Death in the Air (5 page)

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 two were conversing,” she says. “Don’t mind me.”

But Malefactor can’t speak, and Sherlock won’t. Irene decides to take the initiative.

“I am simply here to help this gentleman change his life,” she says, turning to the bigger boy by her side. “It is now a goal of mine. I am sure he will listen to me.”

“I shall,” says Malefactor. “Listening never hurt anyone.”

Now, Sherlock wants to strike
him
.

“I have been reading about all the robberies,” she continues, turning her back on Sherlock. “Seven major jobs in one month. They suspect a gang from south of the Thames, don’t they?”

She has always had some interest in crime, but mostly because of her father’s philanthropic ways; his desire to visit jails and help the unfortunate. But the interest she is expressing today sounds more personal.

“Yes,” responds the rogue, happy to show off his knowledge of the underworld. “The perpetrators are indeed from the other side of the river. From Brixton to be exact. Four of them, taking the city by storm. They’re skilled at
sneaking into places and then disappearing. They are very clever and unconcerned about killing in order to make their getaways. The word is they are good with poisons. The police are offering an unprecedented reward … five hundred pounds.”

Several Irregulars whistle.

“Yes,” says Malefactor, “quite impressive.”

“I must go,” mutters Sherlock under his breath.

“You were saying?” smiles his opponent, regarding him, knowing that Holmes wanted information or he wouldn’t have come.

Sherlock pauses. He might as well ask.

“Do you know anything about crime in the circus world?”

“Ah,” grins Malefactor.

“Are there ever any
planned
accidents?”

The crime boss launches into his response, a smarmy self-confident look on his face. “Many show-business protégés are found on the streets, especially by those impresarios operating in the realm of dangerous performances. They are looking for children with nothing to lose. We’ve received inquiries. But the life I offer my boys is much safer … and more lucrative.”

Malefactor places his arms across his chest and sticks out his chin, his eyes sliding toward Irene to see if she is impressed.

“So there are ruthless sorts in that world?”

“Many.”

“I must go.”

“Then go,” says Irene, moving closer to Malefactor, actually touching him. “You keep saying you want to go, so go…. I’ll stay here.”

“Irene … I –”

“Go!” she says, raising her voice.

“We shall see her home,” smiles the other boy.

Sherlock turns and walks away, heading toward the Thames, but then he pauses and looks over his shoulder. He wants to call out to Irene and tell her to come with him. But he can’t. Malefactor is smiling at him.

“Perhaps one day the Force shall offer five hundred pounds for your head, Sherlock Holmes,” he calls.

“Or yours, Malefactor,” says Sherlock. But he isn’t thinking about his rival – just something that he said.

A reward
. An idea comes into the boy’s brain.

THE FLYING BOY

S
herlock is considering committing a crime: the crime of extortion, in which you force someone to pay you money. His victim will be Inspector Lestrade.

What if I can prove to him that this trapeze accident was murder?
he asks himself as he broils through the four-mile walk from Southwark to Sydenham.
And what if I can discover who did it, and then not only withhold the evidence, but threaten to give it to the press first, unless I am handed a reward? It wouldn’t be for five hundred pounds. That’s only for upper-class villains. But it just might be enough to solve my problems … and Mr. Bell’s
. He steps up his pace.

He knows the police won’t have moved any of the trapeze apparatus from the accident scene. That is routine when something like this happens. Though they suspect no foul play they must examine the area carefully. Everything will be exactly as it was when the incident occurred, or as close to it as possible, given the stampede of spectators afterwards.

When he arrives at the Crystal Palace, he blends with the growing throngs and sneaks through the front entrance at the top of the palatial stone steps. He checks the iron clock ticking inside the doors: just past noon.

The accident took place at the far end of the central transept, where events that need great space occur. Blondin once walked the high rope here above twenty thousand spectators, carrying a child on his back. The sun sparkles through the acres of curving glass ceiling, leaving flecks of light on the planked floor. The air is humid and heavy.

On his way down the transept, Sherlock notices his father, tidying up after having released the thousands of doves of peace at noon. Wilberforce Holmes doesn’t even live in the family’s old flat anymore. A Palace owner heard of his wife’s tragic death and offered him a room in one of his homes here in Sydenham. Wilber accepted the charity immediately. He is far from Sherlock now, both in spirit and place. He barely speaks these days, and just thinking of his son reminds him of what happened to his wife, so he tries not to. Their conversation yesterday had been stilted.

The boy stands still, watching his father for a moment, working industriously despite his sadness, his mind riveted on his job. Sherlock is thankful for that: Wilber Holmes will have peace, at least for a while. The boy still loves his brilliant father, the man with the wonderfully scientific brain – they are much alike both in appearance and mind.

Mr. Holmes seems to sense him, glances up … then looks away, pretending that he hasn’t seen his son. Soon,
he turns his back. Sherlock wilts for a moment, but he understands. It must be this way. Maybe some day he can prove himself worthy to his father. Some time in the future everyone will know the name of Sherlock Holmes and Wilber will be proud. He can start this very minute.

Sherlock turns toward the crime scene and steels himself. The area where the trapeze artist fell has been cordoned off. A half dozen sweating Bobbies dressed in their heavy blue uniforms and black helmets, keep nosey people away.

