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.
“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 r
aised, 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
As 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.
They had eventually appeared: a little bandit army stretched out inconspicuously through the thick Leicester Square throngs, looking for targets, Grimsby and Crew in the lead, Malefactor in the shadows.
Irene had been watching too, sitting on one of the square’s park benches, brought here by cab, situated close enough to others so that it would appear she wasn’t alone. Today she wears a plain, brown cotton dress – no crinoline to make the skirt billow out – a gray shawl, and dark bonnet, almost disguised as a working-class girl.
“Facts?” responds Malefactor, put out by Sherlock’s demand.
“That is the only way to proceed with any investigation. It is what a scientist does. Gather facts first –”
“and then eliminate all the things that aren’t possible, and find the plausible,” says Irene, finishing his sentence. She has heard him say this before, in the days when they were much happier with each other.
“Precisely,” he says.
“And what facts are you after now?” asks Malefactor, turning his back and sitting down on the cobblestones, pretending indifference. Sherlock’s questions about planned “accidents” in the entertainment world during their previous encounter had revealed that the boy was interested in the Mercure incident. But that’s all he knows.
“Intimate details about dangerous performances and their practitioners.”
Malefactor is uncomfortable. “I have told you what I know of circus performers.” He lowers his voice. “This is one of the very few things about which I am not encyclopedic.” His eyes shift toward Irene to see her reaction.
“But El Niño is.”
“El Niño?” says Malefactor, turning to Sherlock.
“The same; star of the Royal Alhambra stage. He must know the Mercures, and all about their world.”
“Wouldn’t a lesser star do?”
“I need to contact someone of the Mercures’ stature. In fact, someone even more celebrated. Someone to whom I can be sure The Swallow has spoken.”
“But how might you get so close as to actually speak with El Niño?” sneers the crime boss.
“Just get me in and I’ll do the rest. Steal me a ticket. In the pit will do fine.”
Malefactor pauses. A dismissive expression passes over his face, but then he remembers Irene, standing by his side. He knows Sherlock
is using the situation. Can Malefactor produce what is needed, or will he be forced to admit defeat in front of Irene? A plan to first impress her, and then convert her, has been growing in Malefactor’s mind. It is a long and complicated one, and there can’t be any hitches along the way. But Sherlock Holmes has him for now. He has made a clever chess move. Malefactor appreciates it. In fact, he admires it.
“I shall get you in, Jew-boy” he says, smiling.
As eight o’clock approaches, Sherlock emerges into Leicester Square clothed in dazzling evening dress: a black tailcoat and trousers with silk tie, a stovepipe hat … and a mustache. His outfit is courtesy of the Trafalgar Square Irregulars, a prized selection from their vast store of stolen goods, taken some months before during a daring raid on a drunken gentleman, walking alone after a night on the town. They had left him staggering about on the roadway in his underclothing. The mustache is a concoction of horsehair and glue. Thank goodness the boy is tall.
Stealing the ticket was no great task for Malefactor’s light-fingered lads. The boss dispatched Grimsby and Crew while Sherlock was being dressed and they returned before he was done.
It’s a pass for the pit stalls: one bob and sixpence.
Sherlock makes his way onto the north-west corner of the square. Along this side are rows of big, four-storey stone buildings jammed together with canopies overhanging the wide footpaths and advertisements plastered on exteriors. Most of these places were white or at least brown when they were built, but they are now streaked with black from the coal soot in the air. The south and west sides of the square have similar-sized buildings though no two insides are the same. Leicester Square is a mix of London: a cornucopia of its delights and seamier side. There are museums showing human and animal oddities, hotels with foreign names, soup kitchens, and little exhibition halls for every kind of entertainment known to man. Tall elm trees shade the central park, which is encircled by a short black-iron fence that sprouts gas lamps on poles. They have just been kindled by the lamplighters and a moist, foggy glow sits over the square. People are here looking to be entertained: dandies with white silk scarves, and scores of women (most of a less-than-genteel sort), wearing loud dresses with necks and ankles exposed; many are in makeup, apparently unmoved by the queen’s belief that it cheapens the fairer sex. There is a buzz in the air. An organ-grinder plays while his monkey dances, hawkers invite customers into their dens, and newly acquainted couples sit on the benches, conversing in soft tones.
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