Sherlock has never been in such a carriage. It wasn’t a mode of transportation his parents could afford. But tonight he must move across London at a terrific pace. Time is of the essence. He has those two shillings in his pocket – the ones poor Mr. Bell gave him. The old man had handed them to him with a smile on his face, as if he were giving him gold. Sherlock had imagined the many things they could buy him – perhaps some new, second-hand shoes and many copies of The Illustrated Police News.
But he knows where the money is going now – into the coffer of that cabman. Holmes shall make him fly from where they are here, in Wapping by the river, across central London, to police headquarters in Whitehall near Trafalgar Square. His shillings should be more than enough to get him there. The streets are nearly empty – there will be a veritable racetrack stretched out before them.
Moments later Sherlock is bouncing up and down on the red, plush-covered bench inside the cab, anxiously looking out, as they gallop toward the police station.
He will do whatever he must to end the evil of the vicious Brixton Gang and save Sigerson Bell. He will take whatever chances he must and threaten whatever violence is necessary.
“To Scotland Yard!” he shouts at the cabbie. “Get there in less than ten minutes, and you keep both shillings!”
He will capture those devils. Tonight!
THE SCIENCE OF DESPERATION
The cabbie applies his whip to the horse and urges it on through the dimly lit London streets, its hooves smacking against the hard stone surfaces, foam forming on its sleek black hide, the hansom almost shaking apart. The driver takes pride in his job, but more importantly, wants to keep the two shillings he has tucked into the purse sewn into his trousers. Inside, Sherlock watches the night go by, almost hanging out the window, nervous and anxious. He hears the sounds of violins racing, his mother’s beloved instruments. They play in his head, swirling faster and faster. What is going on back in Rotherhithe? Is his prey long gone? And what will he really do at Scotland Yard? Will they even let him in?
He is betting that Lestrade will still be there. Malefactor knows the habits of every last detective in the London Metropolitan Police and often says Lestrade has a reputation for toiling late into the night. “An imbecile,” the young crime lord calls him, “but hard-working and as tenacious as a bulldog.”
The hansom flies down the hill from St. Paul’s, along The Strand, by the Charing Cross Railway Station, and turns just past the statue at Trafalgar Square. In seconds, the proud cabman is leaning down from his seat, peering through the window, announcing their arrival.
Sherlock alights. He fixes his rumpled frock coat and brushes his straight black hair carefully into place with shaking hands. He’s on Whitehall, the big avenue where all the government buildings are, including the Prime Minister’s residence. The front entrance to the Police Station House is on a little street just ahead. Lestrade’s office is at the back on Great Scotland Yard, so he enters a narrow canyon between two buildings that opens up onto a little cobblestone square. Sherlock Holmes has never been near police headquarters before; he has always tried to steer clear of it, but now has no choice. A mist hangs in the sweaty night.
There are branch houses to the left, and directly in front, a two-storey stone structure. DETECTIVE DIVISION, reads a sign above the entrance. Sherlock sees gas lights glowing inside. Police doors are always unlocked: he races up the stone steps and opens the tall, arched entrance.
He is in a reception room in the foyer, with thick wooden chairs set against the walls, for citizens waiting their turns. But Sherlock doesn’t have time for that. He has to find Lestrade. He spies a hallway leading away from the center of the room and heads for it.
“May I help you?” It’s the night sergeant, sitting behind his long wooden counter.
“I must see Inspector Lestrade!” announces the boy. He is shocked at how distraught his own voice sounds.
“Tell me what this is about,” replies the sergeant coolly, “and I shall decide if we will disturb the Inspector.”
“He is here, then?”
“Tell me or I shall have you removed!” barks the policeman. Two burly Bobbies appear and approach the boy.
Sherlock is thinking about making a run for it: trying to get by the two big men and then darting down the hall.
“Sherlock?”
It is young Lestrade. He has stepped from an office a few doors down the corridor to see what the disturbance is about. He actually looks pleased to spot Sherlock Holmes.
“I have news!” shouts the boy, “very important news!” He steps forward and the Peelers grab him, each seizing an arm and lifting him right off his feet.
“Father,” says the junior Lestrade firmly, looking into the senior detective’s room while pointing at the foyer. As Sherlock kicks the air and feels himself propelled backward, the Force’s top plainclothesman emerges from his office and sees the struggle.
“It’s all right,” he sighs, calling out to the Peelers.
They drop him and Sherlock quickly makes his way down the hall and into Lestrade’s office. It is dim and cluttered inside the cramped room: full of papers sprawled across a big wooden desk, photographs of desperate-looking men on the walls, and a large map tacked heavily with red pins. Sherlock notices one driven into the Crystal Palace site near Sydenham.
The boy starts talking breathlessly, at steam-launch speed.
“The Brixton Gang killed Mercure. They robbed the Palace. I have proof. I know where they are. We can arrest them tonight!”
“Excuse me?” inquires Lestrade.
“I want the reward.”
“I haven’t even invited you in here yet.”
Sherlock glances around. And there it is. He is in luck.
Lestrade’s revolver is sitting on his desk just above the drawer at his right hand. But before it comes to that, Holmes wants to see if he can talk the detective into action.
“I will take you right to them,” he sputters, “but we must go now and bring the Force with us. I was in the building with the gang. They had me in their hands! I saw all their faces! I know their names!”
Again this unusual boy is presenting the old detective with a dilemma. Should he believe him? Young Holmes has in his favor that remarkable effort concerning the Whitechapel murder, and against him the embarrassing interview with the Crystal Palace guard. He is flushed with excitement and it doesn’t appear contrived. Lestrade wonders if he should gamble again. What does he have to lose? The party in question, after all, is the Brixton Gang.
“We have to go now!” repeats the ragged boy, his face pale and eyes on fire.
“Where?” asks the younger Lestrade, whose excitement is beginning to rise too. He believes Holmes, has since the moment he met him.
“To Rotherhithe,” says Sherlock.
“Where in Rotherhithe?” asks the detective.
“I … I can’t tell you, not yet, but I’ll take you there … and … and I must insist that we bring a reporter.”
Lestrade laughs. This is too much.
“I don’t think we will be going anywhere, young man.”
“Father, don’t you think …”
“Silence!” bellows Lestrade. “This young mongrel led us on a wild-goose chase once and it will not happen again. There isn’t a shred of evidence that the Brixton Gang is involved in any of this to begin with. Find them!? Why all of the Metropolitan London Police can’t find hide nor hair of them! It is one of this fool’s fantasies!”