His eyes blink awake. Birds are singing. It feels damp and warm. John Stuart Mill is nowhere to be seen – no bad smells. A third of a loaf of bread and a small mug of milk are inches from his nose. And there is a note. He snatches up the bread, sits with his back crouched against the dog kennel wall and bites off a piece. Even without the miserable mutt in here, his head nearly touches the ceiling and his legs feel cramped. But he pays little attention. He pulls back the cloth from the entrance, spreads out Irene’s note on the ground and allows the morning light to hit it perfectly.
“This is what I discovered at the Guildhall Library,” it begins in Irene’s pretty hand.
Rushing past her next few words, he comes to what matters.
There are two columns: one a list of medical equipment suppliers in central London, another of glass blowers. He runs his finger down the first, about a dozen names. None start with either L or E, the two letters he’d found scratched on his glass eyeball. He searches the second: Boffin … Fledgeby … Headstone … Hexam … Lear …
Lear!
Lear Glass Blowing … Carnaby Street. It is in Soho and unexpected. It’s far from the East End, just a short stroll from Mayfair and the wealthy residential districts.
But this is his only lead. He has to use it somehow.
Sherlock sits cross-legged in his cramped dog’s house, plotting.
Mohammad Adalji is sitting too, over on Bow Street on his stone bed in the holding cell. He has been here for two weeks now, dreaming at night of sunny Egyptian skies. His only ray of hope is that tall, dark-haired half-Jewish boy, who told him a tantalizing tale of finding a false eye at the murder scene. But the boy vanished from this station four days ago and hasn’t been found since. If the young Jew is out there, he is likely running, making himself scarce, his passing interest in justice long gone, Mohammad’s only hope gone with him.
The Arab knows that the police keep him here instead of at the Whitechapel district station or Newgate Prison because they want him far from the East End. He imagines how the London public must loathe him. His trial is no more than a week or two away. He’s been as much as told it won’t go well. Murderers are hanged right after trials. He drops onto his knees on the hard stone floor. The jailers won’t tell him exactly which way is east, so he has to imagine it. He turns in that direction and prays.
When Andrew Doyle is at home, Irene is careful about how she leaves food for her backyard lodger. She sets his meal on the steps. Sherlock always snatches it quickly, beating the lumbering J.S. Mill to it when he must. She appears about the same time every night.
Mr. Doyle is home this evening. When Irene slips away to the door and secretly sets the morsels outside, she feels a tug on her dress. Looking down, she spots Sherlock.
“Make me an eye patch,” he whispers, “and meet me tomorrow morning.”
Her governess is off the next day. Sherlock waits all morning for Irene to appear. Through the windows he can see her father moving about in the house, holding a thick book in his hand, questioning Irene about its contents. The boy is almost pleased to see that she may not be able to accompany him. Maybe his plan isn’t wise. Maybe he needs another, safer idea. The morning turns to afternoon. Lying there curled up in the dog kennel, he falls into a daydream.
He thinks of his parents and drifts into that other time, before he was born. There she is, gorgeous and happy in a magnificent white silk dress, readying herself to see The Thieving Magpie. And there is his father, dressing for his first visit to the opera, and …
The Doyles’ back door opens. Out comes Irene with a black eye patch in her hand. Sherlock edges toward the light and looks up.
“Father went to a meeting. He’ll be gone for a while.” She bends down to meet his gaze. “What are we doing?”
She seems excited, happy to be released from home again. That almost makes it worse.
“I’m not sure you should accompany me.”
She gives him a look. It is stern, alarmingly like an expression his mother sometimes uses when she isn’t pleased with something he’s done. He realizes he has no choice.
“We will be shopping,” he says, “for a glass eye.”
He leaves first and they meet on the street. The black patch is over his left eye, just under his screwed-down cap.
Soho is a fabulous and daunting place. It is overcrowded, full of spidery streets, colorful characters, friendly ladies, food, and languages of every sort. A spirit of adventure is alive and multiplying. You can find nearly anything here.
