we
look
dangerous, keep safe, and make many coins of the golden variety.”
Sherlock makes a quick decision. There is only one way to get El Niño to
really
talk to him, and that is to be honest and gamble that the boy will be intrigued by what is revealed.
“I’m investigating a murder,” he says bluntly.
El Niño stops toweling and looks at the boy.
“You what?”
“A murder,” answers Sherlock clearly.
El Niño pauses for an instant, then smiles. “Well, you
are
an interesting sort.”
“I thought I could trust you with that. You aren’t the only one who is good at observing others. I make it my business to understand people, and it seems to me that it is in my interests to be honest with you. Up to a point, that is, because I can’t tell you everything I know or why I am doing this. It’s my own concern and I must keep it private.”
Sherlock has come to that conclusion over the past few weeks. He doesn’t want others to have any details about who he is or used to be. His Jewish heritage had often been used against him. He will never allow that again. He cannot afford to give others such advantages anymore; a knowledge of whom he was and his whereabouts had helped villains to perpetrate his mother’s death and Irene’s accident. This need for secrecy has been reinforced by Malefactor, of all people. The crime lord had taken Sherlock aside that very day in the courtyard off Leicester Square and said quietly:
“If you want to have anything to do with the business of crime, keep your identity to yourself, Holmes. I do. Be quiet about who you are and
especially
who you were. Even when you are older, never tell anyone about the things you did as a youth. Your enemies will exploit any of yourweaknesses and use the advantages they have. Have no friends … except perhaps one very good one.”
Sherlock had wondered why the young criminal had given him such advice, until that last sentence. Malefactor expects some sort of repayment for the help he is providing.
“Sounds like a wise enough idea,” muses El Niño. “Murder, hmm?” The daring boy doesn’t sound convinced, but the whiff of an adventure obviously appeals to him. “What would you like to know?”
“It’s about the Mercures.”
El Niño raises his eyebrows and grows more interested.
“He who suffered a fall at the Palace?”
“Precisely.”
“Not an accident, you feel?” The Bullet Boy eyes Sherlock closely.
“I understand that they aren’t really a family?”
“No, and neither are Farini and I, though he has adopted me. Adoption isn’t common, believe me. The Swallow was a lad much like me as a youth – name of Johnny Wilde. Farini found me in America; Johnny lived on the streets here. Mercure saw him steal something once and elude the Bobbies … like an acrobat – daring and agile. The next day he was in training … and being well fed. Mercure is a bad one though.”
“He is?”
“The word is, he doesn’t pay a fair percentage. Never educated Johnny and beats him as well: whacks him about with a cane when he doesn’t perform as he should. Heard he’s knocked him unconscious more than once.”
There are two green-and-white sticks of striped candy sticking up in jar on El Niño’s dressing table. He has noticed the other boy glancing at them.
“Like one?”
Sherlock happily accepts.
“Do you know anything else about The Swallow’s past?” he asks, feeling more confident.
“He was originally from somewhere south of the city. Destitute when he was very small, he came north and got into a gang of street children. He was taken in by a Lambeth swell mobsman in a rookery over there, south of the river. Living with that old rascal prepared him for taking Mercure’s beatings. That Lambeth crook was a nasty piece of work, he was. Johnny told me he saw the old scoundrel kill a man, and that he taught all his charges how to do the same.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen. He is getting somewhere now.
“I believe The
look
dangerous, keep safe, and make many coins of the golden variety.”
Sherlock makes a quick decision. There is only one way to get El Niño to
really
talk to him, and that is to be honest and gamble that the boy will be intrigued by what is revealed.
“I’m investigating a murder,” he says bluntly.
El Niño stops toweling and looks at the boy.
“You what?”
“A murder,” answers Sherlock clearly.
El Niño pauses for an instant, then smiles. “Well, you
are
an interesting sort.”
“I thought I could trust you with that. You aren’t the only one who is good at observing others. I make it my business to understand people, and it seems to me that it is in my interests to be honest with you. Up to a point, that is, because I can’t tell you everything I know or why I am doing this. It’s my own concern and I must keep it private.”
Sherlock has come to that conclusion over the past few weeks. He doesn’t want others to have any details about who he is or used to be. His Jewish heritage had often been used against him. He will never allow that again. He cannot afford to give others such advantages anymore; a knowledge of whom he was and his whereabouts had helped villains to perpetrate his mother’s death and Irene’s accident. This need for secrecy has been reinforced by Malefactor, of all people. The crime lord had taken Sherlock aside that very day in the courtyard off Leicester Square and said quietly:
“If you want to have anything to do with the business of crime, keep your identity to yourself, Holmes. I do. Be quiet about who you are and
especially
who you were. Even when you are older, never tell anyone about the things you did as a youth. Your enemies will exploit any of yourweaknesses and use the advantages they have. Have no friends … except perhaps one very good one.”
Sherlock had wondered why the young criminal had given him such advice, until that last sentence. Malefactor expects some sort of repayment for the help he is providing.
“Sounds like a wise enough idea,” muses El Niño. “Murder, hmm?” The daring boy doesn’t sound convinced, but the whiff of an adventure obviously appeals to him. “What would you like to know?”
“It’s about the Mercures.”
El Niño raises his eyebrows and grows more interested.
“He who suffered a fall at the Palace?”
“Precisely.”
“Not an accident, you feel?” The Bullet Boy eyes Sherlock closely.
“I understand that they aren’t really a family?”
“No, and neither are Farini and I, though he has adopted me. Adoption isn’t common, believe me. The Swallow was a lad much like me as a youth – name of Johnny Wilde. Farini found me in America; Johnny lived on the streets here. Mercure saw him steal something once and elude the Bobbies … like an acrobat – daring and agile. The next day he was in training … and being well fed. Mercure is a bad one though.”
“He is?”
“The word is, he doesn’t pay a fair percentage. Never educated Johnny and beats him as well: whacks him about with a cane when he doesn’t perform as he should. Heard he’s knocked him unconscious more than once.”
There are two green-and-white sticks of striped candy sticking up in jar on El Niño’s dressing table. He has noticed the other boy glancing at them.
“Like one?”
Sherlock happily accepts.
“Do you know anything else about The Swallow’s past?” he asks, feeling more confident.
“He was originally from somewhere south of the city. Destitute when he was very small, he came north and got into a gang of street children. He was taken in by a Lambeth swell mobsman in a rookery over there, south of the river. Living with that old rascal prepared him for taking Mercure’s beatings. That Lambeth crook was a nasty piece of work, he was. Johnny told me he saw the old scoundrel kill a man, and that he taught all his charges how to do the same.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen. He is getting somewhere now.
“I believe The
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