wooden floor and enters the laboratory.
“My boy!” shouts the stooped old man. His face is blackened and his long hair sticks straight out in places, but there’s a smile on his face.
“Are you injured, sir?”
“Why, no. I expected a concussion, but not quite what ensued.”
Sherlock looks down at the shards of a shattered flask gathered around the Bunsen Lamp on the examining table.
“Methane, acquired from the private area of a cow, held tightly in a flask also containing various chemicals and liquids. I ignited it all … and you see the combustible result. Tells me things I need to know about various properties, though.”
The apothecary turns to wash his face in the sink. Sherlock surveys the lab. Breakfast is done – his clean mortar and the tea flask sit farther down the table.
“I went out for a morning stroll.”
“Did you, now. A long one, I should think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather a departure for you, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wanted air … isn’t that what you said last night too?”
“I …”
“I was just about to perambulate myself.”
As the old man reaches for his bright-green, tweed frock coat, Sherlock rushes over to help him into it.
“I shan’t ask you more about where you went. I am simply pleased you are here. I have outings with three more ladies today.” He places his fez hat at an angle on his head. There’s another smile on his face – it betrays nothing. He leans forward.
“Women’s complaints, but I have just the thing.” He utters a characteristic burst of laughter as he waves a sealed vial of a mud-colored liquid in the air.
“The
Telegraph
is here for you. Spot of interesting news that I’m sure you will want to read, about the Crystal Palace … uh … incident.”
He picks up the paper and hands it to the boy with a wink.
“I saw the article,” remarks Sherlock softly, smiling back.
“You did?” Bell looks disappointed. “Oh … well …” he glances up and down the front page, “there are … uh … other things of the sort you enjoy here …” His eyes rest on something farther down the front page. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Here’s one.” He points to the story and holds it up for Sherlock to see. “The Brixton Gang. They’ve struck again; killed someone this time as well.”
The apothecary picks up his huge plaid medical handbag, as big as a portmanteau, and struggles through the narrow laboratory entrance, into the shop’s front room, over to the door, and opens it. Noises rush in from the street.
“Keep an eye on things, my page,” he barks. The thick wooden door closes with a bang.
The noises are shut out and the old man disappears into the day, off to sit on that bench in Soho Square. There is silence.
But Sigerson Bell’s plight isn’t on Sherlock’s mind now. Something else has lit it up.
The notorious gang is from
Brixton …
and so is The Swallow!
A CONFESSION
W ith a stiff straw broom in hand, Sherlock heads for the front window and those cobwebs, thinking. He doesn’t have the stomach to deceive Bell again, and has decided that he should stay in and truly clean up the shop. But his mind is on The Swallow.
The borough of Brixton lies between Lambeth, where the young acrobat spent his criminal days, and Sydenham, where the Crystal Palace rules. It isn’t particularly large but has been growing of late. Though many of its inhabitants are middle-class suburban folk, there is also an increasing underclass of criminals. London’s reigning gang comes from there … and so does The Swallow. Do these two facts go together? And if so, what do they have to do with the fall of Monsieur Mercure?
The bell above the front door tinkles before Sherlock can even reach the window, and a man enters. Or at least, his nose does.
“I’m feeling poorly,” says the nose.
“You may come in, sir.”
Despite the strangeness of this entrance and the rancid smell that is filling the room, Sherlock is pleased. Bell has
“My boy!” shouts the stooped old man. His face is blackened and his long hair sticks straight out in places, but there’s a smile on his face.
“Are you injured, sir?”
“Why, no. I expected a concussion, but not quite what ensued.”
Sherlock looks down at the shards of a shattered flask gathered around the Bunsen Lamp on the examining table.
“Methane, acquired from the private area of a cow, held tightly in a flask also containing various chemicals and liquids. I ignited it all … and you see the combustible result. Tells me things I need to know about various properties, though.”
The apothecary turns to wash his face in the sink. Sherlock surveys the lab. Breakfast is done – his clean mortar and the tea flask sit farther down the table.
“I went out for a morning stroll.”
“Did you, now. A long one, I should think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Rather a departure for you, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wanted air … isn’t that what you said last night too?”
“I …”
“I was just about to perambulate myself.”
As the old man reaches for his bright-green, tweed frock coat, Sherlock rushes over to help him into it.
“I shan’t ask you more about where you went. I am simply pleased you are here. I have outings with three more ladies today.” He places his fez hat at an angle on his head. There’s another smile on his face – it betrays nothing. He leans forward.
“Women’s complaints, but I have just the thing.” He utters a characteristic burst of laughter as he waves a sealed vial of a mud-colored liquid in the air.
“The
Telegraph
is here for you. Spot of interesting news that I’m sure you will want to read, about the Crystal Palace … uh … incident.”
He picks up the paper and hands it to the boy with a wink.
“I saw the article,” remarks Sherlock softly, smiling back.
“You did?” Bell looks disappointed. “Oh … well …” he glances up and down the front page, “there are … uh … other things of the sort you enjoy here …” His eyes rest on something farther down the front page. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Here’s one.” He points to the story and holds it up for Sherlock to see. “The Brixton Gang. They’ve struck again; killed someone this time as well.”
The apothecary picks up his huge plaid medical handbag, as big as a portmanteau, and struggles through the narrow laboratory entrance, into the shop’s front room, over to the door, and opens it. Noises rush in from the street.
“Keep an eye on things, my page,” he barks. The thick wooden door closes with a bang.
The noises are shut out and the old man disappears into the day, off to sit on that bench in Soho Square. There is silence.
But Sigerson Bell’s plight isn’t on Sherlock’s mind now. Something else has lit it up.
The notorious gang is from
Brixton …
and so is The Swallow!
A CONFESSION
W ith a stiff straw broom in hand, Sherlock heads for the front window and those cobwebs, thinking. He doesn’t have the stomach to deceive Bell again, and has decided that he should stay in and truly clean up the shop. But his mind is on The Swallow.
The borough of Brixton lies between Lambeth, where the young acrobat spent his criminal days, and Sydenham, where the Crystal Palace rules. It isn’t particularly large but has been growing of late. Though many of its inhabitants are middle-class suburban folk, there is also an increasing underclass of criminals. London’s reigning gang comes from there … and so does The Swallow. Do these two facts go together? And if so, what do they have to do with the fall of Monsieur Mercure?
The bell above the front door tinkles before Sherlock can even reach the window, and a man enters. Or at least, his nose does.
“I’m feeling poorly,” says the nose.
“You may come in, sir.”
Despite the strangeness of this entrance and the rancid smell that is filling the room, Sherlock is pleased. Bell has
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