They pass a loud English street band filling the air with brassy sounds, a conjurer playing tricks and shouting, and a fire-eater dressed in red satin who tilts his head back and dramatically lowers the flame to his lips from above, all the while watching Sherlock Holmes intently. Why is he looking at me? It unnerves the boy. He presses Irene to move faster. Soon their shop comes into view.
Lear Glass Blowing is a little establishment halfway down Carnaby Street with a latticed window extending across the storefront. A bell tinkles as they enter. A man with a bulbous head, big whiskers, a red face, and thinning salt-and-pepper hair steps from the back room to the counter. His teeth are gray and his hands nearly black. His eyes squint at the strange couple as though he were trying to bring them into focus – a well dressed young woman and a dirty street urchin with a patch over his left eye.
“May I be of service, Miss?” he enquires, smiling directly at the young lady The street boy might as well not be there.
Sherlock is amazed at the acting abilities Irene displays. She is calm and collected and plays her role to perfection.
“I am here on a charitable errand. This young gentleman,” she motions toward Sherlock, who keeps his head lowered just enough to be hard to recognize, “lost an eye as a child and has no means to replace it. I give him a few copper coins when I see him, but would like to do more.”
“Yes?” asks the glass blower, still only regarding the young lady.
“Are you Mr. Lear, himself?”
“In the flesh,” he smiles proudly, puffing out his chest, which barely extends beyond the big belly inside his dirty blue-checked waistcoat. It is a big grin and those gray teeth are on display. He runs a blackened hand forward on his round, red head, smoothing down the thin hairs that flow over his pate. They look like the white worms that wriggle in the muck on the banks of the Thames.
“I am looking for someone who can make this boy a glass eye. Is that something you do?”
“It is, very much so. I would be glad to Miss … Miss?”
Irene says nothing. Sherlock has made her promise not to reveal her identity.
Lear continues. “I would be glad to, Miss, but the lad must see a doctor first.”
His customers look disappointed.
“A doctor, Miss,” he explains. “I make the false eyeballs, you see, for a medical supplier, Copperfield’s just down the street here on Beak. But I never have anything to do with the patients. I can blow you a beautiful paperweight, my dear. How about one of them swans that Her Majesty has in St. James’ Park?”
“That won’t be necessary. I shall have him see a physician. Thank you.”
“Copperfield’s is a very reputable firm, you know,” adds Lear smugly. “That’s why they employ me – best workmanship in London. Lear Eyes are custom made. I can match any human peeper on this earth. Copperfield’s takes orders from only the finest of doctors.”
They had moved to go, but both stop in their tracks.
“And … who would they be?” asks Irene, turning back.
“Mayfair doctors exclusively.”
“Much obliged, governor,” says Sherlock hastily with a cockney accent, showing the glass blower the top of his head as he lifts his cap. A smile has come over his face.
The store bell tinkles as they leave.
A thick man in a coachman’s black livery with two thin red stripes on his coat is standing in the shadows just down Carnaby Street, observing them between pedestrians as they
emerge. They are too excited by what they’ve just learned to notice. They turn up the street, away from the man. A black coach with red fittings awaits him nearby.
“A glass blower on the outskirts of Mayfair who supplies only Mayfair doctors!” Sherlock says into Irene’s ear as they walk. He continues to keep his head down for a few strides, then stops. “Our suspect … is a man, a wealthy one who almost certainly lives in Mayfair, has brown irises with violet flecks, and a false eye; he not only knew Lillie Irving, but was her secret friend. She lived in Aldgate and was raised in Whitechapel.”
Much of it makes sense to Irene – she has followed nearly all of Sherlock’s moves. But when she hears him say all he now knows in one categorical sentence, adding things he has learned on his own, it amazes her. Her gloved hand reaches down and takes one of his, with its long, white fingers lined by dirt, and squeezes it. A strange expression comes over his face, a look of wonder, a sudden loss of the haunted, desperate expression he usually wears. Then she lets him go.
