“Hold on,” he whispers.
The Swallow steps off the beam.
For an instant, they hang over the rat pit far below, the trapeze star’s legs swinging in the air. Sherlock’s pulse races and he closes his eyes again, clinging tightly. He understands that his job is to simply hold on. Any sudden movement from him, a jerk or an adjustment, will send them to the floor. He must depend on The Swallow’s expertise … and it is monumental.
The acrobat proceeds to perform a feat of strength that any strongman on any stage in London would be proud of – he lifts both his own body weight and Sherlock’s slowly up to the open window, chinning himself. But from there, he must somehow get the two of them through to the outside.
“Hang on, I have to let go for a second,” he says quietly.
What? thinks Sherlock. But he must trust the other boy. He remains perfectly still.
The Swallow releases one hand for an instant. They begin plummeting. He thrusts the same arm up and gets his elbow through the opening and onto the roof. But he can’t hold on to the tiles.
They start sliding back!
The Swallow then makes a desperate move. He releases the other hand and reaches up with that elbow too. For an instant their heads are through the opening and Sherlock can smell the river in the outside air. He grabs at the tiles and gets a grip, lessening The Swallow’s load.
Together they lift themselves through the opening and onto the roof.
The Swallow puts a finger to his lips again. He closes the window gently and motions for Sherlock to follow him and move the way he does. So off they go on the steep roof, on their hands and knees, heading for the river-side of the building. There, The Swallow indicates a wooden drainage pipe and within minutes both boys are on the ground, running along Rotherhithe Street, back toward central London.
Nothing is said before they reach the Thames Tunnel. The Swallow is running so hard that Sherlock can barely keep up. At the tunnel, the acrobat jimmies the lock, just like the Brixton Gang’s boy had done the night before, and they enter the rotunda and descend the stairs into the underground.
“How did you know I was there? Why did you help me?”
Their footsteps are echoing downward.
“Ain’t you the one who says folks should deal with one question at a time?” says The Swallow, his smile barely evident as they walk into the gloom at the southern end of the corridor, heading toward the pitch black of the center.
“How did you know?” repeats Sherlock.
“I’ve been following you.”
Now Holmes knows why he sensed someone trailing him last night, and near the warehouses this evening.
“You’re a right square bloke, Master ’olmes,” continues The Swallow, his voice echoing along the cylindrical passageway, “treated me right. I intend to be on the square myself, forever. I was worried about you. I knew you wouldn’t stop at just knowing ’ow the crime ’appened. I knew you’d go after … I knew you were a lunatic!”
They both laugh.
“I ’ad information about where the Brixton Gang was ’oled up, but I wouldn’t tell anyone on me own, of course … thieves’ honor … and saving me own neck!”
They laugh again.
“I didn’t see you until I was near the warehouses tonight,” remarks Sherlock.
“That’s because I weren’t following you until then. The night before I picked you up near your guvna’s ’ome, got to worrying when I saw who you was following, and really worried when ’e handed you off to that snake who helps ’em. Tonight, I just lay in wait in Rotherhithe, and sure enough, you comes along. I got up on the roof and watched. When they brought you in, I made me move. I won’t betray me old mates but I won’t let ’em kill a young man such as yourself, either.”
They are in pitch dark now.
“Yes you will,” proclaims Sherlock.
His words sound up and down the tunnel. The Swallow has stopped walking. The two boys can’t see each other.
“I beg your pardon, Master ’olmes?”
“You will betray them.”
There is silence for a moment.
“No, sir, I won’t.”
“I need your help, Johnny. I need you to stand up and be as brave as you are on the flying trapeze.”
“I am brave, sir, but I’m not stupid. In the amusement industry, we don’t do what we do to die. We do it to thrill others and, most importantly, to make a living. It isn’t about doing dangerous things, it’s about doing safe things that look dangerous.”
“You shall help me capture that gang!” insists Sherlock, his voice rising and resounding in the passage, “If you don’t, they will kill more people, innocent people, and keep robbing others.”
Sherlock needs that reward. And he’ll do anything to get it.
“We’re all thieves, Master ’olmes, in a manner of speaking. We’re all eviclass="underline" unfair to each other, mean-spirited. I’m sure you is no angel. In fact, I know you ain’t.”
It is a comment that angers Sherlock Holmes, perhaps because it is correct.
“That is an excuse!” he snaps. “That’s what crooks and murderers say to justify what they do. I won’t accept it! And I won’t accept you not helping me. Come with me!”
“Where?”
“To Scotland Yard.”
They start walking again, their boots trudging on the hard corridor floor, not saying anything. Soon they emerge into the lighter area and the end of the tunnel appears ahead.
“I ain’t goin’ with you, Master ’olmes,” says The Swallow clearly. “And you can’t make me. I can get away from you and you know it.”
And with that he is off like a dart fired through the passageway. Sherlock is after him instantly. He must catch him! He can’t be sure that the police will believe his story on his own – with this famous young star by his side, with the respect he commands, it would be a cinch.
But it is breathtaking how quickly The Swallow gets away. His long strides on the staircases seem to take him upward a-half-dozen paces at a time. By the time Sherlock gets up into the rotunda on the north side, the other boy has disappeared into the dark city.
Sherlock feels like falling down on the muddy foot pavement and crying. The Brixton Gang is sitting there in that Rotherhithe warehouse, ready at any second to ascend to the upper floor, find that he is gone, and flee. And what can he do about it? The clock is ticking.
In times of desperation, he sometimes thinks of his mother. “You have much to do in life” he remembers her saying, her last words before she died. They are seared into his mind.
He straightens his clothing and fixes his hair.
What can I do about it? A great deal, he upbraids himself. I can enter the Scotland Yard offices and tell them what I know in detail. I can demand that they bring a newspaper writer to the scene to verify everything … and if they won’t believe me, I …
That is a tougher one to solve. What could he do if they just won’t believe him? He imagines the scene at the police station – Lestrade laughing at him, throwing him in the street, allowing the gang to escape. What would he do if things went that way?
“I …” he says out loud, scrambling for an idea, “I … could steal a weapon…. They will have revolvers there, many of them, likely loaded. I just need to locate one. Lestrade wouldn’t expect me to pick one up … but I will point it at his head if I must. To him, I’ll be a wild boy, about to do something desperate.”
Sherlock sees a hansom cab moving past, its single horse trotting slowly in the gloom, hooves clapping on the cobblestones, the driver up above the cab at the back, reins in one hand, his whip still and upright in its leather holster as he lazily watches the night.