Free Death in the Air by Shane Peacock

hundred feet high and full of thousands of tons of water, supplying the steam boilers and many fountains that shoot spray impossibly high.
    His father once told him about a secret way into the Palace. Few employees know about it. In fact, Sherlock isn’t even sure it exists, but he has to try to find it. If he can’t, his daring plan will be lost.
    An engineer who helps maintain the boilers once let the secret slip during a late-night conversation with Wilber. Theman had consumed too many spirits, fallen into a chat about scientific matters, and commenced to do a little bragging.
    “Around the back of the Palace, close to the north water tower, there’s a low glass panel,” he’d claimed, “which will tip inward if you give it a good jar at the bottom. If one of us engineers ever needed to get inside the building during an after-hours emergency, that’s how we’d do it. The panel is fastened with hinges at the top and a few small nails hold it in place at the bottom on the inside. It can be knocked loose but will stay in the frame.”
    Sherlock moves up close to the wall near the tower. Sure enough, he spots a dozen or so small panels there, almost at ground level. He looks around. A sound – a bark – pierces the night. Sherlock stiffens.
Watch dogs…
. But it’s distant, coming from somewhere near the village of Sydenham beyond the Gipsy Wood.
    He turns back to his task and tries all the panels closest to the tower, banging his foot against the iron frames…. The sixth one gives when he kicks it. It swings inward.
    He gets down on his belly and slides through the tight little rectangle … into the Crystal Palace. Its insides are barely lit – just a few small gas lamps glow in the gloom. He turns and closes the panel, anxious not to leave a trail. His plan of escape is to hide somewhere inside and mingle with the crowd of early employees who will enter through the front gates at six o’clock – many of them boys his age. Sherlock should have enough time to examine the crime scene without being disturbed, and then race home to Denmark Street.
    Yesterday, he had noticed that The Swallow had a sack with him, which he dipped into while he worked on the ropes. What was in there? A saw whose teeth marks might match the cuts in the bar when closely examined? A pocket-knife with tiny splinters of wood embedded in its steel? And what was way up on the perch? Wouldn’t that have been the perfect place to do the evil deed: a quick couple of slices in the bar while out of everyone’s view? Were there traces of sawdust on the platform?
Remember
, he tells himself,
the police aren’t even investigating, and The Swallow knows that. He has no reason to remove such specks of evidence
.
    His heart pounding, Sherlock turns too abruptly. He bumps into a large potted plant and knocks it over. Reaching out, he seizes it and feels a shooting pain course through his hands. The sound of the pot falling echoes in the enormous building.
    He stands still, holding what he now sees is a cactus from some exotic desert. The needles are deep in his flesh. The sound still reverberates.
    Are there guards inside? There must be. Are there canines trained to attack?
Sherlock gingerly sets the cactus down, waits … listens … no footsteps, no barks, and no shouts.
    But then he hears something. It’s a nasty, high-pitched voice.
    “Stop right there!” it shouts.
    Sherlock drops down and flattens himself on the planked floor. He can’t see anyone, can’t hear feet approaching. Panicking, he wriggles back toward thepanel, but he’s closed it from the inside and it won’t swing open the other way.
    “Stop right there!” cries the heinous voice. Then it starts repeating itself: “Stop right there! Stop right there! Stop right there!”
    A sense of relief melts over him. A parrot.
    Sherlock, who has been in the Palace several times with his father, remembers that here, in the northern end of the building, there are all sorts of exotic