Death in the Air

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 Nino – 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 Nino 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 Nino controls himself

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

El Nino 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 Nino, 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 Nino.

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 Nino 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 Nino stops toweling and looks at the boy.

“You what?”

“A murder,” answers Sherlock clearly.

El Nino 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 Nino. “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 Nino 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 Nino’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