Death in the Air (15 page)

“I recall that ’e spoke of how much ’e enjoyed the cold lemon drink they make at the Refreshment Department’s dinin’ room ’ere.”

“Did you see the guard again the next day, the day of the accident?”

“I recollect seein’ ’im walkin’ along the floor of the transept just before I commenced to climb me tower.”

“What was he doing?”

“Starin’ at me, smilin’, steppin’ toward the vault.”

“Anything unusual about him?”

“No. ’e was just walkin’, carryin’ a cup o’ that lemon drink.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Just waved ’ello, raised the cup to me, mentioned that one of me old Brixton mates bought it for ’im.”

Sherlock now has a flock of clues, all flying around in his mind, unconnected. He drifts into one of his characteristic moments of thought, his chin dropping onto his chest, his eyes almost closed, trying to put it all together. The Swallow’s voice breaks his concentration.

“I figured me friends might be tryin’ to rob the vault, I’ll tell you frankly, Master ’olmes. And I didn’t interfere. But I tell you again, I did naught wrong. I didn’t tell ’em
anythin’, I didn’t help ’em, I didn’t gain one farthing from anything they may ’ave done. I am guilty of naught. You’re concerned with Mercure, anyway. What does this ’ave to do with ’im?”

It is an excellent question.

“May I go?” pleads The Swallow, “I ’ave all this work to do,” he points up at the apparatus.

“Yes, you may,” answers Sherlock, “but I forbid you to take down the equipment. Don’t remove or lower anything until I tell you that you may. Bear in mind that I still have the means to connect you to this crime. And tell your two accomplices the same. I am sure they did not enjoy their overnight stay at Scotland Yard. I have the power to return them there. You may convey as much to them.”

The Swallow has grown to respect the young detective’s abilities. He isn’t sure what this clever boy knows or doesn’t know, but he understands that he shouldn’t underestimate him. He nods and heads off toward his fellow acrobats.

Sherlock turns toward Lestrade and the Bobbies and marches directly at them. He isn’t going to move on the exterior of this investigation anymore. He is going to enter the lions’ den. In the last few minutes, the Mercure problem has begun to unravel. He has a question for the Force, and he is going to ask it straight to their stupid
faces. The time has come. He can almost feel the money being placed in his hand. He will present them with his proposition, and then solve this crime … right before their eyes.

THE ART OF AERIAL OBSERVATION

I
nspector Lestrade is taken aback by the sight of young Sherlock Holmes wearing a confident smile. That isn’t a good sign. The detective has been examining the area in and around the vault room and is standing outside its door, set in its unusual walls, which don’t quite reach the glass ceiling.

“Mr. Lestrade,” intones the upstart, as if he were the plainclothes policeman’s equal. The Inspector has learned to be suspicious of this lad. This is a boy who knows far too much about everything. But he decides to play along, at least until he discovers whether or not he has anything to gain.

“Master Sherlock Holmes, can I be of any service?”

“As a matter of fact you can. And I can be of greater assistance to you.”

A couple of the Bobbies snort and turn their faces away. Young Lestrade steps closer to his father, his face betraying his interest in this conversation. They form a little circle of three.

But Sherlock intends to speak up in a confident voice so that all within earshot can hear. He glances at the room behind the Lestrades, obviously the one that houses the vault.
That’s curious, he thinks, the walls don’t quite reach the ceiling. For some reason that seems significant to him, but he can’t think why, so it passes through his mind and exits.

“I am in a position to make an exchange with you, sir,” declares the boy.

“Are you now?” replies Lestrade, tipping his brown billycock hat back and putting his other hand up to his bushy mustache, just in case he is inclined to laugh.

“You tell me one simple fact,” announces Sherlock, “which I am guessing you are in possession of, and I shall solve at least one of the two crimes you are investigating.”

“Two
crimes? How kind of you. Didn’t know there were two. Which one?”

“The robbery. I know who did it … and I shall prove it. All you will have to do is hunt them down. I don’t expect a large reward for the information, perhaps fifty pounds?”

This time the Bobbies don’t hide their laughter.

But Lestrade would like to hear the boy’s theory. He has little intention of giving him what he wants.

“The police are not in the habit of awarding funds to citizens with theories about crimes, real or imagined. If you were indeed to have the information you assert, Scotland Yard might, at the most, find ten pounds for someone such as you.”

Sherlock doesn’t blink.

“Thirty,” he says.

“Twenty would be exorbitant.”

“Twenty it is, then.” Sherlock hides the excitement bursting inside him. Twenty pounds would both pay for his
education this coming term,
and keep
Sigerson Bell in business for another year.

Lestrade wants to get on with this. “What ‘simple fact’ do you require first?”

“I assume that the guard who was on duty the day of the robbery is in there now?” Sherlock points at the vault room.

“He is.”

“Those who handle the Palace funds must check the vault regularly and, therefore, must know almost exactly when they were robbed.”

Lestrade clears his throat. “You keep leaping over one point, lad. Who says they were robbed?”

“Come, come now, Lestrade,” remarks Holmes airily.

