“You take the lead!” shouts Lestrade at Sherlock several blocks later.
“Head to the Thames Tunnel,” says the boy into his jockey’s ear, “then follow Rotherhithe Street until I tell you to stop.”
It grows darker as they approach the nearly unlit industrial areas. Four bull’s eye lanterns bounce up and down on the sides of the horses, like big, eerie, fireflies in the night.
When the black chimneys of the Asphalte Works appear up ahead, it is time to become much more cautious.
“Slow down to a trot,” says Holmes.
As Lestrade sees them ease off, he motions to his men for silence. Soon their horses are walking and Sherlock gives a signal to dismount. He can make out the warehouses on the narrow lane that runs to the river, though they are almost invisible in the hot, misty night.
“Where?” whispers the detective.
“In the last warehouse, by the water.”
The men take their horses into the yard at the abandoned soap factory across the street and tie them to tethering posts by an old wooden trough. Then everyone moves like ghosts across the roadway, crouching low, lanterns spread out among the group and held close to the ground, until they gather against the soot-stained brick wall of the first building.
Sherlock is near the front with the two Lestrades. He speaks quietly into the detective’s ear.
“They were on the first floor of the last building. There is a staircase that leads up to it from the ground floor and a ladder to the one above, where they had their dog-and-rat fight. There are windows in the roof on the upper floor – that’s the only avenue of escape that I know of other than the front door. There are four of them plus a lad named Brim who is dressed in dark clothing and a top hat, carrying a knife … and a hunting crop. The two younger gang members are named Crowley and Sticks, the older, Charon and Sutton.”
Though Lestrade is impressed with the thoroughness of Sherlock’s report he doesn’t show it.
“If they aren’t there, I shall have you prosecuted for providing the authorities with false information,” he mutters. He turns to the other Bobbies and motions for six to come with him to the front door of the last building and the other four, the ones with the lanterns, to spread out around every side of it.
“Look for and attend to all means of egress!” he orders urgently, but quietly.
Sherlock can only pray that the Brixton Gang is still in there. He can see the side of Lestrade’s face under his black bowler hat just ahead of him as they sneak along the wall. It has turned red, sweat has come out in big drops on his forehead and along his eyebrows, which nearly touch in a bushy row like an overgrown hedge above his big nose.
Sherlock feels a tug on his sleeve. It’s the reporter. He is fumbling a small, bound book in his hand but any ink and pen he might have are still in his pockets. He is breathing loudly, gulping audibly, the lenses in his little wire-rimmed spectacles look foggy and his voice is shaky when he speaks.
“And who are you, young sir?”
“Ssssshh!!” hisses Lestrade, motioning for the little man to move to the rear of the group.
Sherlock’s heart leaps as they approach the last building. He can see a dim light coming through the cracks in the door. Are they about to capture the Brixton Gang? Will he actually gain credit for this? Will he get his reward?
Lestrade makes the policeman at his elbow open the entrance. He is a big, burly man with a thick mustache and mutton-chop whiskers that wind three-quarters of the way down the side of his face – the strap of his coxcomb helmet is tight across the dimple in his square chin.
All six Peelers, Lestrade, and the two boys enter without a sound into the gloomy ground floor, eying the staircase dimly evident up ahead. They can smell the building’s fishy inner organs. The nervous reporter follows and … whacks his boot against the wooden lip on the threshold and falls onto his face.
The sound echoes in the building.
There is a scurrying up above. Five pairs of feet are on the move.
“Police!” shouts Lestrade. “Come out and show yourselves, you scoundrels!”
As the reporter curls up into a ball on the floor, the policemen make for the stairs on the fly. That’s curious, thinks Sherlock, the fiends didn’t douse their lights. But almost immediately he knows why. The sounds of breaking glass come from above and then … the smell of gas. It is instantly pitch black. A look of horror spreads across Lestrade’s face. The criminals are breaking their gaslights and putting their candles to anything flammable!
This old warehouse is a tinderbox.
“FIRE!” Sherlock shrieks.
For a moment Lestrade doesn’t know what to do. His men freeze too. Should he send them blindly upstairs into what, in minutes, will be a deathly inferno, or retreat to see if the gang can be collared on their way out … if they come out?
He cannot miss this chance to nab the Brixton Gang!
“Upstairs!” he cries.
“No!” shouts Sherlock. But in an instant the Peelers are all scrambling up the steps. Lestrade stands stock still beneath, apparently unable to move.
Sherlock seizes the Inspector’s son and pulls him to the door.
“Out!” he shouts. “Out!”
“But …” begins the other boy.
Sherlock hauls him violently and drags him into the street. There, they race for the river. In half a minute they are down by the water, looking up at the roof of the old warehouse. He spots the lights of two other constables moving along in the night: half of the group that was left outdoors.
“Here!” he calls out. “Gather by the river!”
Sherlock Holmes knows that experienced criminals always have a plan of escape, just as he did when he broke into homes as he pursued the Whitechapel murderer. This ingenious group, this notorious Brixton Gang, will not only have a well-planned means of getting away, but be able to execute it in a flash.
Sherlock keeps his eyes locked on the roof. Sure enough, within minutes a window opens and a head pops out. Then another appears, then another, until there are five.
“Ssssshhh!” Holmes warns one of the constables, who is about to shout a warning up at the building.
The five dark figures move like vermin down the roof against the night sky. They are indeed heading toward the river. Sherlock looks in that direction and sees a boat, a powerful steam launch moored there.
“Come!” says Holmes and ushers the others to a spot directly in front of the boat. As he does, he sees two more lights coming his way.
“Block the way back to the streets!” he orders them, “and get out your revolvers!”
The two constables with him pull out their own guns. Sherlock wishes he had his hunting crop.
In moments the smell of gas and smoke is evident in the humid air and soon flames are licking the insides of the open window on the roof. The Brixton Gang obviously know how to light a fire like few others, how to gas it, how to fan it quickly. Before long the building will be engulfed in flames.
Sherlock gets the men crouched low and out of sight on a stone staircase that leads to the water where the boat is tied. They are just three steps down, so they can see the scene in front of them. Looking out, the boy spots the first member of the gang leaping from the roof onto a smaller, wood-frame building. It looks like a stable and stands almost attached to the warehouse next to the river. It shakes after each fiend lands on it. Sherlock squints to see them better. They are each carrying something in their hands. He knows that two of them have knives. What do the others have? Something worse?
“Ready your weapons,” he barks to the policemen.