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Sherlock has never seen it from this vantage point. Every time he’s been here, even when he came with his mother, he walked. He’s always approached the Palace from behind. But tonight the train is taking him past the grounds, and he can see the front of the magnificent building overlooking its green kingdom. The wide Grand Centre Walk leads way up to its tiered terraces and main doors.

The train follows the curving track toward the Palace Station, crossing in front of Boating Lake, populated with little pleasure vessels piloted by gentlemen, with ladies seated in front of them. The Great Fountains are stretched across the width of the park, spurting their white spray high into the sky.

Sherlock disembarks and nearly falls down – his legs are rubbery. A line of elegant hotels runs north from the station, but the two boys take the tunnel onto the grounds and head toward the Palace. The Swallow simply has to show his face to get them inside.

The trapeze apparatus is only one element in the case now. Of almost equal importance is the vault. Sherlock wants to know where it is, and how the Brixton Gang might have robbed it without anyone even noticing, and then deduce what in the world, if anything, all that has to do with the murder of Monsieur Mercure. If that notorious group of thieves indeed played a part in any of this, then Sherlock Holmes will be involved in a much bigger case than he ever imagined. On the surface, it doesn’t make sense that all of the factors – The Swallow and the gang from his old neighborhood, the money missing from the vault, and the Mercure accident – are connected. But something inside him says they are. His heart rate increases as he enters the building.

What role did The Swallow have in all of this? Sherlock doesn’t trust this self-confident little devil anymore. He marches him up to the central transept. On his way he spots Inspector Lestrade and his son, attended by a half dozen Bobbies, standing at the far end of the nave. They are deep in conversation and look like they intend to stay for a while. Sherlock immediately decides that he must investigate what they are up to, especially why they are gathered in that particular spot, far from the trapeze installation. But first, he has a few more questions for Master Wilde. They lean against a wall near the tower they climbed in the early hours of the morning. Sherlock wants this conversation to take place with the whole scene in front of him.

“Did you ask your Brixton friends to come here the day before the accident?”

“No,” answers the young acrobat peevishly. “’Course not. I told you once, I ’ave naught to do with their like now.”

“Did you have the sense that they sought you out?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where did you meet?”

“Right ’ere, where we’re standin’. I was puttin’ up the equipment.”

“So, they saw that you were in charge of the trapeze swings?”

“Suppose they did, yeah.”

“Was there anyone else around?”

The boy points across the transept. “Just them two.”

The Eagle and The Robin are walking in their direction. They are glancing around, aware that others are noticing them. They pick up their pace when they see The Swallow and the tall, thin boy.

“Stop talkin’ to strangers, Johnny, and get to work,” the young woman commands as they near. She turns on Sherlock. “Leave off!” she barks.

Despite her nasty attitude, the boy is struck by how beautiful she is up close. Not that she isn’t while in the air: her flaming hair flowing as she flies, her face glowing with strong, painted features, and her long muscular legs and slim arms shockingly on display in her almost see-through red costumes; she is always a scandalous and enticing vision, and her entrancing form mixes with the danger of her act and thrills the hearts of every man who has ever gazed up at her.

Sherlock steps back, feeling intimidated.

“I ’ave to talk to ’im,” says The Swallow, looking her square in the face, obviously not afraid of her.

“Why?” asks The Eagle. He steps up close and stands over Sherlock and The Swallow, his size imposing. But Sherlock can see that what El Niño told him is true, just by looking into the man’s eyes. The Eagle seems unsure of the authority he is trying to display. Close observation can tell you a great deal about an individual; it can reach into a soul. Sherlock has been trying to rally himself. The other’s weakness makes him feel stronger.

“Because I know certain things about the Mercure murder that no one else knows,” he says, moving so close to The Eagle that their noses almost touch.

“It … it isn’t a murder,” answers The Eagle, visibly swallowing. “We saw him today. He’s still alive.”

“That’s correct,” says The Robin, “and …” she hesitates, “what do you know, anyway?”

Sherlock hadn’t been surprised to see cracks in The Eagle’s exterior, but The Robin looks to be faltering too, her question almost a plea, obviously taken aback by Sherlock’s claim. The boy wonders why this brash woman might be frightened. Does she have something to hide? Is she a better suspect than it seems?

“It isn’t murder yet, you mean,” asserts Sherlock. “But the chances are, it will be, and if not, then attempted murder, at least.”

The Eagle glances at The Robin as if looking for guidance.

“I need more time with your young accomplice,” says Sherlock, “so you two may go – for now. I understand you have work to do? Please do not leave the premises until I speak with you.”

Always best to leave suspects worrying, he thinks. The Robin and The Eagle, who both seemed to start at the word accomplice, leave meekly.

“I had naught to do with this, you know,” repeats The Swallow, the instant they are out of earshot.

“Where is the vault?” answers Sherlock dryly, as if he hasn’t heard him.

“’ow should I know? That doesn’t concern me.”

“You know, because you always know where the money is kept at any venue you play It is in your nature. Am I not correct?”

The Swallow regards Sherlock as if testing his will and receives a stern stare in response.

“It’s over there.” He is pointing down the nave directly at the police officers. A thought enters the young detective’s mind. He is considering a line of investigation that Lestrade, standing directly outside the vault with his son and the constables, has likely never even considered.

“Do you know anyone who works there?”

“Where?”

“At the vault – has anything to do with guarding it?”

The Swallow allows a slight smile.

“I do,” he says.

It is the answer Sherlock was hoping for. In fact, he feels as though he has just called the winner at The Derby. The Swallow indeed knows something, and his smile is an indication that Sherlock is getting warmer. Despite the young star’s situation, he obviously admires a clever mind.

“Did the guard make the acquaintance of your friends from Brixton the day you met them here?”

“He did.”

Sherlock detects a twinkle in The Swallow’s eyes now, as if he were inviting his interviewer to ask the right questions. But the twinkle has its limits: the young acrobat also wants to defend himself.

“I will tell you again,” he says, “I did naught wrong. I don’t know what ’appened that day, I swear on me mother’s grave. I’ll truthfully answer any question you ask, but I don’t want to get no one in trouble, send no one to jail, and I won’t volunteer information.”