Death in the Air

“The Brixton Gang knows a great deal about poisons and medicinal mixtures,” adds the alchemist sadly. “The use of them, as well as the gang’s elusiveness, love of misdirection, and murderous ways during robberies, are all trademarks of their nefarious operations.”

“They leave the Palace,” says Sherlock, “come back with an appropriate tool of their trade, and later that day, one of them distracts The Swallow just as he is finishing his work on the trapeze bars before they are raised to the perch … and the other slices two cuts at the ends of Mercure’s swing, each about halfway through it, and perhaps camouflages them with paint.

So, the scene is set for one of their perfect crimes. The four members of the Brixton Gang arrive at the Crystal Palace early on the day of the event. They mix with a large and growing crowd drawn by the promise of a marvelous flying trapeze performance, and situate themselves near the vault room’s door, which is undoubtedly always guarded by a Bobbie or two, likely bearing concealed revolvers.”

“But there is a sensational performance about to begin just down the transept,” chimes in Bell, “an irresistible show the Bobbies will be able to view from their spot outside the door.”

“When the band strikes up, their attention shifts down the transept.” Sherlock looks at Bell who nods. “The world-renowned Flying Mercures are about to perform.”

“Still, the policemen are professionals and keep an eye on the door,” cautions the apothecary.

Sherlock thinks for a moment. Then he has it. “But, when Le Coq himself seizes the trapeze bar on his lofty perch and the drumroll begins, it is too much for the policemen. It would be for anyone. They stare away, up into the distance.”

“And thus the Brixton Gang strikes. They spring the latch on the vault-room door with quick and ghostly expertise.”

“In all probability, two go in and two remain just outside.”

“Inside, the guard doesn’t see them, because he is slumped on his chair, his half-finished cup of lemon drink gripped sleepily in his hands, drugged into a stupor.”

“They remove the notebook (with the combination) from the guard’s pocket, open the vault, and take the money.”

“And return the little volume to its sleeping owner,” adds the old man.

“And while they are doing this, a terrible accident occurs down the transept. It transfixes everyone, including the Bobbies. No one can take their eyes from it. Le Coq screams, he falls like an anvil toward the hard floor and strikes it with a sickening thud. Pandemonium ensues. Everyone rushes to the fallen man. There is deafening noise, shrieks and wails, women fainting, absolute confusion in the Palace. The Bobbies outside the vault-room door are caught up in the crush, and are either pulled along by it, away from the door, or simply stunned. Who would not be? The door behind is of no interest to them for at least a minute.”

“But from that door now sneak two villains dragging sacks of money. They are met by two others. With smiles on their faces they move against the crowd, the other way, out the big rear entrance of the central transept and to a carriage with fleet horses nearby. They are gone within minutes.”

“Behind them the vault-room door is shut and locked, as if it had never been opened.”

“Their perfect crime is complete, made possible by brilliant misdirection: by the Bobbies’ interest in the trapeze performance, and cinched by the accident.”

“The policemen have no reason to inspect the vault room. Within half an hour, the guard slowly rouses, unaware that anyone has been in the room.”

“In fact, no one even knows that the Palace has been robbed.”

“The gang is long gone. There is just one witness … and he is dead. Silenced.”

The two irregular, amateur detectives had been speaking faster and faster, and have come to a sudden halt.

“There are several potions they could have used,” says Bell. “Laudanum with a few drops of chloroform would do nicely. It would mix transparently into the opaque lemon liquid and render a human being insensible for at least half an hour. You would rouse with the sense that you had simply nodded off for an instant.”

Sherlock starts to pace.

“What will you do next?” asks Bell excitedly. “To Scotland Yard with the evidence?”

“No.”

“But why not?”

“There are many reasons. Firstly, even though we know we are correct, to them this will all just sound like a theory. I acted too rashly before. What does this give them, really, even if they believe it? The Brixton Gang is gone, vanished again. To the police, simply knowing that these fiends committed this crime is almost worse than not knowing. If they tell the public the truth, they will look like the fools they are … another case of the Brixton wizards outsmarting the Force, this time killing a great performer and disappearing into the night. And in addition to everything else, I will be the bearer of the news. Inspector Lestrade doesn’t like that … at all.”

“But I could come with you. I would do that, my boy. Right down to Whitehall! I shall back you up!” The old man shouts his last sentence at the top of his lungs and turns to a battered old painting of Queen Victoria, hanging on the wall, barely observable through test tubes and glass phials. He actually clicks his heels to attention. He can see it now: in his last few failing days, just before he must tell the boy that his world has fallen apart, he can do something wonderful.

Sherlock smiles, but then his face grows dark. His eyes narrow. “No,” he mutters. He paces rapidly back and forth across the lab again, sweat dripping down his face. “It isn’t enough. I will go one further…. I will capture the Brixton Gang myself! Every last one of them…. I shall lay my hands upon these villains.”

Five hundred pounds of British sterling are gleaming in his mind.

PART TWO

THE BRIXTON GANG

“I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into

  the manifold wickedness of the human heart.”

– A client in The Adventure of the Speckled Band