Becoming Holmes (21 page)

All the way back to London on the train he tries to concentrate on the next part of his plan. But it is difficult to do. He had always known that Crew was a dangerous fellow, but the fear he saw in the eyes of the men in the sewers and in Sutton is alarming. Would it not be beyond dangerous to pursue Crew? Would it not be almost suicidal? No one dares, not even the toughest and most evil of London’s criminals.

Should I?

But he can’t resist the opportunity that is before him. Grimsby is dead; Crew can be fingered as his murderer, and perhaps Malefactor as the man who commissioned the deed. This chance may never come again.

I can wipe out the heart of evil in London. I, Sherlock Holmes. I can destroy all of them
.

18
SCUTTLEBUTT

T
he next morning, after meticulously informing Sigerson Bell of his intentions, Sherlock makes his way southwest to the Cremorne Gardens. It was here that he did much of his investigating while pursuing the magicians last year during the Hemsworth-Nottingham dragon case. He is hoping that a certain someone still resides in the park.

“Master Sherlock ’olmes, under-the-covers man for Scottish Yard, agent of great renown, is that you?”

Scuttle is lying on the ground, half in and half out of his overturned old dustbin. He was fast asleep when Sherlock roused him with a slight tap of his boot to a shoulder. He is still focusing his eyes.

“It is me, sir. How are you keeping?”

Scuttle gets up to a sitting position.

“It is pleasurable to see you. Scuttle is tolerably fit. I ’ave been taking to the exercising of my brains and the thinking more of my muscles. Mr. Starr, ’e the king and president of the World’s End ’otel, whom the acquaintance of whom you made, is giving me more occupations. ’E is threatening to deliver up to Scuttle an abode in the ’otel in
the basement where ’e will feed my mouth more victuals to make my insides more ’appy, in exchange for more work from Scuttle.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“So is Scuttle.”

“Do you still note the famous people who frequent this area? Do you still speak with them? I remember being impressed by the folks you encountered.”

“Well, they wants to speak with Scuttle, no doubt, but I shuns them now. I do not even look at the papers anymore, at the illustrious-stations. I ’ave learned that most celebrantites are not people of substances. Famousness isn’t of value unless substances are involved.”

“You don’t say?”

“I do say. In fact, I ’old forward, I oral ate. This very week, the Queen wanted to speak with me again!”

“The Queen?”

“And I said no. Florence Nightingale too.”

“Actually, Master Scuttle, the Queen
is
a woman of substance, and so is Miss Nightingale, real substance. You could have spoken with them.”

“I could ’ave?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I did not. I even turned Mr. Dickens down, just yesterday.”

“Uh, Scuttle?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Dickens is dead. He was dead yesterday too, as dead as a doornail.”

Scuttle somehow turns whiter than his regular complexion. “Mr. Dickens is dead? Then who will speak up for us?” A tear comes to his eye and runs down his cheek. He wipes at it so aggressively that he seems to be tearing it from his face. “Never mind! It may not ’ave been him Scuttle conversated with. It was, no doubt, in short, some sensationalist novelist, and I shunned him! Magnificantly!”

“Good for you. What about His Highness Hemsworth, the great magician? Have you seen him nearby lately?”

Sherlock had brilliantly caught the red-haired Hemsworth and the Wizard of Nottingham in the attempted murder of His Highness’s former wife some ten months ago. But they had eluded that serious charge, been convicted of a lesser one, and served only brief jail terms. Just a few weeks past, they had gained their freedom. Now they were using their notoriety to debut a series of sold-out shows in a West End theater.

“I have no interests in such a parsonage,” says the disgusted little boy. “ ’E is a bad man. Scuttle is ashamed that ’e took any noticing of ’im before. All of London should be em-bare-assed! But I ’ears that the Sunday papers were of great interest in ’im after ’e and Notting’am did their terrible deeds of intentional murder and napping kids. I ’ears that the papers were aroused too when the villains were ejaculated from prison, and sent many men to cover them up in their columns and pillars.”

Sherlock can barely follow him, but it doesn’t matter. He is edging him toward the point of this little interview.

“You are in and out of the hotel, my friend, so you can tell me this. It is of extreme importance to Scotland Yard. Is
Hemsworth still operating his den of magical tricks and strange animals in the space under it?”

“I shall impregnate you with this information, for Scottish Yard. It is with much sorrow that I say that I ’ave spied him, yes, comings and goings from ’ere these last few weeks since ’e was ejaculated from behind bars.”

“Do you know if he still keeps the animals?”

“I do.”

“And?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know that?”

“ ’E carries sacks at times, when ’e intrudes the premises late at night, some of them very gigantic, indeed, with things squirming in their innards.”

