Over everything, on the east side of the square, looms the stunning Royal Alhambra. Sherlock stares up at it as if it were the Moorish palace in Spain that it is modeled upon. He can barely believe that he is about to enter: Wilber and Rose Holmes could never have afforded it, nor would they have condoned it. It was here that Leotard had virtually invented the flying trapeze and enthralled every woman who watched his straining muscular form, where Blondin had walked the high wire after he returned from Niagara Falls, where Ethardo ascended his dangerous, winding, spiral path on a ball to the ceiling. The cream-colored stone structure ascends in six magnificent storeys, two minaret towers reaching to the sky on either side of the roof, and a regal dome at the center. Arched windows look down on customers alighting from lines of cabs and a mass of revelers entering the doors. Signs announce the attractions in big, bright letters: THE FLYING FARINIS! and FARINI AND SON IN MARVELOUS FLIGHTS! and EL NIñO THE BULLET BOY! The Alhambra can hold nearly five thousand people.
As Sherlock hands over his round, tin ticket and passes into the lobby, he feels like he is walking on air, rather like the man who once strolled upside down on the ceiling of the Alhambra’s dome. Though he enjoys the atmosphere of anticipation in this exterior room, he rushes through it, past the pack of patrons, a thin bark floating in a sea of gaudy clothes, intent on entering the infamous inner auditorium for the first time.
He is not disappointed. In fact, it nearly makes him faint.
It seems like there’s a whole world under the gigantic dome: pink and red and gold, everything sparkling in the gaslight jets. Balconies rise up in three curved tiers to the hundred-foot ceiling. At the far end is a proscenium arch and stage with a shimmering black curtain, awaiting show time. Long rows of tables, with bottles of wine and champagne on white tablecloths, run along the floor toward the stage, garishly dressed people already seated there, anxious for the spectacles to begin.
Sherlock staggers to the rowdy pit near the front, finding an inconspicuous place among the many standing spectators. These people aren’t dressed quite as well, and some of the men have painted women on their arms whom the boy is sure are not their wives or even fiancées.
Before long there is a roar from the crowd and a sixty-piece orchestra begins to play Sherlock is taken aback by the power of all the instruments sounding together. He has never been so close to such a band. He listens for the violins but their sweet sounds are drowned in the swirling, up-tempo waltz that fills the mighty room and echoes in the dome.
Every night there is a parade of entertainment here and Sherlock is transfixed by this one. First, there is a famous singer named Alfred Vance who belts out hilarious songs, then beautiful dancers wearing skimpy dresses raise their legs very high to smashing drum beats and shouts from the crowd, the Fakir of Oolu suspends a lady in midair, Oscar Slater twirls six hats on sticks at once, and then comes a “ballet” unlike any Sherlock has ever heard of: no one wears elegant dresses, no one dances on their toes, and the music is far from refined. Instead, it is a cast of hundreds in a tale of perilous adventure, a loud and riveting display.
Sherlock is exhausted by it all. He feels hotter and sweatier under his evening suit than he has felt all week.
Many emotions course through him as he is carried along by the sights and sounds that fill the music hall.
But he knows that something even better is yet to come. The Farinis will close the show. They will fly directly above the heads of the audience. Sherlock can hardly wait.
When it begins, it exceeds his expectations.
The gaslights dim. A drumroll sounds. A trapeze apparatus lowers magically until it hangs halfway between the ceiling and the floor, and a long narrow net falls into place about thirty feet above the tables. Silence descends.
Suddenly, El Niño is in the air. He sails noiselessly on a single swinging trapeze in a blood-red costume. His curly blond locks flow behind him. His grace and strength are incredible as he builds momentum, almost reaching the ceiling of the dome, eliciting gasps from below. But then the drums begin again, loud and sinister this time, and suddenly Signor Farini is seen across the auditorium on another trapeze.
“There he is!” someone cries.
Farini’s black goatee and mustache contrast perfectly with his scarlet costume, the big muscles in his legs bulge in his silk leotards, his bare arms are thick and sinewy. Sherlock tries to shout but the sound catches in his throat. He has seen this famous man once before on Fleet Street near London Bridge, strutting along with his protégé like a dark-eyed stallion, confidence exuding from him. Sherlock had been entranced. Now … here is The Great Farini in the air above him! This is the athlete who challenged Blondin on a high rope above Niagara Falls, perhaps the most fearless, inventive acrobat on earth, and the creator of El Niño, the boy who can fly.
Farini swings toward the ceiling too, and because of his size and power, it seems as though he will sail from his trapeze and ascend through the roof. The orchestra is playing “The Farini Waltz” and El Niño and his mentor are synchronizing their movements. But then the master makes a sudden move into a sitting position and … his bar breaks! He starts to fall and Sherlock’s cry is smothered by the screams of many others. But Farini isn’t really falling – the bar hasn’t broken. He is executing a sudden drop of a few feet, and grabs the bar with the backs of his knees to hang upside down. Then he starts swinging, his eyes cast across the auditorium toward El Niño. There, the “Bullet Boy” makes a mighty swing and crosses to a trapeze bar directly over the center of the hall, catching it with one hand and winking at the audience. Then he takes another swing, two, three … and lets go!
He flies like a falcon, somersaults … and catches his father’s hands. Farini gives him three swings and flings him into the air again, back toward his own bar, which he catches. Once more they try the trick, but this time with two somersaults, and finally … three.
Sherlock is ecstatic. He watches in wonder as the Farinis perform more extraordinary feats, in a stunning display of strength and speed: El Niño taps on a drum with both hands, holding on to the trapeze by the nape of his neck while he plays; Signor Farini lies down between two bars and projects the boy straight into the air with his remarkable stomach muscles.
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 th
e 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.
He’d fly through the air with the greatest of ease
That daring young man on the flying trapeze!
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. “W
ell, 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.
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