Death in the Air

face is turned away, but surprisingly, given what happened to his father less than twenty-four hours before, he is whistling a merry tune.

Holmes glances back at the Bobbies. All of them are looking away, not vigilant in the tiring humidity. Again, he has the feeling he is being observed, though when he looks up and down the nearly empty hall, he can’t spot who it might be. He moves quickly toward The Swallow. Sherlock is not sure how to address this awe-inspiring performer, but he has more than just a rudimentary knowledge of the French language. In fact, his French grades, like his others, are always high – he can speak in the young artiste’s native tongue.

“Excusez-moi” he asks respectfully.

The boy abruptly stops whistling and turns. For an instant an expression of fear crosses his face. But it passes quickly.

“Are you addressin’ me?”

Sherlock can’t believe it. The Swallow has a cockney accent.

“Y-Yes,” is all he can sputter.

“Well I ain’t answerin’,” says the trapeze star and turns back to his job. Up close he looks no more than eleven or twelve years old, but he’s full of the regard for himself that starring on the flying trapeze in one of Europe’s great troupes would give anyone.

“I just wanted to express my sorrow at what happened to your father,” offers Sherlock.

“Weren’t me father. You’d better get away, boy.” The lad turns again as he speaks and gives Sherlock a hard look. “The Force won’t take kindly to yer snoopin’ about. ’alf a minute and they’ll remove you without warm regards.” He crosses his arms over his chest and his little biceps bulge.

Sherlock looks toward the Bobbies. They haven’t even glanced his way yet.

“Was there anyone who didn’t like your … Monsieur Mercure?”

The Swallow lets out a loud laugh. “Anyone? What about everyone?”

The performer is full of surprises. But Sherlock wants more, so he decides to play a card.

“What if I told you that I know something particular about what happened yesterday … something that maybe only one other person knows?”

The Swallow hesitates and for an instant his tough exterior drops. “Don’t get me wrong, mate,” he explains. “I’m pretty broken up concernin’ this. It was a terrible accident. Don’t know what you mean by ‘knowin’ somethin’.’ You must excuse me.” And with that he turns away again and won’t look back.

It is just as well. A Bobbie has noticed Sherlock and is advancing on him. The officer stops when the boy steps away from the young trapeze star and saunters off.

But Sherlock wants to get another look at the fatal trapeze bar too. He spots it on a wooden chair directly behind one of the policemen, looking, as he suspected, even more splintered than when he first examined it.

How can he get past the Peelers and take another peek? He doesn’t need much time, just a few seconds. Maybe he can tell what kind of cuts were made: were they sawed, straight slices, what sort of instrument was used? It won’t matter if they catch him. They’ll think he’s a fanatic and simply throw him out. He just wants to grab it, glance at it, and go.

He’ll make this rudimentary – a simple bit of misdirection. He walks up close to the policeman nearest the chair and stares up at the ceiling, looking into the distance away from where they are standing. He stares for a long while, examining the thousands of panes of glass and iron frames arching two hundred feet above.

Finally, the Bobbie looks up.

Sherlock darts behind him and grabs the bar. He can still see the cuts, though they are indeed now obscured after being splintered by the spectators’ boots.

“You! Boy!”

The Peeler collars Sherlock and he drops the bar, allowing it to clatter on the chair. But just as quickly another voice echoes in the hall, and he recognizes it.

Inspector Lestrade.

“Release him!” the detective shouts. “Release him!” He has come out from behind one of the central transept’s huge potted plants, near a red iron pillar beside a wall. There’s someone with him.

Now Sherlock knows why he’d felt watched. Lestrade is a short, lean man, dressed in a tweed suit with waistcoat and a black bowler hat on his head. Holmes, who has no regard for him at all, thinks his face looks like a rodent’s. He wishes the detective would go away for now – it isn’t yet time for his involvement. And he certainly doesn’t want Lestrade trying to make amends: this man to whom Sherlock gave all the incriminating evidence concerning the Whitechapel murder and who then took every ounce of credit for himself.

“Master Sherlock Holmes?” he queries, peering into the boy’s face as he approaches, as if to confirm his identity. His son, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age and almost a copy of him both in dress and appearance (minus the handlebar mustache), is right at his side, staring curiously at the younger lad too. It is obvious that he is apprenticing to become a police detective.

“The same,” allows Sherlock.

“And why are you here?” Lestrade doesn’t sound like he wants to make amends at all. He sounds stern, yet interested.

“My father works here,” says the boy.

“I know that,” retorts the inspector, “I don’t mean here, in this building, I mean here on this spot … where this accident occurred … looking at that.” He points at the trapeze bar.

“I am an enthusiast of the flying trapeze.”

Young Lestrade laughs out loud. His father gives him a look, cutting him short.

“Aren’t we all?” says the detective, gazing back at Sherlock with a forced smile.

“If there is nothing else, sir, I will be on my way.”

He brushes past the other boy who is regarding him with something very much like admiration.

“We have our eyes on you, Master Holmes,” says Lestrade loudly, picking up the trapeze bar and examining it very closely.

Then I have nothing to fear, thinks the boy.

On the surface, it might seem that Sherlock had come all the way out to the Palace and found nothing, but that isn’t true. Little details are often of immense importance. Any scientist knows that. Though the bar hadn’t told him much, he had learned a good deal about Le Coq of the Flying Mercures, the Monsieur himself. He’s a man who isn’t well liked, a man whose apparently fatal fall inspires little sadness in his own protege, a man who obviously has enemies. Exactly who they are is still to be learned, though there is already one potential suspect – The Swallow, so inexplicably happy and guarded in what he has to say. Sherlock has also observed the murder scene meticulously. It has told him that he must come back in order to make the bold move he now has in mind. His heart races when he thinks of it.

But for the time being, he has another destination to get to quickly.

A few hours later he is back in the city. It is mid afternoon and he is walking briskly across the rough sett stones in the gray square at Smithfield’s Market near St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Monsieur Mercure is in there somewhere, and Sherlock is determined that he will get inside and see him.

But he’s too late.

Approaching an inconspicuous door, he spies Lestrade and his son exiting a central entrance some distance away. Sherlock had to walk all the way here from the Palace, while this duo obviously traveled by carriage. They turn and step directly toward him, heading south, down to busy Newgate Street to hail a hansom cab. The day has turned gray as London days often do, and rain is drizzling in the sticky air. Sherlock steps back into a little recessed doorway and crouches down, pulling his coat up over his head, pretending to be a destitute street boy. Most gentlemen, and Lestrade considers himself one, wouldn’t take notice of such an urchin.

The detective and his son are walking at a measured pace, talking.

“Well, he’s still alive,” says the young apprentice.