His tone and attitude are almost enough to bring things to a halt. The detective feels like thrashing the boy and sending him on his way. But he knows what remarkable things Sherlock Holmes accomplished concerning the Whitechapel murder and cannot bring himself to miss seeing this little episode to its conclusion.

“Yes, they know when the money disappeared and have told us,” admits Lestrade, lowering his voice.

“And when was that, exactly?”

The distinguished policeman now has a decision to make. Should he tell this ragged half-Jew an intimate detail of police business? He is inclined not to.

“Father, I think you sh –” begins his son, sensing his reluctance.

“Silence,” says the father.

He again reflects on the Whitechapel murder, how the boy had investigated a vicious killing that didn’t have a single witness and pieced together the entire event, uncovering precise details, based on the fact that it was observed in the night by two crows. It really was remarkable. The Inspector also considers the acclaim he had gained from the boy’s heroics and how he hadn’t had to give him one scrap of credit. Could the boy be as ingenious this time? Unlikely. But what if this brilliant robbery was committed by major stars of the criminal world, and young Sherlock Holmes actually holds the key? The applause, which he could direct entirely to himself, would be deafening. Who would believe that such an invisible minor and a half-breed to boot, was responsible? Lestrade tells himself he is a good man, but one must sometimes resort to darker methods in the cause of what is right.

“Step this way,” he says quietly. He leads Sherlock to an area close to the wall, allowing only his son to follow.

“The incident occurred between one o’clock and two on the afternoon of the first day of July,” he murmurs.

A thrill goes through Sherlock. The Mercures’ show had begun at one. He can’t resist a smart response.

“That means the operation began at approximately
1
:
05
.”

“How do you –” begins young Lestrade.

“He doesn’t!” snaps his father. “Now, what are you going to give me in exchange?” He looks around, “Tell me quietly.” He feels a bit ridiculous even asking the boy, but can’t resist.

“Bring the guard out and let me ask him a few questions. All shall be revealed.”

This is the only way Sherlock can crack the case – he has no other means to make the guard answer his questions. He needs police authority.

Lestrade regards him for a moment. He wonders what the boy is up to.

“We shall not ‘bring him out,’ as you put it…. We shall go in and see him.”

It is an irregular thing to do – bring the boy right into the vault room inside a sealed-off police investigation zone – but Lestrade cannot bring himself to have anyone else about when this boy questions the guard. Chances are he will fail and make the Inspector look foolish. But if this minor were to solve the crime out here in front of others, then that would be even worse. Everyone would know. It just wouldn’t be right. London cannot have the sense that its safety, the solution to any of it serious crimes, is in the hands and minds of children. Again, one must sometimes use questionable methods to achieve good ends.

“Come with me,” says Lestrade, nodding to both Sherlock and his son. He motions to a policeman standing at the vault room door, who opens it and lets them in.

The young guard is sitting on a thick wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. A curtain is drawn in front of the wall to his left, obviously where the vault is built into it. There is a string looping across his chest and attached to a whistle, the top of which can be detected sticking up from his right breast pocket. No one would be able
to enter this room without being seen and the alarm being given; the guard could not be attacked from behind; and a Bobbie is always stationed outside the door.

Sherlock looks up. The glass ceiling of the Palace is visible above this room. He notices where the tops of the walls end, a good twenty-five feet below the ceiling. For an instant he glances toward the performance area down the nave. He thought he might be able to see the summits of the Mercures’ towers, but can’t. The perches must be just below.

Lestrade makes sure the door is closed behind them before he speaks.

“This is Master Sherlock Holmes,” he says to the guard. “He has a few questions for you. Anything that is said at this time inside this room is strictly police business and cannot be revealed to anyone at any time in the future. Do you understand?”

“I do,” says the young man quietly. Sherlock observes him. A youth of about nineteen or twenty years of age, with sandy hair, the beginnings of a mustache, and bags under his eyes from recent sleeplessness – obviously upset about what has transpired. But his look isn’t one of guilt. That worries Sherlock, though he commences his interrogation anyway. His plan is to startle his interviewee and bring him quickly to heel.

“You keep the combination to this vault in your left breast pocket, do you not?” Holmes had seen the whistle in the right pocket.

The young guard is startled by this remarkable opening comment. “Did the police tell –” he begins.

Sherlock cuts him off.

“I have it on good authority that you were in conversation with disreputable individuals in this building on the very day before the robbery and that you told them where the combination is kept.”

“I –”

“Do not lie to me. Lying will put you into a deeper hole than you are in now.”

The guard hesitates.

“Yes. Yes, I told a couple of people.”

Lestrade had been leaning against the vault wall as if bored. He takes a step forward.

“Do you know that I can prove that those strangers were members of the Brixton Gang?”

The guard’s eyes bulge. Lestrade steps even closer. His son had been nearer to the action, standing close to Sherlock. His father gently brushes him aside, staring at the young guard.

“Now you must come clean,” stresses Sherlock, going for the jugular. “What happened on the day of robbery? Did you let someone in here? Otherwise, how could they enter without being seen?” He pauses dramatically. “Or, did they force their way in, assault you and get away, your shame afterwards preventing you from telling the authorities that it was your loose lips that caused this terrible theft of one hundred thousand pounds?”