Death in the Air (8 page)

But nothing they do prepares the spectators for what follows.

A single drum sounds in the Alhambra as El Niño moves across the auditorium to the bar hanging at the farthest end of the dome. Then he turns, swings until he has frightening momentum, as though he were the stone in a giant sling shot, and lets go…. Out he flies, fifty feet above the tables, his speed almost unbelievable – a boy-arrow shot across the sky. His father hangs by his legs at the other side of the hall, waiting.

This time he seems too far away. How can the boy wonder possibly reach Signor Farini? He would have to have wings. Sherlock steps forward in the pit to extend his arms upward. He can’t bear another accident, not this time,
not El Niño!

The ominous drumbeats increase in intensity.

The boy rockets across the hall, passing one hanging trapeze bar, another, and another. As he approaches his father, there is no doubt that they have miscalculated. A terrible thought crosses Sherlock’s mind: perhaps this horrific accident has been planned too. Farini has a dark reputation: it is said he will do anything to create a sensation. The hint of a nefarious smile is spreading across the big acrobat’s face.

El Niño has missed him
. Missed by two feet. And the net won’t catch him!

“He’ll die!” calls a frightened voice from the galleries.

Then something miraculous happens. Farini drops like an anchor, letting go of the trapeze bar and catching it again with his toes, hanging fully stretched out, his big arms extended two feet lower … and seizes El Niño’s outstretched hands!

The orchestra bursts into “The Farini Waltz” again. The crowd rises to its feet and explodes. Sherlock cheers as loudly as anyone. He shouts even louder as the Farinis drop from their bars and fall, frightening the audience again, but landing lightly in the net.

“Bravo!”

“Well done!”

They bow and salute the crowd and Sherlock dearly wishes that he were El Niño. Applause and praise are assurances he desperately wants, almost needs. He worries that this is a weakness, but he has always yearned to be not only accepted, but adored. He wishes his life had not been what it has been so far – that his mother and father had not been ostracized because of their mixed marriage. He wishes his mother’s life had not fallen apart – that she had not died – because of him.

He feels a tear sneak from his eye onto his cheek and violently wipes it away. No emotion. No feelings. Find the villain.
Be someone!

The Farinis leave via a wooden door near the stage and Sherlock makes for it. This is going to be difficult.

George Leybourne, London’s famous “Champagne Charlie,” who sometimes travels to theaters in a carriage drawn by milk-white horses, has ascended the stage dressed as a dandy. His face glows under his glittering gold top hat. The band is striking up again and he sings one of his most famous ditties, a fitting end to the evening.

Normally, Sherlock would be thrilled to see Leybourne merely stand on a stage, but he has a job to do, and he is on it like a bloodhound. He will do anything to get backstage and speak to El Niño.

A large man stands at the stage door ushering the Farinis past, holding out a beefy arm to prevent anyone else from entering. “Much obliged, William,” he hears the younger star say over his shoulder as he disappears through the exit.

Sherlock decides to make a rush for it. The door is still slightly ajar. But it isn’t when he gets there. The big man almost slams him in it.

“And where is we going, sir?” he asks, bringing his face up uncomfortably close to Sherlock’s, a root-vegetable stench wafting from his mouth and into the boy’s nostrils.

Sherlock steps back. He needs a plan, fast. He surveys the man, examining every inch for observable clues on his face, his clothes, in his attitude.

“I’m from
The Glowworm,”
says Sherlock in the deepest voice he can muster.

“Yer what?”

“
The Glowworm
. I have an appointment with El Niño and a deadline at quarter past eleven. Signor Farini won’t be pleased if this isn’t in my column by tomorrow. Let me pass … William.”

“Do I know you?” the big man asks, his thick arm still across the doorway.

“Perhaps not, but I know you. My editor told me to speak with you and that you would let me pass.”

“Tell me what you know of me then, sir. I’m familiar to all the regular writers.”

Sherlock surveys him again, his mind racing.

“You go by the name of William here but Will at home. You would prefer the latter but your boss, Mr. Hollingshead, wants the former. You were born and raised in Lambeth and still live there. You had a spot of difficulty last night with a troublesome woman who stood just a little better than five feet tall, tried to get by here as well, and raked you on the left cheek with her right hand. I saw it from where I was standing. You have been working at this job for about ten years … though Lord knows, they should promote you.”

William smiles.

“Come with me, sir.”

He opens the stage door and ushers Sherlock in, closing it behind him and pulling a bolt across. They are on a small wooden landing. A spiral stone staircase winds down into a narrow gaslit hallway. As they descend, the boy can hear the muffled sound of Leybourne singing up above and what sounds like thunder as people stomp their feet. Then he hears the violins, soaring during an instrumental bit.

Sherlock breathes a little more easily. Close observations and a few calculated guesses had gotten him by. He knew William’s accent, could see the fresh line of little scars across his left cheek, obviously done by a woman much shorter than he. The boy could also tell, by the man’s manner, that he is a down-to-earth bloke who does his job well and feels he isn’t appreciated.

But perhaps William does it too well. The boy hasn’t counted on him actually accompanying him into the dressing room. The guard plods down the steps directly behind him, showing no signs of leaving. Sherlock frantically leafs through ideas, wondering what he can possibly say, with William right there, when he comes face to face with El Niño – something that will prevent the big man from throwing him out on his ear.

But he is so frightened that he can’t think of anything, and begins to feel desperate.

William takes the lead in the hallway and thuds down it until he comes to a door with the name
Farini
on it in gold lettering. He knocks and an attractive woman opens it. Her face is painted with makeup, her dress barely covering her. There, sitting at a dressing table in front of a gaslit
mirror, is the famous Bullet Boy. A second doorway leads to another room.

