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Authors: Shane Peacock
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Eagle and The Robin were romantically involved,” he says. “And that Mercure took her for himself.”
“That’s the word, though The Eagle won’t keep her honest now that Le Coq’s gone, either. She isn’t a very loyal sort, if you know what I mean. And Jimmy is as meek as a lamb: couldn’t hurt a flea, won’t put up a fight. They say he faints at the sight of blood. If you are looking for a suspect, it isn’t him.”
Suddenly the other door opens and there before them stands The Great Farini.
Sherlock gets to his feet, both in awe and because he fears that the master will throw him out. Farini is stripped to his undershirt, his thick shoulders and well-developedarms bare. Under his perfectly slicked-back hair, a sharp intelligence shines in his face.
“Sam, I …” he begins talking to El Niño, then stops. “What have we here?” he asks, turning to Sherlock Holmes, not pleased to find an unannounced intruder.
“Would you believe a reporter from
The Glowworm?”
inquires El Niño with a grin.
“That depends on whether or not they begin employment at the age of thirteen,” booms Farini. He is growing angry. His accent sounds American too, but a little flatter, perhaps Canadian. At first Sherlock thought the great man was about to smile, but his expression had changed quickly. It terrifies the boy. Farini walks up to him and looms over his upturned face, fixing him with the most frightening pair of dark eyes he has ever looked into. They too, seem to have changed from good to evil in an instant. They stare right into the boy, as if Farini intends to mesmerize him.
“What is your name, boy? Your
real
name.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock Homes?” muses The Great Farini. “That sounds like a stage name, a fictional one … as real as mine.”
There is a long silence. The boy can feel the tension in the room. He can’t think of anything to say.
“What shall we do with him?” asks Farini.
“Drop him head first from the roof of the Alhambra, no net?” offers El Niño. He doesn’t seem to be on Sherlock’s side anymore.
“Or …” smiles Farini, “compliment him on a wonderful acting job, on displaying exemplary brains, invention,and daring far above the ordinary. All things we admire.” The famous man’s eyes are twinkling and he extends a hand. “Well done, Master Holmes. Now, be off with you. I’m sure El Niño has provided you with whatever you need?”
He has a grip like Hercules, and Sherlock is glad when he is released and allowed to head for the door. As he does, Farini places a hand on El Niño’s shoulder and Sherlock can see that it is heavy and digs into the lad’s thick muscles.
“My son will tell me all about it … won’t you … El Niño?”
“Of course, Farini,” says the boy, and Sherlock can tell that he means it.
Back out on dim Leicester Square, Sherlock feels as if he has just escaped from a dream: either a wonderful fantasy, or a nightmare.
Whatever the case, he got exactly what he wanted. El Niño has shed more light on the murder. All three of the other Mercures had good reasons to dispatch Le Coq. But one has now risen above the others as the prime suspect. The Swallow, it seems, has an interesting past … he knows how to kill.
Sherlock thinks of the youngest Mercure with his back turned to him at the Crystal Palace yesterday, whistling a happy tune on the very morning after his master had been fatally and brutally sabotaged. He thinks of the lad’s hardened expression and his obvious access to all the apparatus.
What
exactly
was he doing? He had a sack with him, filled with something. Was he checking the equipment? Is that his job every day? It must be, especially since the othertwo weren’t even near the building while he cleaned up. Was
he
always the last person to look at the trapeze bars before the performers swung out high above the hard floors … their lives in his small but inventive hands?
Yes indeed, that lad knows how to
“That’s the word, though The Eagle won’t keep her honest now that Le Coq’s gone, either. She isn’t a very loyal sort, if you know what I mean. And Jimmy is as meek as a lamb: couldn’t hurt a flea, won’t put up a fight. They say he faints at the sight of blood. If you are looking for a suspect, it isn’t him.”
Suddenly the other door opens and there before them stands The Great Farini.
Sherlock gets to his feet, both in awe and because he fears that the master will throw him out. Farini is stripped to his undershirt, his thick shoulders and well-developedarms bare. Under his perfectly slicked-back hair, a sharp intelligence shines in his face.
“Sam, I …” he begins talking to El Niño, then stops. “What have we here?” he asks, turning to Sherlock Holmes, not pleased to find an unannounced intruder.
“Would you believe a reporter from
The Glowworm?”
inquires El Niño with a grin.
“That depends on whether or not they begin employment at the age of thirteen,” booms Farini. He is growing angry. His accent sounds American too, but a little flatter, perhaps Canadian. At first Sherlock thought the great man was about to smile, but his expression had changed quickly. It terrifies the boy. Farini walks up to him and looms over his upturned face, fixing him with the most frightening pair of dark eyes he has ever looked into. They too, seem to have changed from good to evil in an instant. They stare right into the boy, as if Farini intends to mesmerize him.
“What is your name, boy? Your
real
name.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock Homes?” muses The Great Farini. “That sounds like a stage name, a fictional one … as real as mine.”
There is a long silence. The boy can feel the tension in the room. He can’t think of anything to say.
“What shall we do with him?” asks Farini.
“Drop him head first from the roof of the Alhambra, no net?” offers El Niño. He doesn’t seem to be on Sherlock’s side anymore.
“Or …” smiles Farini, “compliment him on a wonderful acting job, on displaying exemplary brains, invention,and daring far above the ordinary. All things we admire.” The famous man’s eyes are twinkling and he extends a hand. “Well done, Master Holmes. Now, be off with you. I’m sure El Niño has provided you with whatever you need?”
He has a grip like Hercules, and Sherlock is glad when he is released and allowed to head for the door. As he does, Farini places a hand on El Niño’s shoulder and Sherlock can see that it is heavy and digs into the lad’s thick muscles.
“My son will tell me all about it … won’t you … El Niño?”
“Of course, Farini,” says the boy, and Sherlock can tell that he means it.
Back out on dim Leicester Square, Sherlock feels as if he has just escaped from a dream: either a wonderful fantasy, or a nightmare.
Whatever the case, he got exactly what he wanted. El Niño has shed more light on the murder. All three of the other Mercures had good reasons to dispatch Le Coq. But one has now risen above the others as the prime suspect. The Swallow, it seems, has an interesting past … he knows how to kill.
Sherlock thinks of the youngest Mercure with his back turned to him at the Crystal Palace yesterday, whistling a happy tune on the very morning after his master had been fatally and brutally sabotaged. He thinks of the lad’s hardened expression and his obvious access to all the apparatus.
What
exactly
was he doing? He had a sack with him, filled with something. Was he checking the equipment? Is that his job every day? It must be, especially since the othertwo weren’t even near the building while he cleaned up. Was
he
always the last person to look at the trapeze bars before the performers swung out high above the hard floors … their lives in his small but inventive hands?
Yes indeed, that lad knows how to
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