Death in the Air (6 page)

“The same,” allows Sherlock.

“And why are you here?” Lestrade doesn’t sound like he wants to make amends at all. He sounds stern, yet interested.

“My father works here,” says the boy.

“I know that,” retorts the inspector, “I don’t mean here, in this building, I mean
here
on this spot … where this accident occurred … looking at
that.”
He points at the trapeze bar.

“I am an enthusiast of the flying trapeze.”

Young Lestrade laughs out loud. His father gives him a look, cutting him short.

“Aren’t we all?” says the detective, gazing back at Sherlock with a forced smile.

“If there is nothing else, sir, I will be on my way.”

He brushes past the other boy who is regarding him with something very much like admiration.

“We have our eyes on you, Master Holmes,” says Lestrade loudly, picking up the trapeze bar and examining it very closely.

Then I have nothing to fear
, thinks the boy.

On the surface, it might seem that Sherlock had come all the way out to the Palace and found nothing, but that isn’t true. Little details are often of immense importance. Any scientist knows that. Though the bar hadn’t told him much, he had learned a good deal about
Le Coq
of the Flying Mercures, the Monsieur himself. He’s a man who isn’t well liked, a man whose apparently fatal fall inspires little sadness in his own protégé, a man who obviously has enemies. Exactly who they are is still to be learned, though there is already one potential suspect – The Swallow, so inexplicably happy and guarded in what he has to say. Sherlock has also observed the murder scene meticulously. It has told him that he must come back in order to make the bold move he now has in mind. His heart races when he thinks of it.

But for the time being, he has another destination to get to quickly.

A few hours later he is back in the city. It is mid afternoon and he is walking briskly across the rough sett stones in the
gray square at Smithfield’s Market near St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Monsieur Mercure is in there somewhere, and Sherlock is determined that he will get inside and see him.

But he’s too late.

Approaching an inconspicuous door, he spies Lestrade and his son exiting a central entrance some distance away. Sherlock had to walk all the way here from the Palace, while this duo obviously traveled by carriage. They turn and step directly toward him, heading south, down to busy Newgate Street to hail a hansom cab. The day has turned gray as London days often do, and rain is drizzling in the sticky air. Sherlock steps back into a little recessed doorway and crouches down, pulling his coat up over his head, pretending to be a destitute street boy. Most gentlemen, and Lestrade considers himself one, wouldn’t take notice of such an urchin.

The detective and his son are walking at a measured pace, talking.

“Well, he’s still alive,” says the young apprentice.

“Just. He’ll never utter another word.”

“What did you make of the other two?”

“They were arguing when we arrived, weren’t they? What it was about I couldn’t grasp – they stopped rather abruptly.” Lestrade sounds frustrated.

“My perception was that they were put out when they saw us. And they didn’t seem terribly sad about Mercure, did you think, Father?”

“No they didn’t, and I don’t like it.”

They stroll past Sherlock without even glancing down.

“When you put that together with the trapeze bar –” muses the younger Lestrade.

“Yes, I know.”

“How did that Holmes boy –”

“He doesn’t know anything. He just happened to be looking at it. Let us be off.”

With that the elder Lestrade picks up his gait and the younger follows. Sherlock peels his coat back off his face and peers around the corner of the doorway after them. As he does, young Lestrade hears him and turns. The boys’ eyes meet.

Oh-oh
.

“Uh, father …”

“What!” snaps his governor impatiently, a good five paces ahead.

“Nothing, sir.” He gives Sherlock a slight smile.

“Well then increase your stride, sir, and be smart about it. We have much to do.”

A few moments later Sherlock stands, but his attention is instantly arrested by the appearance of two more familiar figures leaving by the same hospital doorway the Lestrades used. It is
La Rouge-Gorge
and
L’Aigle
, known to thousands in England as The Robin and The Eagle, the beautiful young woman and muscular young man who make up the rest of the Flying Mercures troupe, elder “offspring” of the Monsieur. They walk out into the square, away from Sherlock. He leaves the doorway and follows. Their voices are raised, and the language they are speaking is certainly not French. It is English and profane.

It becomes clearer as the boy approaches. He diagnoses their accents: London working class, similar to The Swallow’s, though one from Hackney, the other Bermondsey – he can tell by the individual way they drop the letter
H
. It is obvious that these two aren’t related, either to each other or their young flying “brother,” and their affection for their so-called father seems to have long since reached its limits.

“Why ’asn’t this bloody-well finished ’im?” asks the woman, her bright red cloak, scarlet hair and makeup evident in the gray rainy street.