What people say about the young star is true: he is a stunning-looking lad. Dare Sherlock say almost beautiful. Many have speculated that this boy might actually be a girl. His photographs are among the best sellers in London, at least as popular as images of Charles Dickens, the queen, and the new
Plastic-Skin Man
at The Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. But Sherlock doesn’t believe that El Niño could possibly be anything but a boy now. Up close, he can see that the performer is older than he is advertised to be – he looks at least twelve – and he is lithe and strong with a devilish, masculine expression on his confident face.

“Who’s this?” asks the young star, not even looking at William.

“Well, Master Farini, I thought
you
might know, sir. Says he’s with
The Glowworm.”

“We didn’t …” begins the boy wonder as he turns toward the door. But he stops. A smile creeps across his face and he begins to laugh.

“Sir?” inquires the bewildered guard.

El Niño controls himself

“Leave this, uh, man, with me, William. Thank you. I remember our appointment now.”

El Niño dismisses both the stage-door man and the woman and beckons Sherlock to sit down next to him in front of a second dressing table. There is a washstand between them.

“Any lad willing to dress up as thoroughly as you
have …” begins El Niño, but he can’t hold back another guffaw, “… horse-hair mustache too!” He roars with laughter. “Couldn’t that fool see through it?”

“No,” answers Sherlock, barely audible, his nervousness increasing as he remembers to whom he is speaking. “No one else did, sir, other than you.”

“Professional expertise,” says El Niño.

Sherlock is struck by the boy’s evident intelligence and by his accent. He isn’t Italian or Spanish as his name might indicate, or even English. He has a flat American way of talking.

“Autograph?” inquires the star, leaning over the wash-stand to clean the makeup and greasepaint from his face.

“No,” replies Sherlock.

“No?” asks the boy, pulling his head out from the basin and finding a towel from the dressing table without looking at it.

“I need some information about your profession and, in particular, about some of the people in it.”

“Thinking of joining? Not necessarily a smart choice. I am fortunate. Farini treats me well.” He leans forward and whispers conspiratorially “Though he doesn’t like that to get around, if you please.” He raises his voice again. “Farini has the imagination, the brains, and the concern, to make sure we
look
dangerous, keep safe, and make many coins of the golden variety.”

Sherlock makes a quick decision. There is only one way to get El Niño to
really
talk to him, and that is to be honest and gamble that the boy will be intrigued by what is revealed.

“I’m investigating a murder,” he says bluntly.

El Niño stops toweling and looks at the boy.

“You what?”

“A murder,” answers Sherlock clearly.

El Niño pauses for an instant, then smiles. “Well, you
are
an interesting sort.”

“I thought I could trust you with that. You aren’t the only one who is good at observing others. I make it my business to understand people, and it seems to me that it is in my interests to be honest with you. Up to a point, that is, because I can’t tell you everything I know or why I am doing this. It’s my own concern and I must keep it private.”

Sherlock has come to that conclusion over the past few weeks. He doesn’t want others to have any details about who he is or used to be. His Jewish heritage had often been used against him. He will never allow that again. He cannot afford to give others such advantages anymore; a knowledge of whom he was and his whereabouts had helped villains to perpetrate his mother’s death and Irene’s accident. This need for secrecy has been reinforced by Malefactor, of all people. The crime lord had taken Sherlock aside that very day in the courtyard off Leicester Square and said quietly:

“If you want to have anything to do with the business of crime, keep your identity to yourself, Holmes. I do. Be quiet about who you are and
especially
who you were. Even when you are older, never tell anyone about the things you did as a youth. Your enemies will exploit any of your
weaknesses and use the advantages they have. Have no friends … except perhaps one very good one.”

Sherlock had wondered why the young criminal had given him such advice, until that last sentence. Malefactor expects some sort of repayment for the help he is providing.

“Sounds like a wise enough idea,” muses El Niño. “Murder, hmm?” The daring boy doesn’t sound convinced, but the whiff of an adventure obviously appeals to him. “What would you like to know?”

“It’s about the Mercures.”

El Niño raises his eyebrows and grows more interested.

“He who suffered a fall at the Palace?”

“Precisely.”

“Not an accident, you feel?” The Bullet Boy eyes Sherlock closely.

“I understand that they aren’t really a family?”

“No, and neither are Farini and I, though he has adopted me. Adoption isn’t common, believe me. The Swallow was a lad much like me as a youth – name of Johnny Wilde. Farini found me in America; Johnny lived on the streets here. Mercure saw him steal something once and elude the Bobbies … like an acrobat – daring and agile. The next day he was in training … and being well fed. Mercure is a bad one though.”

“He is?”

“The word is, he doesn’t pay a fair percentage. Never educated Johnny and beats him as well: whacks him about with a cane when he doesn’t perform as he should. Heard he’s knocked him unconscious more than once.”

There are two green-and-white sticks of striped candy sticking up in jar on El Niño’s dressing table. He has noticed the other boy glancing at them.

“Like one?”

Sherlock happily accepts.

“Do you know anything else about The Swallow’s past?” he asks, feeling more confident.

“He was originally from somewhere south of the city. Destitute when he was very small, he came north and got into a gang of street children. He was taken in by a Lambeth swell mobsman in a rookery over there, south of the river. Living with that old rascal prepared him for taking Mercure’s beatings. That Lambeth crook was a nasty piece of work, he was. Johnny told me he saw the old scoundrel kill a man, and that he taught all his charges how to do the same.”