Death in the Air

neighborhood, a kind of down-and-out place with scads o’ empty houses. Me guvna were a bad ’un and run off on me mum. Nineteen of us, family and others, livin’ in one flat, children across the bottom o’ three straw beds, a bucket in the center o’ the room for the whole lot. I got in with bad sorts and went north some steps to Lambeth, closer to the action. Thought I was a big ’un, I did. Learned ’ow to nick, ’ow to pluck pockets, and yeah, ’ow to do in a man if I needed to.”

“How long has your mother been dead?”

How in the name of Leotard does he know that? wonders The Swallow. He decides this lad must be some sort of magician, just like those wits, The Davenport Brothers, who pretend they read minds on stage.

“Trained in our business, Master ’olmes?”

“No, by a scientist. Observation, Master Wilde, that’s all it is. I noticed the ring on your left hand. It is obviously a woman’s. You were wearing it while you slept, so you must never take it off. Had to be your mother’s – you are too young to be walking out with a girl.”

“She’s dead more than a twelvemonth now, dear mum. I supports the little ’uns.”

Sherlock was getting a clearer picture of one Jonathan Wilde, born Brixton, late of the Lambeth streets, also known as The Swallow. Tough on the outside, but a marshmallow inside, not really suited in the end to steal or kill; someone who might be persuaded to help find the real villain.

“I want you to keep your eyes open for me.”

“It ’ud be me pleasure. I don’t takes kindly to sliced trapeze bars.”

“If you remember anything else that you should have told me, let me know.”

“I shall.”

Sherlock is about to leave. The sun has risen. He has to get back to London on the double. But his mind is racing too – there are so many questions to ask this boy. Sherlock hadn’t, for example, been satisfied with the flippant answer The Swallow had given him yesterday about Mercure’s enemies. Perhaps he’ll do better now. This time, Sherlock will phrase the question carefully.

“In your opinion, is there anyone from outside the profession who might want to do away with Monsieur Mercure?”

“Not outside the business, no. But then, I don’t know many people other than show folks now.”

“Did he have any debts?”

“’im? ’e had a load of coins stacked as ’igh as they is in the Bank of England, ’e did. And ’e weren’t sharin’ it, believe me.”

“Noticed any suspicious people loitering about these past few days?”

“No …” begins The Swallow, stopping in mid-sentence. His eyes seem to register some recollection, then jump back into the present. “No,” he says, “definitely not, just the usual sort.”

Sherlock notices the pause and places it in his memory. This Swallow is an interesting young man, and he may prove to be even more so in the near future.

On his way home, Sherlock rushes through Trafalgar Square, then speeds north on a wide, busy street past palatial steps that lead to the huge doors of a towering church. As he turns his head to glance at it, someone violently seizes him and pulls him into the mews across the street on the far side of St. Martin’s ominous granite workhouse. Good and evil are often side by side in London.

“Master Holmes, I perceive.”

“Malefactor.”

The young leader is alone and smiling, his sunken eyes look sharp and mischievous. He clutches a newspaper in his hand, obviously amused at something. His slight Irish accent grows stronger when he’s angry or excited. “Have you seen this?” he asks, his tongue darting out of his mouth like a reptile’s. He is holding up The Illustrated Police News to display its headline: “MURDER AT THE PALACE?”

“I know of it,” answers the boy, trying to recover his equanimity without showing he ever lost it, fixing the disturbed collar on his frock coat.

“Care for a clue?” asks Malefactor pompously.

“I have several.”

Sherlock has actually been thinking precisely the opposite: that he has none. He is back at the beginning of this investigation, miles from his reward. If The Swallow didn’t do it and neither did the meek Eagle, then his only suspect is The Robin and she isn’t a good one. El Nino had described her as disloyal, and she didn’t seem terribly impressed with her beau when Sherlock saw them talking, so it seems doubtful that she really cares for the younger man or the older – that she has the passion to kill Mercure, or would sacrifice anything for The Eagle. Her only loyalty is to the troupe’s name and the fame and money it brings her, whether its leader is alive or dead. She has no real motive.

“I am in possession of information about the chap known to the applauding masses as … The Swallow,” says Malefactor smugly, bowing deeply as if he were on the Alhambra stage.

There is a brief pause. Sherlock is reluctant to ask about it. But his rival will make him. The young master thief is greatly enjoying the attentions of Irene Doyle these days and having something important to tell Sherlock about this case, something the boy is anxious to know, just adds to his fun. He grins at Holmes, waiting for him to grovel, to beg to know what he knows.

What could this criminal, an expert among thieves and murderers, know about one of London’s greatest young trapeze stars?

“What is it?” the boy detective finally inquires brusquely.

“He was born and spent his early days in Brixton.”

Sherlock grins.

“Oh really?”

“Really,” says Malefactor, examining his fingernails. “You seem unimpressed.”

“Because I discovered that fact long ago.” It is only partly a lie. He begins to examine his own nails, then notices and stops. He straightens his hair, notices that too, and puts his hands at his side.

“I was just getting started, Master Genius.” Malefactor looks daggers at him and smoothes out his precious tailcoat. “But given your attitude, I don’t think I shall go on. Suffice it to say that you should be aware of more than just the simple whereabouts of Master Swallow’s early years. Rather, you should consider its significance. I shall tell you nothing more. I have said too much as it is, anyway.”

“That is fine with me,” snaps Sherlock. “I don’t need help from the likes of you anymore. I suggest you go back to stealing.”

“While you seek justice and do what is right for the British Empire?” growls Malefactor.

“I shall do the first part, anyway.”

“You are no better than me. There is none of us any better than the other.”

“I beg to differ.”

“There are no such things as good and evil. There are simply human machinations: people trying to survive and thrive. I learned that long ago.”

Sherlock has deduced a great deal about the other boy since he first met him last year: from things he has said, from that precious, once-luxurious tailcoat that he cleans almost daily. This boy was once in much better circumstances, perhaps in Ireland. He has suffered a great fall. Someone caused it. He has about him the mental wherewithal to be much more than he is – he’s been well educated and taught social graces.

But Sherlock and his family fell too – his mother from a mighty height – and he has chosen to seek good while Malefactor hasn’t. They both came to a crossroads in life and made their choices.

“I am someone whose morals you profess to abhor,” hisses Malefactor. “Yet you use me to get what you want.” He is seething, barely restraining himself. “And you will continue to try to use me as long as you get something from it! As long as it helps you become something greater than you are, makes you feel like someone special … the great detective!”

“I –”

“You cannot deny it!”