Sherlock hides himself behind the stone steps that lead to an unused door on the east side of the Museum. He is completely hidden and yet commands a view of the Doyle home across the street. He gazes over at the long windows behind the flower boxes. Figures move inside. A slim, golden-haired one makes Sherlock sad … so he exerts all his energy and deadens the feeling.
It doesn’t take long for the street fiends to make their appearance. First to materialize is Grimsby Sherlock spies him instantly from his vantage point: only the rascal’s head and neck are in view, topped by his crushed-in black bowler. He bends around the corner by a gas-lamp, seeing if the coast is clear. The nasty little head vanishes, then pops out again. Within a few seconds, three figures turn up the street, Grimsby and Crew and their boss. The two ruffians look like royal guards escorting their criminal king. Malefactor obviously doesn’t trust any other members of the Irregulars to accompany him near Irene’s house; no one else is allowed to know that he has any tender feelings, that he needs a friend, an angel. They cross the street so they won’t pass directly in front of her home and head up the foot pavement … toward Sherlock. They are all acting nonchalant, but their leader glances over at the Doyle home every few strides to see if he might catch a glimpse of her.
Sherlock coils himself into a ball and presses his back against the steps. He is a good ten feet from the road, behind a wrought-iron fence and open gate, mostly out of view.
The three scoundrels pass.
Sherlock stands and follows them. He says nothing. It is almost comical. But suddenly the three in front stop.
“Sherlock Holmes, I perceive,” says Malefactor in a deadened tone without turning around. Then he pivots and walks back down the street, passing Holmes without even looking at him. There is nothing remotely like guilt on his face. Once past, he picks up his pace.
“You have some explaining to do!” shouts Sherlock, the anger he has been holding back beginning to rise.
Instantly, he feels a sharp pain in the back of his legs and falls face forward onto the footpath, losing most of the air in his lungs and almost smashing his teeth into the hard surface. Grimsby’s shoulder has taken him down as surely as it floored that drunken gentleman in the night. Sherlock remembers what came next; a blow to the temple. Somehow, he rolls quickly over onto the street and staggers to his feet. When he looks at Grimsby, his foot is indeed poised to strike. Blond Crew stands silently nearby, a kind of cold, dead calm in his blue eyes. Sherlock doesn’t trust either of them not to maim him for life. They are both sadistic and violent.
“You don’t speak to the leader like that, Jew-boy!” hisses Grimsby, a vein popping out on his forehead as his face turns red.
Sherlock glances down the street where Malefactor is moving away at top speed, crossing the street as he goes, heading south, his long black coattails and the back of his top hat in view. Holmes barely hesitates: he springs forward and makes for him, walking quickly, immediately feeling the other two breathing down his neck.
“Follow him if you choose, mongrel,” whispers Grimsby into his ear, “but you won’t ’ave your ’ealth by the end of the street.”
Sherlock knows he means it. He is scared but keeps following. If he can just get close enough to Malefactor, maybe he can make him talk. The other two boys will likely hurt him whether he stands or runs.
But there is a little lane that juts off Montague Street a few dwellings before it reaches Great Russell Street. As Sherlock nears it, both lads seize him. They drag him down the lane and into a little mews that runs parallel to the road along the rear of the houses. Sherlock sees the back of the Doyle house several dwellings to the north. Now he is very scared.
Grimsby begins to beat him, while Crew, dressed all in brown today, stands guard, smiling. Resisting will likely make them angrier and Sherlock cannot fight both of them. He takes the blows from fists and feet, trying his best to shield himself, desperate to do something but not sure what.
Grimsby seems to have something wrapped around his knuckles, like a piece of iron. He speaks as he works, spitting out his words. Sherlock is in the hands of a bully far worse than any ever seen in a schoolyard. Like all those bullies, he has demons; his anger comes from his fears.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? … You think the boss respects you more? Think … I’m … a … Jew? … I’ll … show … you!”
“MALEFACTOR!” screams Sherlock, finally hitting on what to do. “YOU’RE A COWARD!”
It works, thank God. It isn’t something Malefactor can stand to hear, especially on Montague Street.
“Cease,” says the young chief quietly through clenched teeth. He had returned from Great Russell Street, and had been standing at the edge of the mews, just around the corner out of sight, listening to the beating.
Sherlock gets up. His ribs ache and there is blood at the corner of his mouth, but he raises himself to his full height and stands as erect as he can despite the pain. Then he turns to Malefactor, whose face is red.
“I am no coward,” he snarls, smoothing out his tailcoat and using every effort of will to contain his rage. “I am a knight of the streets. You wouldn’t understand my kind of honor.”
“Then speak to me … and call off these piglets.” Sherlock is gasping for air.
The roughs glare at him. Malefactor waves for them to stand back.
“I shall decide if this is to continue,” he pronounces, “depending on what you have to say. But I must warn you that your chances are not good.” He examines his fingernails for flaws.
“Your honor? Do you call it honorable to trap me in a dangerous part of London, to turn my life over to villains?”
“Who says I did?”
“Me.”
“And you are an expert, no doubt.”
“Is that not why you are avoiding me today?”
“I want nothing to do with you, especially now.”
“Frightened of something, are we, Sir Galahad?”
Malefactor clenches a fist.
“Anyone disturbing the Brixton Gang in any way will be removed … from life,” he growls. “We all respect that. If you choose to pursue them, then you are a grievous liability … not just to them but to anyone who knows you, including me. Do not whine about it. You have made your bed, now lie in it!”
He nods to Grimsby and Crew.
“Take your medicine!” adds Malefactor as he turns to exit the lane.
But not a single hand is laid upon Sherlock Holmes. In fact, everyone freezes, though Malefactor looks like he might melt.
Irene Doyle is standing at the entrance to the lane dressed in a white silk dress, a white bonnet tied with flowered laces on her head.
“I heard a shout,” she says quietly.
Malefactor snaps around and holds a hand up to Grimsby and Crew.
“What is happening here?” she asks, looking at Sherlock’s face, an expression of pain crossing her own. She takes a few steps toward him.
“He fell down, Miss Doyle,” says Malefactor, “and we were helping him.” He moves between her and Holmes.