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
Sherlock 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.
“Master Holmes,” says Bell before the chimes of St. Giles strike five, “have you noted that you placed the bat urine in my extra hat, poured the strychnine poison into the flasks from which we drink, and threw the dust from the floors into a retort and placed it in the ice-box? Your mind, shall we say, is not exactly riveted upon your work.”
“Uh, no sir, it isn’t.”
“I am listening to the gods, and getting the message, foretelling as it were, that you would … like to go for a stroll. Have I erred?”
“No, sir.”
Moments later, he is out the door, racing for Montague Street. There was indeed only one person who knew he would pursue the Brixton Gang last night; only one who told him to follow a certain someone … only one who could have entrapped him.
Malefactor.
Was his rival’s intention murder? Would he actually have him killed?
It is time for a confrontation unlike any they have ever had. If Sherlock wants to succeed in this case, he has to make the young villain back off. Another trip like last night’s could be lethal. Tonight’s investigation must take place under perfect conditions.
He doubts that Malefactor will be anywhere he might be expected today. The snake will be avoiding him, will have slithered into one of his holes for a while. But Sherlock is guessing that he visits Montague Street almost daily whether he sees Irene at home or not – the crook finds the princess irresistible. Malefactor knows that Sherlock has taken a vow to stay away from the girl in order to protect her from danger. The young thief lord, therefore, won’t expect him to be on this very street. Sherlock has also promised that he won’t stand between Malefactor and Irene. But that doesn’t matter anymore – his rival is obviously not the man of honor he claims to be, something that Sherlock never should have believed in first place.