Sherlock strolls past, pretending to be disinterested. None of the Peelers pay him the slightest attention, and yet he has a strange sensation of being watched. He looks way up at the trapeze apparatus: platforms, ropes, bars, all tied now and still. He’s often imagined what it would be like to be up there, actually flying, hearing the roar of the crowds. Leotard, Blondin, the Flying Farinis, the Mercures, are all like idols to him, as heroic as Britain’s warriors at the Battle of Waterloo. If his family had had the money to buy portraits of such daring stars, he would have filled a photograph album with them.

As he passes, Sherlock sees one of his heroes. He can’t believe his good fortune. It’s
The Swallow
or
L’Hirondelle
, Mercure’s dynamic flying son. Sherlock had seen the boy gazing down from the perch yesterday, a look of horror on his face. He seems collected now, tying up ropes at the base of a pole, tightening bolts, reaching into a sack for tools as he works. He wears a pair of checked brown trousers, the
sleeveless top of his performing costume, a green felt hat with a feather tipped at a jaunty angle. His face is turned away, but surprisingly, given what happened to his father less than twenty-four hours before, he is whistling a merry tune.

Holmes glances back at the Bobbies. All of them are looking away, not vigilant in the tiring humidity. Again, he has the feeling he is being observed, though when he looks up and down the nearly empty hall, he can’t spot who it might be. He moves quickly toward The Swallow. Sherlock is not sure how to address this awe-inspiring performer, but he has more than just a rudimentary knowledge of the French language. In fact, his French grades, like his others, are always high – he can speak in the young artiste’s native tongue.

“
Excusez-moi
” he asks respectfully.

The boy abruptly stops whistling and turns. For an instant an expression of fear crosses his face. But it passes quickly.

“Are you addressin’ me?”

Sherlock can’t believe it. The Swallow has a cockney accent.

“Y-Yes,” is all he can sputter.

“Well I ain’t answerin’,” says the trapeze star and turns back to his job. Up close he looks no more than eleven or twelve years old, but he’s full of the regard for himself that starring on the flying trapeze in one of Europe’s great troupes would give anyone.

“I just wanted to express my sorrow at what happened to your father,” offers Sherlock.

“Weren’t me father. You’d better get away, boy.” The lad turns again as he speaks and gives Sherlock a hard look. “The Force won’t take kindly to yer snoopin’ about. ’alf a minute and they’ll remove you without warm regards.” He crosses his arms over his chest and his little biceps bulge.

Sherlock looks toward the Bobbies. They haven’t even glanced his way yet.

“Was there anyone who didn’t like your … Monsieur Mercure?”

The Swallow lets out a loud laugh.
“Anyone?
What about
everyone?”

The performer is full of surprises. But Sherlock wants more, so he decides to play a card.

“What if I told you that I know something particular about what happened yesterday … something that maybe only one other person knows?”

The Swallow hesitates and for an instant his tough exterior drops. “Don’t get me wrong, mate,” he explains. “I’m pretty broken up concernin’ this. It was a terrible accident. Don’t know what you mean by ‘knowin’ somethin’.’ You must excuse me.” And with that he turns away again and won’t look back.

It is just as well. A Bobbie has noticed Sherlock and is advancing on him. The officer stops when the boy steps away from the young trapeze star and saunters off.

But Sherlock wants to get another look at the fatal trapeze bar too. He spots it on a wooden chair directly behind one of the policemen, looking, as he suspected, even more splintered than when he first examined it.

How can he get past the Peelers and take another peek? He doesn’t need much time, just a few seconds. Maybe he can tell what kind of cuts were made: were they sawed, straight slices, what sort of instrument was used? It won’t matter if they catch him. They’ll think he’s a fanatic and simply throw him out. He just wants to grab it, glance at it, and go.

He’ll make this rudimentary – a simple bit of misdirection. He walks up close to the policeman nearest the chair and stares up at the ceiling, looking into the distance away from where they are standing. He stares for a long while, examining the thousands of panes of glass and iron frames arching two hundred feet above.

Finally, the Bobbie looks up.

Sherlock darts behind him and grabs the bar. He can still see the cuts, though they are indeed now obscured after being splintered by the spectators’ boots.

“You! Boy!”

The Peeler collars Sherlock and he drops the bar, allowing it to clatter on the chair. But just as quickly another voice echoes in the hall, and he recognizes it.

Inspector Lestrade.

“Release him!” the detective shouts. “Release him!” He has come out from behind one of the central transept’s huge potted plants, near a red iron pillar beside a wall. There’s someone with him.

Now Sherlock knows why he’d felt watched. Lestrade is a short, lean man, dressed in a tweed suit with waistcoat and a black bowler hat on his head. Holmes, who has no regard for him at all, thinks his face looks like a rodent’s.
He wishes the detective would go away for now – it isn’t yet time for his involvement. And he certainly doesn’t want Lestrade trying to make amends: this man to whom Sherlock gave all the incriminating evidence concerning the Whitechapel murder and who then took every ounce of credit for himself.

“Master Sherlock Holmes?” he queries, peering into the boy’s face as he approaches, as if to confirm his identity. His son, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age and almost a copy of him both in dress and appearance (minus the handlebar mustache), is right at his side, staring curiously at the younger lad too. It is obvious that he is apprenticing to become a police detective.