She has to get home. Her father will be back soon.
Sherlock is tempted to think about Irene and nothing else for a long time that day – she fascinates him, the most intriguing person he has ever met – but other subjects are competing for attention in the compartments of his brain.
The pieces of his puzzle are being located at an increasing pace. He is putting them into position and setting up the blueprint into which the remaining ones will fit.
The next piece is going to be found on the streets that night. He needs a place to hide…. Malefactor’s answers are due.
But another subject worries him much more, more than anything he has contemplated since the moment he saw that first article in The Illustrated Police News.
He is about to make his mother a part of this deadly game.
A DANGEROUS MOVE
The first thing to do that night is locate Malefactor. Sherlock doesn’t want to try in the light of day – too risky. The police will be watching. But he has to find him. He needs a report on whatever interviews the Irregulars have conducted in Whitechapel.
He hides in alleys throughout the rest of the day but as it wears on, becomes restless. He begins to walk aimlessly his hat pulled down. It seems like there are Bobbies on every street corner and they all appear to be looking for him.
Past midnight he begins searching the streets in earnest. For a while, it feels like the gang has vanished. They don’t seem to be in any of the most likely places. He goes farther east than their usual territory and searches near the river. Finally, just past the stone arches of London Bridge, the Tower looming up ahead, he looks toward the east side of the big wharf and sees dark shapes near the old Billingsgate Fish Market. They vanish into the shadows as he approaches, just as they should.
As he nears, the stench of fish is almost overwhelming. Nearby, the brown Thames laps gently. He puts his hand to his nose, turns off the street and walks between a dark warehouse and the big market building, toward the water, his eyes alert. It would be dangerous here even if he weren’t a fugitive. During the day it is jammed with people; the vilest words in all of London fill the air. Billingsgate and cursing go together like twins. But at this hour, everything is eerily still. Some of the fishmongers’ stalls and sheds stand vacant on the far side of the market, facing the water. Sherlock peers into the crude open stands, looking for the shapes he spotted from a distance. They seem to have disappeared somewhere into this slimy labyrinth. There is a sudden movement behind him.
“Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”
Sherlock turns.
The other boy is standing as straight as a statue, legs wide apart and hands on hips, the river behind him.
“Malefactor.”
“The one and only.” The boss swaggers forward a few steps, apparently unaffected by the chilly late April breeze blowing off the river and the drizzle that is resuming again. “I’m glad you didn’t bring the girl. At least you have some sense. This isn’t a place for her.”
“Nor you, really.”
“Not our territory, no.”
“Then why?”
“Need you ask?” sneers Malefactor. He points a long bony finger to the north-east. “Whitechapel. We are here, thanks to you. We have made the enquiries. I thought it best for us to be in unexpected places for a day or two.”
“Wise.”
Malefactor bows slightly.
“And what was the word?” demands Holmes.
The criminal isn’t pleased with the way the question is phrased and thinks he detects a slight smile. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks Sherlock what else he has learned about the murder. The boy reveals a few things, keeps others to himself, and it appears to satisfy. Malefactor finally begins to unveil his answers.
“This is strictly for the girl. Your cause must have some worth to it, if she is interested. There is a villain not playing by the rules here. Our inquiries confirm as much.”
Malefactor enjoys keeping his listener in suspense. He adjusts his dirty black topper, this time tipping it back on his domed forehead, smoothes out his tail-coat, and looks at his chewed fingernails.
“There were two screams,” he says calmly, “a woman’s and then a man’s. Several people swear to it. There was a gentleman of wealth rushing from the area, clutching his face. He entered a private coach: black, red fittings. It left at a gallop.”
Sherlock is seeing it … from above.
“And something else,” boasts the young boss.
“The cry of crows,” murmurs Holmes.
Malefactor is displeased. It appears as if he wants to strike the other boy again. “Yes,” he mutters. His eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to say anything more. But he gives in.
