The Bobbies raise their loaded revolvers and Sherlock can see that their hands are shaking. The building is now raging in front of them, lighting up the London night. The little laneway and the area around are illuminated like a lurid stage in a West End theater, set for a ghastly drama.
The Brixton villains are dropping down from the stable onto the ground, one after the other. Then there’s the sound of their boots striking the cobblestones as they scurry across the lane for the river staircase, their heads up and alert, glancing back at the building, but ready for any trap ahead. They look calm and capable.
Sherlock can now see that four have knives and the fifth … a revolver.
Where are the two other lantern-bearing policemen? And what has become of Lestrade and his men inside the warehouse? Holmes glances at it as it begins to roar. Its beams will soon fall and the whole structure will collapse. Where’s Lestrade! If the flames ignite the other buildings, a huge conflagration will rip through Rotherhithe and light up the southern shore of the Thames. Such horrific fires are not uncommon in London – and folks come from everywhere to see these shows. The crowd will be here soon: one can almost hear it rising in the night.
But Sherlock’s concerns are much more immediate. The gang members don’t care about what they have left behind, what destruction they have wrought … nor will they fret about destroying anything that lies in front of them. People like this are barely human.
The five fiends pound along the cobblestones. Sherlock peeks and sees their faces, the whites of their eyes. Down the lane he sees a pair of lanterns approaching, bobbing at the end of the other two Peelers’ arms, their guns in their other hands.
But behind Sherlock an excited constable can’t wait. He gets to his feet and aims his revolver. Terrified, he fires wildly and misses.
The blast of the weapon near Sherlock’s ear nearly deafens him, but more importantly the officer’s action gives away their position. All five criminals fix their eyes onto the figures in front of them on the stone staircase. These desperate thieves have killed people and will do it again without thinking twice. The lead gang member assesses his human obstacles in a glance as he runs, and recognizes who offers the greatest threat. As a second constable raises his gun, the criminal fires. The bullet strikes the policeman in the shoulder and he shrieks and falls. Then the crook trains his gun on the head of the first Bobbie, who immediately drops his revolver and collapses to his knees, hands thrust into the air. The villains are only yards away now and all have their weapons poised. Sherlock and young Lestrade drop too and cower on the ground, rolling out of the way to allow the Brixton Gang to pass, praying that they won’t pause to use their knives or that gun.
The fiends are brutal, but not stupid. Escaping with speed is foremost in their minds. They merely kick the two police revolvers away toward the water as they pass and race down the steps, uttering vile curses as they go.
Sherlock glances up and sees that Brim, the boy, is bringing up the rear. He is going by, with his knife out … the hunting crop visible, most of it jutting out of a coat pocket. Directly in front of him is Sutton, one of the two leaders.
Sherlock is terrified, but he has been disciplining himself over the past month, developing the characteristics he will need to function efficiently in the face of criminal activity. Desperate to find a way to stop this group of thieves from getting away, and to save his brilliant solution and its reward from vanishing into the night, he thinks quickly and dispassionately. The crook closest to him is a boy, whom he might be able to overpower; he thinks of the fact that the boy carries two weapons; and he remembers nasty young Grimsby’s effective, come-from-behind attack. A sudden move will be unexpected – the gang members think he and the others are no longer a threat.
Sherlock rises in a flash, bends over at the waist, plants his legs, and drives forward with all the power he has, sending the hard edge of his boney shoulder into the back of Brim’s knees. The boy buckles and falls face-first down the steps, smashing his teeth into the stones. As he groans and releases the knife, Sherlock enacts the next part of his plan.
Sutton is directly in front of Brim. He glances back for an instant and sees the boy with the hawk-like nose leaning over his young comrade, then reaching for an overcoat pocket and seizing the hunting crop. Almost immediately, Sutton feels the business part of that horsewhip laid across the back of his calves, not only removing a line of flesh from them and shooting searing pain up his legs, but also snaking around to the front of his knees, gripping them and, with a pull from his enemy, sending him reeling to the ground.
Sherlock Holmes is indeed a natural with Sigerson Bell’s favorite weapon.
Just as he hoped, the other armed constables arrive at the staircase at that instant.
“Point your revolver at this one’s head!” he shouts at the first Bobbie, indicating the wounded Sutton, now on his knees on the ground. “And seize that boy!” he cries to the other.
The gun is leveled at the leader’s temple, inches away, poised to end his life. The other arriving policeman pins Brim to the ground.
But Sherlock Holmes doesn’t want just these two thieves – he wants them all – every last member of the Brixton Gang. He wants to wipe them from the face of London’s crime world and remove their evil blight from its midst. It’s the only way to get his money.
He begins the final part of his plan.
“You three!” he cries at the top of his lungs, calling to the escaping criminals. They keep running without glancing back, racing over the muddy bank and leaping into the steam launch. But as they turn to seize the boat’s ropes from the little wharf they realize that two of their lot are missing. In the light of the huge, crackling fire from the warehouse, growing in flickering reflections in the dark water, Sherlock can see the falling face of Charon, the other gang leader. That reaction is what the boy hoped for – Malefactor has told him many times that the phrase as thick as thieves has a great deal of truth in it. Crooks stick by one another … they have their code. That brutal man standing in the steam launch has a touch of good in him mixed with all his evil. He will be hard pressed to desert his accomplice, especially if it means condemning him to death.
“Lift him up!” Sherlock barks at the Peelers.
They raise Sutton to his feet, the gun still cocked and held tightly to his head.
The crowds are beginning to gather. At first there had been just a few street people, then drunks from the nearby taverns, but now many working-class folks are arriving, some in barely more than underclothes, drawn by this magnificent, deadly show. On the water, boats are drawn to the billowing flames too, as the fire adds heat to the already hot night. The sounds of the bells of the Southwark fire brigade and of their charging horses grow louder.
And suddenly, out of the nearly collapsing building, comes Lestrade and his six policemen, coughing and staggering about, one gripping a frightened and quivering reporter by the collar. The Metropolitan Police’s senior detective sees Sherlock and four of his men down by the river. They appear to have two of the gang members in custody. But why is a revolver being thrust into the temple of one of them? Lestrade stumbles forward.
“If you try to escape,” shouts Sherlock at the boat, his anger rising, “we shall put a bullet into the brain of your friend here!”
“No!”
It isn’t the other gang leader responding. Charon simply stands stock still, his mouth wide open. It’s Inspector Lestrade.
“This is highly irregular!” he cries, staggering toward Sherlock.
The boy speaks without looking at him. “Precisely! Irregularity is now in demand!”