Death in the Air Read Online Free PDF Page A

parish.”
    All of it
, thinks Sherlock, as he walks toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields,
including the apothecary shop
. Sigerson Bell owes him rent money, likely a great deal of it, more than he has, or ever will have. In less than a week, the boy’s savior will lose his dwellings and his livelihood with it. And Sherlock will be out on the streets with him.

    It is a moiling Holmes who spots the Trafalgar Square Irregulars a short while later. They are gathered in front of their young chief in the shade under the trees inside the black iron fence of the big park at Lincoln’s Inn Fields – a quiet place amid the deafening noise and bustle of London. Malefactor sees him at a distance and cuts his speech short, motioning for his acolytes to step aside. Sherlock immediately spots the gang’s two omnipresent lieutenants: dark,talkative Grimsby and silent, blond Crew. He watches them warily. They are the nastiest of a nasty lot.
    “Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”
    The crime boss is just a little older and taller than Sherlock. As always, he is a presentation in ragged black, wearing his ever-present tailcoat, his black chimney-pot top hat, and carrying his crude stick. Sweat is glistening on his face, his coat is soaking wet.
    “Malefactor,” says Sherlock steadily, searching the other’s eyes for lingering signs of disdain.
    “To what pleasure do I owe this call? I sense another crime.”
    “Perhaps.”
    There is always a hint of competition between the two boys and Malefactor, the way a superior might, doesn’t appreciate Sherlock withholding anything from him.
    “You had better keep your nose out of whatever you are contemplating,” he spits.
    “I will tell you in time.”
    Malefactor wants to hit him. But his curiosity gets the better of him. His regard for the boy, which he tries to hide, has indeed grown, though he would never ask the half-Jew to be part of his organization. Holmes would be an irregular among Irregulars, incapable of the subservience demanded. The young street lord sets aside his anger. He shall know what the boy is up to soon. If he isn’t told, he will find out.
    But something stops their verbal duel in its tracks.Malefactor looks beyond Sherlock, over his shoulder. His face softens; a rare occurrence.
    Sherlock turns.
    Irene.
    She is walking toward them, after stepping out of a carriage on the street at the far end of the big park. For a few minutes she is out alone in London, not safe behavior, but something this unusual girl has been courageous enough to try several times. A few beggars immediately start following her and a couple of men leer nearby. Malefactor snaps his fingers and three dirty Irregulars are dispatched across the park to her, sending the beggars flying and the men discreetly moving away.
    She comes up to the little gathering, passes Sherlock without looking at him, and stands close to Malefactor. She is wearing a red silk dress with crinoline, no shawl, and a fancy bonnet. Her golden hair shines in the hot sun and, despite the absence of a parasol, not a drop of perspiration is evident on her face. One of her shoulders is almost touching the young criminal’s.
    What is she doing
, wonders Sherlock?
    “It is a pleasure to see you,” she says to Malefactor, looking happy to see him. Irene Doyle is an excellent actor.
    “It is?” returns the gang leader, sounding unsure.
    “Irene, I don’t think you should –” begins Sherlock, but she cuts him off.
    “You aren’t speaking to me, remember Master Holmes?” She lifts her dark eyes and glares at him.
    “I
am
speaking to you,” retorts Sherlock, shifting his weight from foot to foot, thinking he should reach out and pull Irene away from the young thief. “I just don’t think we should –”
    “That
is fine
with me.” Her voice breaks. She tugs on her sleeve, revealing several inches of her pretty wrist, apparently in order to scratch it. Malefactor stares at the enticing little stretch of soft skin.
    “You