A SWALLOW’S LIFE

Sherlock won’t have to mingle with the early-arriving employees in order to get out of the building. He is under the safe wing of the young trapeze star. The Palace apparently has a room where performers can stay during engagements. The Swallow had been fast asleep when he heard someone near the apparatus. He explains to the guard, who can barely control his excited beasts, that this boy is his guest, and that though an accident had nearly occurred when they went up to the perch together for a spectacular view, everything is perfectly under control now.

The young star is lying for him.

It is evident that this boy did not make those cuts in Monsieur Mercure’s trapeze bar. If he had, he wouldn’t be doing this, and more to the point, he would have let Sherlock fall. But if it wasn’t The Swallow, then who?

“Why were you up there?” the acrobat asks as they sit in the wooden seats in the nearby amphitheater.

Sherlock feels it is time to be just as honest with The Swallow as he was with El Niño. It will be to his advantage to have the boy on his side.

“I was here on the day of the accident. Mercure landed almost at my feet when he fell. I noticed two cuts in his bar.”

The young detective watches The Swallow’s reaction. He seems truly shocked.

“But why?” he asks. “Who would want to kill ’im?”

“You,” says Sherlock, rubbing his sore hands.

“Me? ’e’s a cad, but ’e’s me meal ticket. I ain’t a fool.”

“You used to run with a Lambeth gang. Your boss taught you all sorts of skullduggery. He showed you how to kill.”

The Swallow gazes at Sherlock for a moment. His dark eyes turn hard under his tousled black hair.

“You seem to know a lot about me, you do.”

“I have made it my business to.”

“Then what’s your business and who are you?” The young athlete stands up.

“I can’t tell you much about myself. But I can tell you a few things about this murder. And that’s what it is. First, I know you didn’t do it and I can prove it.”

The comment has the desired effect. The Swallow sits down again, relieved.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I need you to cooperate with me.”

“Much obliged to do so.”

Sherlock likes this boy, not only because he has just saved his life, but because he can obviously size up situations quickly.

“Tell me more about yourself, Johnny.”

Taken aback by Sherlock’s use of his real name, The Swallow pauses for a few seconds before talking:

“Not much I can say either, mate,” he winks. “Grew up in Brixton south o’ Lambeth in the Laursten Gardens 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 Niño 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!”

A middle-class couple, dressed up to look as upper-class as they can in matching blue silk dress with crinoline and navy bonnet, and black frock coat and blue waistcoat with tall top hat, are passing on St. Martin’s Lane near the church beyond the mews. They stop for an instant and look down the narrow alley toward the two tall boys dressed in their worn outfits. The couple quickly moves on.

“You would use evil to make good,” snarls Malefactor.

“That is nonsense.” Sherlock swallows and tries not to look away from his opponent.

“But it seems … that I have the girl.”

There is silence. Their big heads are close and, neither blinking, they look into each other’s gray eyes. When Sherlock speaks, a dab of spittle flies out of his mouth and lands on Malefactor’s cheek.

“I don’t need her … or you.”

And with that he turns and stomps down the mews without looking back, heading toward his Denmark Street lodgings.

“The Swallow pretends that he is reformed! No one reforms!” shouts the young criminal after him. Then he smiles, thinking of the seed he has sewn in Holmes’ mind. In an instant he is heading south to find his gang.

Sherlock holds his hands over his ears as he marches away. He is trying not to think of what Malefactor said and why he said it, or what he means by … He stops himself and tries to shift his mind to other things.

He runs angrily through the early morning crowds, amidst the noise of London: the roll of iron wheels and the clap of horses’ hooves on stones, shouts of people wanting and needing things; that admixture of colors, of gentlemen and ladies and beggars and singing vendors. He swings away from the dangerous little streets of The Seven Dials, thinking about good and evil, imagining the desperate folks who congregate there, some bad people indeed, others simply half-clothed and needy. He thinks of the strange alloy of buildings on Endell Street on the Dials’ east side: another massive workhouse for those who have fallen, side by side with a hospital. Good and bad together there too. It’s that way all over London. Desperation is here in St. Giles, but just north above Oxford Street, the rich float through life. It is said that if you want to see poverty in the city, just cross the street; if you want luxury cross back.

“Watch it, blackguard!” shouts a crazy, old toothless woman with dead flowers in her hand, which she is trying to sell. Sherlock had dodged a smelly cart pushed by a cheesemonger and nearly knocked her down.

He tries to shut off his mind and focus on getting home quickly. The corner of Crown and Denmark streets is just seconds away. But Malefactor’s words keep intruding.

What game is that rat playing? Why did he say that about The Swallow? What does he mean? Sherlock can’t stop himself. What significance can there be to the boy being born and raised in Brixton?

He turns the corner and sees the bulging latticed windows on the front of the apothecary’s ancient shop down the street, its brightly colored bottles on display. But the cobwebs obscure them, visible from a long distance – he must clean that up.

He has been longer than he intended. How will he explain this? He approaches the shop and reaches out for the door latch.

Boom!

An explosion sounds at the back, rattling the windows. Sherlock rushes across the reception room’s wooden floor and enters the laboratory.

“My boy!” shouts the stooped old man. His face is blackened and his long hair sticks straight out in places, but there’s a smile on his face.

“Are you injured, sir?”

“Why, no. I expected a concussion, but not quite what ensued.”

Sherlock looks down at the shards of a shattered flask gathered around the Bunsen Lamp on the examining table.

“Methane, acquired from the private area of a cow, held tightly in a flask also containing various chemicals and liquids. I ignited it all … and you see the combustible result. Tells me things I need to know about various properties, though.”

The apothecary turns to wash his face in the sink. Sherlock surveys the lab. Breakfast is done – his clean mortar and the tea flask sit farther down the table.

“I went out for a morning stroll.”

“Did you, now. A long one, I should think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rather a departure for you, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wanted air … isn’t that what you said last night too?”

“I …”

“I was just about to perambulate myself.”

As the old man reaches for his bright-green, tweed frock coat, Sherlock rushes over to help him into it.

“I shan’t ask you more about where you went. I am simply pleased you are here. I have outings with three more ladies today.” He places his fez hat at an angle on his head. There’s another smile on his face – it betrays nothing. He leans forward.

“Women’s complaints, but I have just the thing.” He utters a characteristic burst of laughter as he waves a sealed vial of a mud-colored liquid in the air.

“The Telegraph is here for you. Spot of interesting news that I’m sure you will want to read, about the Crystal Palace … uh … incident.”

He picks up the paper and hands it to the boy with a wink.

“I saw the article,” remarks Sherlock softly, smiling back.

“You did?” Bell looks disappointed. “Oh … well …” he glances up and down the front page, “there are … uh … other things of the sort you enjoy here …” His eyes rest on something farther down the front page. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Here’s one.” He points to the story and holds it up for Sherlock to see. “The Brixton Gang. They’ve struck again; killed someone this time as well.”

The apothecary picks up his huge plaid medical handbag, as big as a portmanteau, and struggles through the narrow laboratory entrance, into the shop’s front room, over to the door, and opens it. Noises rush in from the street.

“Keep an eye on things, my page,” he barks. The thick wooden door closes with a bang.

The noises are shut out and the old man disappears into the day, off to sit on that bench in Soho Square. There is silence.

But Sigerson Bell’s plight isn’t on Sherlock’s mind now. Something else has lit it up.

The notorious gang is from Brixton … and so is The Swallow!