“We shall disguise you as Sigerson Bell!” he exclaims.
“We will do what?” asks Sherlock.
“You and I are about the same height, my boy. I am stooped, caused by the calcification of the lumbar vertebrae and lack of proper exercising of the latissimus dorsi muscles at the appropriate age.”
He stops to ponder this thought for a moment and appears to slip into the contemplation of long-gone activities.
“Sir?”
Bell and his brain jump back into the summer of 1867.
“Yes!” he exclaims. “Yes! Yourself in the character of one Sigerson Bell Esquire. Here we go!”
He turns and climbs his spiral staircase. Soon Sherlock hears all sorts of noise emanating from above: pots and pans appear to be rattling, heavy cases thumping on the floor, apparently the sound of glass shattering … Sherlock even thinks he hears some sort of animal growl. A few moments later Bell thuds down the stairs carrying more things in his hands, on his head, and even expertly balanced on his thighs than a dray horse could carry in a wagon. He deposits them all with a crash on the floor in front of the boy.
“Here we are!” he shouts. “Where shall we begin? I am considering not only dressing you in an exact replica of what I would wear for an evening’s consultation, but also designing a new nose for you to match mine and …”
“Sir?” interrupts Sherlock.
“Yes, my boy?”
“I think we need to simplify. Whomever might follow me will be doing so from a distance. He will be identifying me simply by my clothing. I doubt there is a need for the creation of an entirely new nose.”
“Ah!” says Bell, fingering his own substantial, red-tipped proboscis. He looks disappointed. “I suppose you are correct.”
He reaches in amongst the pile of clothing and pulls out three items: a dusty, green greatcoat very much like the one he wears to see patients, an older version of his red fez, and a battered black medical bag.
“How about these rags?”
“Perfect,” smiles Sherlock.
He will leave in a few hours. They spend the day together, trying to work. But it is difficult for either of them to concentrate. They are waiting for the sun to set. As it finally grows dark inside, Bell rushes around lighting gas lamps on the walls and a few candles on tables, muttering to himself about exactly how the clothes will be placed on Sherlock and little touches he might add. Meanwhile, the boy has slumped down into the arm chair, his fingertips playing on each other, deep in thought.
The apothecary can’t wait any longer.
“Are your ready, Master Holmes?” he asks, looking even more frenetic and nervous than usual.
Sherlock stands up. As he does, he realizes that his hands are even sweatier than they should be in this terrible heat wave.
Bell retrieves the coat, the hat, and the medical bag, placing the first around the boy’s shoulders, the second on his head, and handing him the last. Then he fusses with all three: adjusting the hat many times, trying different angles, wondering for brief silent moments about how he wears the same, lifting the coat’s collar up to hide the boy’s hair, smoothing it down, turning the handbag one way and then another in Sherlock’s grip. Finally, the boy steps away from him.
“I think I am fine, sir,” he says quietly.
“Well,” says Bell. “Well.” For an instant it seems as though he is going to hug the boy for he can see by the flushed young face that fear is growing in him by the second.
“You don’t need to go, Master Holmes, certainly not.”
“Yes I do, sir, if I may say so.”
Bell wags a finger at him.
“You shall only observe from a distance.”
“Yes sir.”
“Any sign of danger, any sign that you are being followed and you are to immediately retreat.”
Sherlock turns to go, but Bell stops him.
“I have two more items for you. First, this.”
He takes a handful of rags from the table, lifts Sherlock’s hat, sets them underneath, and then replaces the fez.
“Every medical man is marked by the sight of his stethoscope bulging under his hat.”
Sherlock smiles and doesn’t bother to object to this little, likely undetectable detail. But Bell’s other addition surprises him. He produces what looks like a horsewhip.
“This, my young friend, is a hunting crop. I was once told by a man who knew of what he spoke, that it is among the finest weapons that anyone can bear in self-defense. Hide it under your coat. If required, use it. It shall back any man away from you in an instant! Observe the wrist action.”
Bell snaps the stiff, three-foot long piece of leather into the air producing a frightening crack, then turns madly on another skeleton and wades into him – his first slash knocks the skull clean from its body and sends it smashing to the floor – three boney men down in one day. Bells smiles and hands the hard black weapon to Sherlock.
The boy imitates his teacher and slices the air with another magnificent cracking sound. He seems a natural. The apothecary nods.
But immediately there is a knock at the door. The two men look at each other and Bell motions for Sherlock to hide in the lab.
The boy peers around the entrance and watches the old man open the door carefully, assuming his wide stance, with hands raised near his chest, ready to strike.
But the man who comes through the door isn’t one he wants to attack.
Lord Redhorns blusters in.
“Did you receive the message which I gave your page?”
“Message?” asks Bell weakly.
“More than two days past, I informed him that you had four days in which to pay your rent or you would be summarily thrown into the streets. Do you have the funds now?”
“No, sir.” Bell looks warily back toward the lab.
“I shall be here tomorrow evening. If you do not hand me the sum the instant I arrive, I shall evict you then! Good evening, Mr. Bell.”
“Good evening, sir.”
The door closes and the apothecary stands still. When Sherlock comes out to him, he turns with a resplendent smile. “Did you hear that, my boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That man should go upon the stage! He is an actor whose impersonations are as marvelous as the great Macready! And a lunatic! He strolls about these parts, pretending to be a wealthy landlord! I have no idea who he really is!” Bell utters a crack of laughter.
“I know who he is, sir.”
“You do?” For the first time that Sherlock can remember, the old man allows sadness to show on his face.
“And I have a plan to save us from him.”
“Oh, something will turn up. I am a devotee of the science of alchemy, and of the sociological precepts of one Samuel Smiles. If one devotes oneself to bettering oneself, then life around one will always get better. And I am working on it as we speak!”
“There is a five hundred pound reward for the capture of the Brixton Gang.”
Bell is speechless.
“And I am going to get it.”
“I … I cannot allow this.”
“I shall do it without nearing them. I have a way. I shall not put myself in danger.”
“Do you promise, my boy?” There are tears in the old man’s eyes. “You will recall … a promise involves one’s honor. To break it is disgraceful.”
“I promise,” says Sherlock Holmes, “on my mother’s grave.”
The old man smiles and opens the front door, crouching behind so no one from the outside can see him.
“May the gods be with you, Master Holmes. Be careful and come back safely. We shall write up the evidence together, and take it to the police.”
Sherlock lied to Sigerson Bell. He is going to Rotherhithe to walk straight into the lair of the Brixton Gang.