“Tell me,” repeats Bell earnestly.
And so the boy does.
They sit together on the two high stools at the table in the laboratory as Sherlock tells him what he knows: a disjointed story with disconnected but tantalizing facts. When he is finished, the apothecary ponders it all with a look of abiding intrigue, elbows on the table, face cupped on either side with his hands. He and the boy sit silently for a few moments. Finally, the old man speaks.
“They used a sedative potion on the guard,” he says clearly.
“Who?”
“The Brixton Gang.”
That is a major missing piece – in fact, it makes the whole crime possible. Instantly, Sherlock begins to see what Mercure saw. He is high above the Crystal Palace on performance day, dressed in his royal purple tights, Le Coq, the magnificent master of The Flying Mercures. He grips the purple trapeze bar and swoops out over the central transept, a monster crowd gathered below. The bar feels a little shaky for some reason, but he pays it little heed – it is show time. He is a catcher: the one who will catch and throw the smaller flyers. But his first maneuver – one that always thrills audiences – is to fly himself, as high as he possibly can, using his great experience and enormous strength to stun spectators with his speed and elevation. It will be especially sensational here in this magnificent Palace. One swing, two, three … he reaches his apex. From up here the view is remarkable. But what is that? Almost directly in front of him in that room with the walls that don’t quite reach the ceiling: a man is slumped on a chair and two others stand in front of a vault, their heads turned to look up for an instant toward the performance. Then the trapeze bar snaps at both ends and he is falling, dropping like a bird shot from the sky. He screams. Looking down, he sees a dark-haired boy dressed in a tattered black frock coat and waistcoat, wearing Wellington shoes. He is heading directly toward him.
The apothecary’s voice brings Sherlock back to the laboratory.
“What we have is a superficial view of this crime: a theory, with holes in it. We must now examine what happened in detail, from start to finish, and most importantly we must understand how it happened. Let us piece it together, out loud. Tell it to me again, adding the information I contributed about the sedative, and I will try to help you when you reach gaps.”
“The members of the Brixton Gang,” Sherlock begins, his eyes staring into the distance, his fingertips drumming against one another, “are so clever that their identities aren’t known to the police. They were casing the Crystal Palace in broad daylight, undetected, the day before the accident, already well aware of where the vault was and the different ways they might get at it. They were deciding on the best approach, in search of the key to another perfect crime. Then everything fell into their lap.”
“They meet their old friend, now known to the world as The Swallow,” nods Bell.
“They know he won’t give them away,” continues Sherlock. “So they start to converse, asking him innocent questions about the performances, learning that Le Coq flies by far the highest, that he nearly touches the glass ceiling … that he would be able to see into the vault room.”
“That seems like a problem for them, at first,” notes Bell.
“But then the guard, who worships The Swallow, who stops whenever he can to talk, comes along. He is introduced. The Brixton boys hide their immediate interest and slip into their quiet technique of drawing information out of others by asking innocuous questions. Soon the guard is bragging about the fact that there will be a great deal of money in the vault by tomorrow afternoon, at least a hundred thousand pounds. He also states that he keeps the combination to the lock in a notebook in his breast pocket. Before he leaves, he tells them something else: he loves the delicious lemon drink one can purchase in the Refreshment Department nearby.”
“A beverage into which one might slip a helpful potion,” adds Sigerson Bell, turning and writing a few chemical symbols on his little chalk board on the wall.
Sherlock looks at it. He understands almost everything now.
“The Brixton Gang knows a great deal about poisons and medicinal mixtures,” adds the alchemist sadly. “The use of them, as well as the gang’s elusiveness, love of misdirection, and murderous ways during robberies, are all trademarks of their nefarious operations.”
“They leave the Palace,” says Sherlock, “come back with an appropriate tool of their trade, and later that day, one of them distracts The Swallow just as he is finishing his work on the trapeze bars before they are raised to the perch … and the other slices two cuts at the ends of Mercure’s swing, each about halfway through it, and perhaps camouflages them with paint.
So, the scene is set for one of their perfect crimes. The four members of the Brixton Gang arrive at the Crystal Palace early on the day of the event. They mix with a large and growing crowd drawn by the promise of a marvelous flying trapeze performance, and situate themselves near the vault room’s door, which is undoubtedly always guarded by a Bobbie or two, likely bearing concealed revolvers.”
“But there is a sensational performance about to begin just down the transept,” chimes in Bell, “an irresistible show the Bobbies will be able to view from their spot outside the door.”
“When the band strikes up, their attention shifts down the transept.” Sherlock looks at Bell who nods. “The world-renowned Flying Mercures are about to perform.”
“Still, the policemen are professionals and keep an eye on the door,” cautions the apothecary.
Sherlock thinks for a moment. Then he has it. “But, when Le Coq himself seizes the trapeze bar on his lofty perch and the drumroll begins, it is too much for the policemen. It would be for anyone. They stare away, up into the distance.”
“And thus the Brixton Gang strikes. They spring the latch on the vault-room door with quick and ghostly expertise.”
“In all probability, two go in and two remain just outside.”
“Inside, the guard doesn’t see them, because he is slumped on his chair, his half-finished cup of lemon drink gripped sleepily in his hands, drugged into a stupor.”
“They remove the notebook (with the combination) from the guard’s pocket, open the vault, and take the money.”
“And return the little volume to its sleeping owner,” adds the old man.
“And while they are doing this, a terrible accident occurs down the transept. It transfixes everyone, including the Bobbies. No one can take their eyes from it. Le Coq screams, he falls like an anvil toward the hard floor and strikes it with a sickening thud. Pandemonium ensues. Everyone rushes to the fallen man. There is deafening noise, shrieks and wails, women fainting, absolute confusion in the Palace. The Bobbies outside the vault-room door are caught up in the crush, and are either pulled along by it, away from the door, or simply stunned. Who would not be? The door behind is of no interest to them for at least a minute.”
“But from that door now sneak two villains dragging sacks of money. They are met by two others. With smiles on their faces they move against the crowd, the other way, out the big rear entrance of the central transept and to a carriage with fleet horses nearby. They are gone within minutes.”
“Behind them the vault-room door is shut and locked, as if it had never been opened.”
“Their perfect crime is complete, made possible by brilliant misdirection: by the Bobbies’ interest in the trapeze performance, and cinched by the accident.”
“The policemen have no reason to inspect the vault room. Within half an hour, the guard slowly rouses, unaware that anyone has been in the room.”