rotherhithe on the south side. The world’s first underwater tunnel, it was a tourist attraction in the past, with shops down its descending stairs, along some of its thirteen-hundred-foot length, and up the ascent on the other side. But lately things haven’t been going welclass="underline" folks fear for their safety inside these days – the shops are not as numerous or respectable as they once were, thugs loiter in the vacated alcoves, robbing victims who dare to enter alone. A few months ago, it was purchased by a railroad company, and shut down this very week to investigate the laying of tracks.
Up ahead the dark young figure is doing something to the latch of one of the great doors with a knife of some sort. He toils for an instant and then slips inside. It seems foolhardy to approach. That boy has a weapon. And what if Sherlock has been spotted? This would be a perfect place for someone to wait in hiding, and attack him.