His nervousness grows as he goes farther east. He tugs the cap down even tighter. He didn’t expect to be this frightened. All around him is another noisy London day – the crowded foot pavements, the great mixture of people, the shouts, and the smells. He yearns for the time, just a week or so ago, when he was nobody.
He sticks to busy places, staying in the swarms all the way to the East End. Soon he is walking on Whitechapel Road.
“You!” cries a firm voice. “Been lookin’ for you everywhere in London!”
Sherlock nearly jumps out of his skin. A man is approaching him. The boy doesn’t lift his gaze. Keep moving, is all he can think. Get into the crowd and vanish. He attempts to edge past, but the man blocks his way. “Not partial to a partickler pie?” asks the street monger, ushering the boy toward his barrow of fish and fruit pastries.
Sherlock sighs and moves on, leaving the pieman to pursue another customer. In a few steps the boy is moving quickly along Whitechapel again, like the suspect he is, his head down, but his eyes rotating like an owl’s, noting every Bobbie, every person who looks back.
The crime scene is near. He turns from the main road onto narrow Old Yard Street. Then he sees the alley. The alley. It appears to his left, running west off the street just ahead. Fear courses through him again the instant it comes into view. It is hard to even think of what happened down this lane on that dark night.
Sherlock steels himself. The crowds were thick on Whitechapel Road and at this time of the day a mixture of people move along Old Yard Street too. Blend in as best you can, he tells himself. Not like the police, whom you can spot at a distance. He often wonders why they are so regular in their habits and so obvious in their appearance. Even the detectives in disguise can be picked out without much trouble.
He glances in both directions and then slips down the passage. It looks different during the early afternoon: deserted and not so spooky. He can see its dead end against the brick wall of another building. There are the old stable doors to his right. In this light, they look like they’ve been closed up for centuries.
The stain on the cobblestones is still visible. It is halfway down the passage, the rubble a bit farther. What sort of place is this for a murder? Is it a place where someone was taken … dragged … or is it a spot where two people agreed to meet? Did the murderer know the woman? Sherlock looks at the sheer expanse of the stain. There was anger in the deed. There was passion. This wasn’t done for money, not for a mere coin purse. But if that is true, why is the purse gone?
He shakes off those thoughts. Observe, he tells himself Deal with the evidence first. Find it.
A noise rings out and he starts. Turning back to the narrow street, he sees an old tinker walking toward Whitechapel, pushing his cart. Sherlock watches him limp past. In seconds there is movement out there again: a well-dressed gent, a lady on his arm. She glances at Sherlock, stares for a second with a hint of fear in her face, but then is guided forward and disappears. He imagines her perfume hanging in the air. Why would her gentleman bring her here? A shortcut, he guesses, toward a better street, or perhaps a charitable visit to a nearby workhouse?
He imagines the murdered young woman – beautiful, looking like his mother in her youth – entering this alley on that terrible night. It would be nearly pitch black. He smells the perfume she wears as it wafts in the cold London darkness. Why did she come here? What sort of woman would be compelled to this place in the night? Who saw her … who smelled her perfume?
There is a flutter on top of the building that forms one of the alley’s walls.
Crows.
There are two of them. They observe him, their heads bobbing up and down as if saying hello to an old friend. One swoops to the ground, bold as brass. First it lands near the rubble where Sherlock found the eyeball. Very quickly it seems uninterested. Then it waddles down the passage, walking on a line toward the street. It seems to have little fear of the boy, though as it nears, it flaps a few feet high and passes by, moving almost all the way to the street. Then it turns back toward him and resumes its stroll, as if keeping one eye on him and the other on the ground, occasionally pecking and scratching.
The crow is looking for something. Again.
Sherlock advances toward it. It suddenly rises into the air, as if it can see out the back of its head, and flies up and settles on top of the building again next to its mate. They peer down.
The boy glances around. People continue passing on the street, but no one turns or stops at the alley – no one seems to be looking his way. He carefully follows the crow’s path, leaning over with his face close to the ground. No obvious clues have been left on the dirty cobblestones. There are signs of footprints, but they are faint, just indistinct collections of the marks of footwear left by all sorts of people: the victim, her murderer, policemen, even his own broken-down boots. A cart’s tracks obscure them further.
Behind him, the crow drops down into the alleyway again. It begins crisscrossing the passage. Sherlock turns and watches it.
Two facts occur to him: first, it’s after something it finds attractive, something it can’t leave alone; second, it doesn’t know exactly where that thing is.
What would it find irresistible? Not the purse, surely. It doesn’t know about money. A purse wouldn’t be any more attractive to it than a glove or a hat.
Something shiny again: something just as interesting as that eyeball.
Jewelry. Good jewelry – a piece that glows so seductively a crow can’t let it be.
He thinks for a moment about how the bird is searching the area. It has taken two approaches. First, it followed a path, like the one the woman and her murderer took down the passageway. Now, it is searching randomly.
Why randomly?