Sherlock Holmes absolutely hates to do this. But he must.

He has offered his card, his homemade card, at the box office of the Egyptian Hall theater. Hemsworth and Nottingham’s show has just opened here. He knows they will be rehearsing in the hall this very afternoon. The show is still working out its imperfections, though it is currently the biggest thing on the London stage. The woman in the box office takes the boy’s card and slips through the doors leading into the main hall. She returns in seconds, motioning for him to come forward.

“Ah! Sherlock Holmes!” says Hemsworth in his big voice the instant the boy is ushered down the aisle. The
magician’s hair and goatee are glistening with oil even in the afternoon. His face, as always, looks false. Nottingham, his darker hair in a similar style, is sitting on a guillotine at the back of the stage, smiling too. “What can I do for you? It is so lovely to see you!”

“I have one question, and then I will leave.”

“Would you like an admission for the show? You know, though we have had our disagreements, I admire you, your prodigious brains. We are alike in some ways.”

“We are nothing alike,” spits Sherlock. “Are you still purchasing and importing exotic animals?”

“Like a dragon, for example?” Nottingham lets out a roar from behind.

“Like things in sacks that squirm.”

Both the magicians are silenced by this.

“That is a secret thing, which few know. You astound me, Holmes. And just for that, just in admiration, I shall answer you. It seems you know a great deal anyway. Yes, I am still importing. In fact, I did so from behind bars. And the things in bags that squirm, they would be … snakes.”

“Snakes?” says Sherlock, his voice breaking.

“I see a little fear in your eyes, Holmes. Not a fan of snakes? You don’t like the world’s biggest constrictors, the Orient’s most frightening pythons, the earth’s most poisonous vipers?”

“Is that what you acquire?”

“Perhaps.”

“And transport in sacks?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you have a client named Crew?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

Crew would never give his real name
.

“A silent fellow with dead blue eyes, combed-over straight blonde hair, a narrow brush mustache, big and slightly pudgy?”

Sherlock sees a flash of recognition on Hemsworth’s face, but he moves instantly to hide it.

“My clients’ names are no one’s business but mine.”

“And yet, you just told me,” says Holmes with a smile.

He doesn’t look back as he leaves the theater, but his grin doesn’t lessen. It is wonderful to read the face of a magician, especially this one.

19
AMONG THE DEAD

“L
et me see,” says Sherlock to himself in his bed in his wardrobe that night. “Crew travels over London Bridge in the dark, sometimes carrying snakes in sacks. What is just over the bridge?” He knows the area well. He crosses over that very viaduct on a regular basis. (The fact that this fiend may live in the same area where he goes to school still gives him pause.) “What is there? Well, right where it reaches land you would find London Bridge Railway Station, St. Thomas’s Hospital, and St. Saviour’s big cathedral.” Wellington Street meets the bridge on the south side of the river and then becomes Borough High Street. The Holmes family once lived near there, above the Leckies’ hatter shop, near the rookeries of the rough district known as the Mint. Off High Street, all the neighborhoods are tough and poor. Where, exactly, might Crew be? Again, Sherlock considers the idea that because Crew doesn’t like exercise and yet seems to walk home each night, he must live near the bridge. Holmes can’t sleep and stays up for a while, sitting cross-legged, concentrating. Nothing makes sense to him. He lies down again and drifts off.

A horrible nightmare comes to him. Malefactor, Grimsby, and Crew are chasing him over London Bridge. He has a revolver and is shooting back at them as he runs. He knows he cannot escape unless he destroys them. One of his shots hits Grimsby in the chest. The little man shrieks. It is a heartbreaking cry, and when Sherlock glances back, he sees the villain lying on the stone foot pavement of the bridge in a piteous mess, very still. Guilt so overwhelms him that he halts and almost lets the others catch him. But he gathers himself and runs again. Malefactor stops and points a finger at him, ordering Crew to run him down and murder him, then rises into the sky, his face becoming the entire dark dome over London. He looks down upon Sherlock, immortal. Crew, his face impassive, gains on him with each stride. Holmes feels that he will be safe if he can just reach the other side. But London Bridge becomes incalculably long, never ending. Crew moves with inhuman speed and catches him. Sherlock is squeezed in an iron grip until he expires, his life and spirit forced out of him as the air is expelled from his lungs. Despite lying dead on the stones, Sherlock can still see Crew’s face. The villain’s hair hangs down over his victim, its strands hissing, rattling, and darting. There is a look of great curiosity in Crew’s blue eyes now, a smile of intrigue below his brush mustache. He is examining Sherlock, fascinated for one simple reason: because he is dead.