“I shan’t ask you how you know that. Though I will tell you to be careful. Not for your sake, God knows, but for the girl. The sort of person who did this will have the means to make you – and Miss Doyle – vanish. You don’t matter to him. Neither did the woman he murdered. That’s the way of the world. Get that into your head.” Malefactor is almost snarling.
“Which way did the coach go?” inquires Sherlock, gambling that pride will make his rival say even more.
The boy in the top hat shows his teeth. “Think I might not have that answer?”
“I …”
“The coach fled from there going west!” Malefactor places his arms across his chest and sticks out his chin, observing Sherlock’s reaction.
“Thank y –.”
“There is nothing good in this world, but if there were, Miss Doyle would be the closest thing to it. Protect her, or feel my wrath.”
“Of cours –”
“Goodnight, Jew-boy”
Malefactor’s inquiries have confirmed everything Sherlock has suspected and much more: screams, evidence that the victim saw her attacker, the crows, a rich man fleeing westward in a well-described coach … west toward Mayfair.
He knows what he has to do next. He has to stride right into the middle of this battle and begin with his dangerous move. He has to involve his mother. She will be giving lessons in rich Mayfair homes this very week.
His parents know he is alive and still in London. They could not have missed the crow he drew on their table.
But he isn’t coming tonight to set their minds at rest.
It is early morning and pitch-black in much of Southwark. The freakish people on the streets pass without his notice. He slithers silently through the warrens and cobblestone lanes and soon is near his home. There is the hatter’s shop. No one appears to be watching tonight, at least that he can tell. Their little window is dark.
He sneaks along the alley at the back and up the stairs. He lifts the latch. Open.
Again he hears the sounds of his parents sleeping. Crawling across the main room, he stops at his bed. It is empty. He’ll have to go straight to their room. There is no door there, just a drape hanging in the entrance. When his face touches it, he can smell her perfume. Though his father doesn’t
always have tobacco for his stempipe, its aroma is often in their flat. It hangs in the air in the bedroom. Sherlock stops moving. They smell safe. He feels another overpowering desire to crawl into their bed and snuggle between them.
It is strange to see them lying there. They are stripped to their undergarments, wrapped in each other’s arms in a deep sleep: he on his back gently snoring, she in her shift with her hand on his chest. It is embarrassing to catch them like this. It isn’t what a son is supposed to see. But it nearly makes him cry. He can feel their love and knows it is the best thing on God’s earth.
It is time to set aside these feelings. If he doesn’t act immediately, he won’t act at all. He reaches out and gently places his hand over Rose’s mouth. Her eyes fly open. He presses his hand down firmly. She can’t scream.
His mother seizes his hand and opens her mouth to sink her teeth into his flesh. Rose Holmes has long since learned how to defend herself.
“Mother!” he whispers as loudly as he dares.
The eyes turn toward him, at first thrilled, then filling with tears. He removes his hand and she sits up in bed, enfolding him in her arms.
“My boy,” she whimpers, kissing him.
Beside her, Wilber stirs. He looks up at his son as if he’s seeing Marley’s ghost and reaches for his wire reading spectacles.
“Sherlock?”
For an instant, the boy thinks his father is going to cry too. Instead, his arms go around his wife. He extends a hand.
“Wonderful to see you, son.”
Minutes later they are having cold tea at their little table, using just one candle for light, speaking in hushed tones. Sherlock explains everything that has happened: about his escape, about Irene, Malefactor, the eyeball, Mayfair, and all the evidence he has gathered, even about smelly old John Stuart Mill, which makes his mother laugh. When the tea is done, they pull their chairs close together and are silent. They know that Sherlock can’t stay long. They extinguish the candle and huddle in the dark. No one moves, as if they all hope they can forget reality and fall asleep together. Only Wilber, who is given to dozing off, succumbs to the darkness. Rose turns to Sherlock and smiles, motioning toward her husband.
Eye of the Crow Page 12