Instantly a piece of the puzzle falls into place.
In the violent struggle, an item of jewelry must have come loose and been thrown somewhere in the alley. Who did it belong to … the woman or the person who killed her? Find it first, he reminds himself.
He advances on the crow. It flies up again and lands overhead. This time it and its mate mutter at him. Sherlock decides to try something reckless.
He looks toward the street: the odd person passing…. No one looking.
He regards the bloodstain once more and imagines where the woman might be standing: likely with her back to the dead end as she waits to meet someone. In a struggle, where would jewelry fly? He narrows it down to an area about eight feet by eight, closer to the dead end than the rubble of bricks. He takes out the magnifying glass, glances back at the street, then drops to all fours, the glass held close to his eyes.
Sherlock looks for a long time. Too long. His knees are getting sore, so he gets to his feet.
The crow screams.
The boy glances behind him.
His foot had knocked something ajar when he stood up. It is a heavy old horseshoe leaning against the wall and there beside it, partially underneath, something the size of a sovereign is glinting. He scrambles to pick it up. When he puts his hand on it, he realizes that there is more to it than he first thought. Some of it is jammed behind the horseshoe, stuck between it and the wall. He tugs and it slithers out, like a glittering snake. A bracelet. It looks delicate, like it would fit a pretty wrist, and it seems expensive, a luxury item. Diamonds and little silver charms hang from it. Sherlock examines them. One of them is an eye.
The crows are upset. They caw and squawk and look like they want to descend on Sherlock. Up the alleyway on Old Yard Street, two tradesmen stop, look toward the black birds and then down at the boy with the dirty face. He instantly pockets the bracelet.
It is time to move.
He wants to run, but doesn’t. He takes on his street character and shamble. Wishing he could glance everywhere, he holds his gaze down and moves. Who are these onlookers? At the entrance to Old Yard Street he takes a hard right. The men don’t follow.
But then he sees another man, this one large and thick, dressed in the blac
k livery of a coachman, two thin vertical slashes of red on his coat, standing still across the street, staring in his direction, then looking up at the shrieking crows as if startled by them. Sherlock can’t see his face because a shadow is cast across it. A detective? Would the police use that disguise?
He races toward Whitechapel, then turns onto it, desperate to disappear into its crowds. A hand grabs him from behind.
“Sherlock!”
It’s a higher-pitched voice than he feared … that smell of soap, the slender arms.
Irene.
She’s been waiting. She nods to someone who is walking with her, probably a servant who once worked for her father. The man pretends to not see the boy – a skill particular to experienced domestic help – and fades into the crowd.
“Did you find anything?” she asks.
Sherlock glances back toward Old Yard. His heart is racing. The big coachman in black livery seems to have vanished. Did Sherlock imagine him? Was he a ghost?
“I’ve … I’ve been here too long,” he says through clenched teeth. “Act like I’m begging and you’re giving me something. Reach into your purse. Hand me a penny!”
She does. He sweeps his cap from his head and bows.
“You didn’t answer me. Did you find something?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“We can’t talk here. We need to be where it might seem reasonable for you to be speaking with a street person … a big church.”
“St. Paul’s,” she answers immediately.
“I’ll meet you on the front steps where the crowds are.”
She takes the direct route and pretends she is with others. He swings south, toward the Thames, and approaches the cathedral from the river. As he walks, he realizes that he has put himself in even more danger. Now he is a black-faced street boy … with a lady’s diamond bracelet in his pocket.
“What did you find?” she asks the instant he arrives.
They are at the top of the big stone steps near the pillars and high wooden doors at the magnificent entrance. There are many street people nearby, some in bare feet, pleading for food and money. Gentlemen wearing tall hats and ladies in long, silk crinoline dresses are pausing as they climb the stairs, handing coppers to children. Sherlock motions to Irene to move into the shadows under the columns. It feels cold here, even in the warmth of the day.
“This,” says Sherlock, glancing around, then drawing the long glittering bracelet from his pocket.
Irene gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It’s beautiful.”
“There’s an eye on it.”
Irene takes it into her hand for a moment. Her face seems to glow in its reflection.
“What do you think it tells us?” she asks.
“It might mean she was rich, or it might not. She might have simply owned this single, expensive thing…. Or maybe it belonged to the person who killed her….”
Irene’s face turns pale. “A woman?”
“It connects the two of them,” says Sherlock.
Irene wonders exactly how. But she doesn’t ask him to explain. She knows this isn’t the right time. She also knows she shouldn’t try to comprehend this remarkable boy, that that is the way to be his friend. One understands him by not understanding, by trusting his mind. When they’re home, he’ll tell her more.
Sherlock is actually feeling pleased. Not just because he is beginning to see things about this murder – see a possible path through the labyrinth he has to get through to find a solution – but because he knows he has a friend standing beside him, a true friend for the first time in his life.
Then another light comes on in his brain like the beam on a locomotive. It frightens him to his boots.
“They saw it,” he mumbles.