“It should ’ave,” mutters The Eagle, pulling a fat cigar out of his mouth.

Sherlock is nearing, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The two performers are engrossed in their conversation.

“I don’t like those detectives nosin’ around,” says The Robin.

“Yeah, well, they is, so quit your complainin’ and act ’eartbroke for once.”

“’eartbroke? ’ow about you, Jimmy? You’re supposed to be ’is son!”

“Maybe you care more for ’im than you’re sayin’,” says The Eagle gruffly, walking faster and moving away from her, briskly buttoning up his greatcoat.

“Leave off!” she shouts and rushes after him.

“Maybe you liked being with ’im all this time,” he spits, turning on her with a flushed face. The tips of his brown mustache are as sharp as needles.

“I done it for
us!”
she screams, throwing a slap at him.

He catches her blow in a big, powerful hand. “Well, being with another is an odd way of showin’ yer affections!”

The Robin notices a tall boy in a tattered frock coat passing by. She lowers her voice to a heated whisper.

“If I’d a rejected ’im, e’d a dismissed me, and you with me too! You find another job like the Mercures, Jimmy. Find another one!”

The Eagle pauses, then smiles and pops his cigar between his lips again.

“Well, we’ve got one now don’t we, Mabel.
We’re
the Mercures!”

“That we is,” she coos and kisses him long and hard. Then she loops her arm under his, and they prance out of the square almost as if to celebrate, giggling as they go.

Sherlock is well past them now. If he turns and follows, it will be obvious that he is listening. He has enough information: The Robin was having an affair – one forced upon her – with Le Coq. And The Eagle didn’t like it. Both young people had much to gain from their master’s death.

The chimes at St. Paul’s Cathedral ring out and echo through the narrow, old streets.

The apothecary! He’ll be on his way home
. Sherlock sets off at a run.

THE KINGS OF THE ALHAMBRA

A
s Sherlock steams along Denmark Street, dodging costermongers and barefoot children, the sweat pouring down his face like a waterfall, he spots Sigerson Bell coming his way. But the old man is moving so slowly that the boy reaches the shop well before him. The door is unlocked – he hasn’t been given a key. Everything has been left unguarded. He breathes a sigh of relief as he sees that nothing has been disturbed in the reception room. In the lab, he takes the mortars from the table, gives the surface a quick wipe with his hands, and sets flasks, retorts, and test tubes in place. As he works, he thinks about what he has learned today. He no longer questions whether or not he should be involved. He and Bell need the money. He
must
find the villain. He needs to know more about the three surviving Mercures and their motives. Yet, he can’t confront them.

“My boy?” calls out Bell, sounding as cheery as a morning lark. He walks through the front room and then appears in the laboratory, a veritable picture of the happiest man on earth.

“How was your day, sir?”

“Is it
that
hot in here?”

Sherlock wipes his brow with the back of his hand. “Just hard at work, sir.”

The alchemist looks his apprentice up and down. “I had a fine day, Master Holmes. Four patients; the usual complaints. They are now as fit as fiddles. I would not be surprised, though they are all elderly ladies, to hear that they have taken to the stage and are performing as a troupe, this very evening, upon the flying trapeze at the Royal Alhambra Palace.”

That’s it
, thinks Sherlock.
The Alhambra!

“I am wondering, sir, if you don’t need me, if I might go out for a stroll this evening? I believe I need the air … having been inside all day?”

“A stroll, Master Holmes? I had planned to teach you some pugilism.” Bell assumes a fighting stance and takes a swing at the boy, who barely ducks in time.

“Perhaps … tomorrow?”

“I need more facts,” says Sherlock, looking into Malefactor’s steely gray eyes about two hours later. It wasn’t hard to find him, but it is unpleasant to see Irene in his disreputable presence again, even if she is here, as she says, to reform him. Sherlock hopes she is simply Holmes-hunting and knows that he often seeks out the young crime boss. But he isn’t sure. Irene Doyle is difficult to read. Though she stands next to Malefactor again, it is Sherlock at whom she gazes.

Her presence is indeed unpleasant here, and yet, perfect. Getting what he wants out of Malefactor this evening will be much easier with her by his side.

They are in a dirty courtyard not far from Leicester Square, exactly where the young sleuth hoped the Irregulars would be. The hot sun will soon set. Dark clouds drift across the evening sky. Sherlock had waited patiently nearby for more than an hour, sure that the gang would pass through. This central London square with its mid-week crowds of people taking in attractions is one of the best places for the little criminals to do their sneaky deeds.