Death in the Air

“Right ’ere, where we’re standin’. I was puttin’ up the equipment.”

“So, they saw that you were in charge of the trapeze swings?”

“Suppose they did, yeah.”

“Was there anyone else around?”

The boy points across the transept. “Just them two.”

The Eagle and The Robin are walking in their direction. They are glancing around, aware that others are noticing them. They pick up their pace when they see The Swallow and the tall, thin boy.

“Stop talkin’ to strangers, Johnny, and get to work,” the young woman commands as they near. She turns on Sherlock. “Leave off!” she barks.

Despite her nasty attitude, the boy is struck by how beautiful she is up close. Not that she isn’t while in the air: her flaming hair flowing as she flies, her face glowing with strong, painted features, and her long muscular legs and slim arms shockingly on display in her almost see-through red costumes; she is always a scandalous and enticing vision, and her entrancing form mixes with the danger of her act and thrills the hearts of every man who has ever gazed up at her.

Sherlock steps back, feeling intimidated.

“I ’ave to talk to ’im,” says The Swallow, looking her square in the face, obviously not afraid of her.

“Why?” asks The Eagle. He steps up close and stands over Sherlock and The Swallow, his size imposing. But Sherlock can see that what El Nino told him is true, just by looking into the man’s eyes. The Eagle seems unsure of the authority he is trying to display. Close observation can tell you a great deal about an individual; it can reach into a soul. Sherlock has been trying to rally himself. The other’s weakness makes him feel stronger.

“Because I know certain things about the Mercure murder that no one else knows,” he says, moving so close to The Eagle that their noses almost touch.

“It … it isn’t a murder,” answers The Eagle, visibly swallowing. “We saw him today. He’s still alive.”

“That’s correct,” says The Robin, “and …” she hesitates, “what do you know, anyway?”

Sherlock hadn’t been surprised to see cracks in The Eagle’s exterior, but The Robin looks to be faltering too, her question almost a plea, obviously taken aback by Sherlock’s claim. The boy wonders why this brash woman might be frightened. Does she have something to hide? Is she a better suspect than it seems?

“It isn’t murder yet, you mean,” asserts Sherlock. “But the chances are, it will be, and if not, then attempted murder, at least.”

The Eagle glances at The Robin as if looking for guidance.

“I need more time with your young accomplice,” says Sherlock, “so you two may go – for now. I understand you have work to do? Please do not leave the premises until I speak with you.”

Always best to leave suspects worrying, he thinks. The Robin and The Eagle, who both seemed to start at the word accomplice, leave meekly.

“I had naught to do with this, you know,” repeats The Swallow, the instant they are out of earshot.

“Where is the vault?” answers Sherlock dryly, as if he hasn’t heard him.

“’ow should I know? That doesn’t concern me.”

“You know, because you always know where the money is kept at any venue you play It is in your nature. Am I not correct?”

The Swallow regards Sherlock as if testing his will and receives a stern stare in response.

“It’s over there.” He is pointing down the nave directly at the police officers. A thought enters the young detective’s mind. He is considering a line of investigation that Lestrade, standing directly outside the vault with his son and the constables, has likely never even considered.

“Do you know anyone who works there?”

“Where?”

“At the vault – has anything to do with guarding it?”

The Swallow allows a slight smile.

“I do,” he says.

It is the answer Sherlock was hoping for. In fact, he feels as though he has just called the winner at The Derby. The Swallow indeed knows something, and his smile is an indication that Sherlock is getting warmer. Despite the young star’s situation, he obviously admires a clever mind.

“Did the guard make the acquaintance of your friends from Brixton the day you met them here?”

“He did.”

Sherlock detects a twinkle in The Swallow’s eyes now, as if he were inviting his interviewer to ask the right questions. But the twinkle has its limits: the young acrobat also wants to defend himself.

“I will tell you again,” he says, “I did naught wrong. I don’t know what ’appened that day, I swear on me mother’s grave. I’ll truthfully answer any question you ask, but I don’t want to get no one in trouble, send no one to jail, and I won’t volunteer information.”

The time has come to ask the right question. Sherlock has the right person in front of him, while the police are lost, as usual.

“Is the guard a young man? Would you say he admires you?”

“’e is, and ’e does, talks to me every time I come ’ere.”

“Did he ever tell you anything about his job, brag about it?”

“Yes.”

“Did he speak of it that day?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“’e said there’d be one hundred thousand pounds in the vault by two o’clock that day.”

Sherlock tries not to show his excitement.

“Anything else?”

“And that ’e keeps the combination for the lock in a notebook in his coat pocket. Said it was very complicated, as though ’e wanted to give us all a sense of ’is importance.”

“Us all?” asks Sherlock as soberly as possible. “Who else was party to this particular conversation?”

“Two others.”

“The members of the Brixton Gang?”

The Swallow is reluctant to answer, but he’s promised.

“Yes.”

Sherlock is finding it even more difficult to stay calm. He has to keep to his line of questioning.

“Did the guard tell you and your friends anything else of interest?”

“Not really.”

“Anything else at all? Trivial matters are sometimes things of immense importance.”

The Swallow thinks for a moment.

“I recall that ’e spoke of how much ’e enjoyed the cold lemon drink they make at the Refreshment Department’s dinin’ room ’ere.”

“Did you see the guard again the next day, the day of the accident?”

“I recollect seein’ ’im walkin’ along the floor of the transept just before I commenced to climb me tower.”

“What was he doing?”

“Starin’ at me, smilin’, steppin’ toward the vault.”

“Anything unusual about him?”

“No. ’e was just walkin’, carryin’ a cup o’ that lemon drink.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Just waved ’ello, raised the cup to me, mentioned that one of me old Brixton mates bought it for ’im.”

Sherlock now has a flock of clues, all flying around in his mind, unconnected. He drifts into one of his characteristic moments of thought, his chin dropping onto his chest, his eyes almost closed, trying to put it all together. The Swallow’s voice breaks his concentration.

“I figured me friends might be tryin’ to rob the vault, I’ll tell you frankly, Master ’olmes. And I didn’t interfere.