His whole face has changed: a look of horror has come over it.
“What?” she asks, unsettled by his expression.
“They saw it,” he says again.
“Who?”
“The crows.”
“Saw what?” She knows the answer but wants him to go on.
“I’ve been guessing that the crows were there when it happened.” He pauses, staring down the elegant white steps. “Now … I know they were. They saw the whole thing.”
Sherlock’s eyes turn to hers. His black pupils are huge.
“They watched this person … murder her.”
SEEING EVIL
Sherlock won’t explain until they get back to Montague Street. He seems petrified. He stares ahead as if he were watching the murder transpire from the top of one of the buildings, watching with the eye of a crow.
Irene walks about half a football pitch in front of him, occasionally glancing back to make sure he is following. Up they go from St. Paul’s through bustling central London and back into her quiet neighborhood. Sherlock stops well down the street as she steps through the squeaky, wrought-iron gate and moves up the stone stairs to the front door. If it is unlocked, her father is home.
She tries the door. Locked. Feeling for the key in her purse, she looks down the street toward Sherlock and motions. A few minutes later they are sitting on the settee in the small morning room on the ground floor with John Stuart Mill stretched flat nearby. Irene is positioned in a big window to see both ways on the street. Sherlock is hidden from view by a scarlet curtain.
Andrew Doyle will be home any minute. But she has to know.
He starts talking as soon as they sit.
“The first thing I realized when I got there was how wide the bloodstain was … which likely means the murderer knew his victim, because it wasn’t the quick kill-and-get-away job of a thief. It was a crime of passion – an angry one.”
Irene adjusts her position and her long woolen dress on the cushioned settee. She has asked for this, wanted to get out from under the restrictions of her home and be with this boy pursuing justice. But now she is beginning to face the stark reality of it all.
Sherlock stops talking. His mind is drifting off again, trying to see the murder. Irene brings him back.
“But how do you know the crows saw it happen? Maybe when the sun came up the next morning and shone into the alley, they happened by and noticed part of the eyeball and even the bracelet glittering in the ground. Or maybe they were there that night, nearby anyway, but simply heard the woman scream, or saw some commotion and were drawn to the alley. Then they noticed the woman lying there, bits of glitter on the ground near her. They flew off in fear, but kept coming back to find their prizes and were always spooked whenever people appeared. It’s impossible to know how much they saw. Impossible. You had to have been there.”
“I know what they saw” murmurs Sherlock. His long white fingers are entwined. He squeezes them tightly together.
“How do you know?” She asks intently.
“There was a crow on one of the buildings when I got there. I watched him. He did three things. He checked the rubble where I found the eyeball, he walked up and down the passage toward the street and back, and he moved around randomly on the side of the alley opposite from the stain.”
Sherlock peeks around the curtain and looks outside, then leans closer to Irene.
“The crow didn’t spend long where the eyeball had been because he could see it was gone. Then he started searching for something else … something that interested him, something that glittered. The fact that he looked near the spot where I found the bracelet was an indication that he saw the murder…. He knew that it was flung away during the struggle.”
“But still,” protests Irene, “couldn’t he have just noticed the bracelet glittering in the cobblestones the way I suggested? Couldn’t he have seen it lying there after the murder? Maybe he moved about randomly because he simply wasn’t certain where it was?”
“I thought that too … for a while,” says Sherlock. “And you’re right. What I’ve said only tells us that the crow may have seen something flung across the alley … it isn’t proof.”
“So … what i
s?”
“The crow walked up and down the alley …” he leans so close to Irene that their noses almost touch, “… on a direct line from the bloodstain to the street.”
Irene shudders. Sherlock is right. The crow must have seen the victim or the killer or both enter the alleyway from the street and walk a direct line toward the murder scene … or, at the very least, it saw the villain rush back to the street after completing his horrible deed. It knows where they walked.
The Whitechapel murder was not unobserved.
“The crows saw it” she gasps.
The grandfather clock in the hall ticks.
“And we have to find a way to see it too,” muses Sherlock.
He looks up and sees a frightened expression on her face. He can tell that she doesn’t want to see this horrible act, not even in her mind. She wants everything to be over: for him to be free, Mohammad to be released, that poor woman to have peace, the real culprit to be brought to justice. Sherlock is different. He wants to see it all, every bloody moment. And he wants vengeance, for everyone.
But at that instant something nearly as frightening as the image in his mind appears on the street outside the window.
“He’s here!” Irene cries.
Her father is approaching the front door. She’s been so engrossed in their conversation that she’s neglected her lookout duties.
“Out. Out!” she exclaims, rising to her feet.
Sherlock springs up and gallops out of the morning room, down the hallway, past the dining room, to the back door. He can hear Andrew Doyle opening the front entrance, taking off his hat, hanging up his umbrella.
“Irene?”
“Yes, father?”
She materializes in front of him like a spirit. Her voice is calm as she stands there in the doorway of the vestibule, blocking her father’s view of the hall. His walrus mustache smiles.
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