“Sir!” they both say together.
Sherlock turns to see Inspector Lestrade approaching. His head instantly drops to his chest.
“Good day.”
“Gentlemen,” says a higher voice. It sounds like it comes from a boy. Sherlock peers out from under his cap. It is a lad indeed, the spitting image of Lestrade, except for the mustache. He looks a little older than Sherlock and wears a brown tweed suit.
“This is my son, constables: Lestrade the Second.”
They all laugh. But the inspector’s boy doesn’t.
“Helping Father, are we?” says one of the Peelers once the laughter subsides.
“Yes,” comes the dead-serious response. “I intend to follow in his footsteps.”
“A detective, no less. And what are you on the lookout for today?”
“A boy whom we once had in custody pertaining to the Whitechapel murder. We know he is about, and know he has a friend who was nearly killed in a traffic accident recently. Eyewitnesses claimed she had a boy with her, but he vanished.”
Sherlock’s pulse quickens.
“Sherlock Holmes,” says the elder Lestrade. “We have our main villain. But there is still the question of the purse.”
“Precisely,” says the junior detective. “So we shall jail Master Holmes again if we find him, and proceed with prosecution. If you see him, let us know.” The policemen nod solemnly. “His friend, this girl, is at home now. She wasn’t forthcoming when questioned, but they may try to meet.”
Sherlock is petrified. He doesn’t dare move. But as the Lestrades turn to go, the younger one walks directly his way! He curls up into a ball.
“Boy,” says young Lestrade firmly, reaching into his pocket. In horror, Sherlock realizes that it is he who is being addressed.
“Boy!”
“Yes?” Sherlock offers.
“Do you want this or not?” There is a farthing in his hand.
“It’s me eyes, sir …” mumbles the beggar. “I’m blind … I don’t like to look up.”
The coin clatters on the pavement in front of him.
“God bless you, sir,” says Sherlock Holmes.
Having escaped such a close call, it would make sense to lie low for a while. But the news about Irene is too much to resist. He doesn’t want to speak with her, doesn’t want her to see him, but maybe, just maybe, he might see her.
He makes his way up to Montague Street that night, finds his spot in the shadows outside the British Museum and watches the Doyle house. The lights are still on. He can see figures moving inside. It looks warm in there. There is Mr. Doyle … and there is Irene. She passes by quickly … too quickly. Then she passes again. He waits. Soon she comes to the window and looks out. She seems to be searching the streets. Her left arm is in a sling. It is hard not to stare at her. She is everything that is right about the world in a world that has so much wrong.
He stays there until their lights go out and then slumps to the ground against the wall and can’t leave. Eventually his eyelids start to close, but just before he falls asleep, he sees movement outside the house.
The front door is opening and someone is coming out. Whoever it is, he or she is walking slowly, gingerly, as if it is painful to move.
Irene. She’s dressed in dark clothes.
He shrinks back against the wall.
She comes out to the street, closes the wrought-iron gate, and turns down the foot pavement. She is heading into the city alone. He can’t believe it. All her injuries are to her upper body, but walking must be excruciating.
He follows. If anyone touches her, he will protect her with his life.
The fog is beginning to settle in.
She seems to be looking for someone. Me? thinks Sherlock.
Maybe. He follows her into areas he has recently frequented. As he grows more and more anxious for her safety he draws closer, hidden by the fog.
They are moving along a narrow street when she suddenly tries to pick up the pace. Soon she is almost running, hobbling forward. He can tell by the way she holds her free hand in a fist that she is frightened. Out in front of her, a shadow seems to be scurrying. Then she comes to a halt, her chest heaving, and shouts:
“MALEFACTOR!!”
There is silence. The noise echoes in the narrow street as if all of London has stopped to listen. And then, from the very place where that shadow evaporated, a bigger one appears.
“Miss Doyle, a pleasure to greet you. Please excuse the conduct of my young associate – it is in his nature to flee.”
His hat is in his hands. He has flattened down his greasy hair, his yellow teeth are showing, and he wears a genuine smile. Sherlock can’t believe that the young master criminal hasn’t spotted him, but Malefactor’s eyes are fixed on the girl and the fog is heavy. Holmes looks to his side. He is within a yard of a deep doorway. He disappears into it, so close to the others that he can hear every word they say. She has no experience in street whispers and speaks as if she is in a drawing room with one of her father’s friends. Malefactor replies, out of respect, in clear tones.
“I … I …” she begins.
“How are your injuries, my dear?” He seems truly upset. The sight of her in this condition appears to pain him. He holds out his hands as if to touch her, but then folds them into each other in front of his chest.
“My health is returning,” she responds and then adds quickly, “I am looking for Sherlock.” She speaks as if she has come to say something difficult and is adamant about stating it bluntly.
There is a long pause.
“Master Holmes?” asks the outlaw as he tries to maintain his smile.
“Yes, sir.”
“I would prefer that you call me Malefactor, all my friends do.”
Irene says nothing. Sherlock peeks out from his spot. She seems to be breathing heavily, as if she is still very frightened.
“You are trembling, Irene. May I call you that? There is nothing to fear. I will not harm you. In fact, you are safer now than you have been for weeks. I shall see you home untouched. That idiot Jew, whom you say you want to find, almost had you killed.”
“It was not his fault,” she insists, looking down.
“Oh?”
“He is only seeking justice. It is what I seek too.”
“Justice? Not justice again!”
“Yes,” she says clearly, without flinching.
“Come, come, now. There has never been, is not now, nor will there ever be such a thing as justice.” He spits out the last word as if it tastes vile in his mouth.
“I would dispute that.”
“If justice were about in our lifetime then my existence would be different from this.” He holds his hands out from his body, palms up, and gestures to the surroundings as if he were a king showing off his realm. He lowers them. “The children of London would not be dying in the rookeries.” He eyes her and his voice softens. “You and I would not be standing here as we are; we would be equals…. forgive me, that is incorrect. No one, my dear, is your equal. And I do not flatter.”
Irene blushes and her head lowers.
“But if justice existed, we would at least look each other in the eye…. I might take you for a ride about London in my carriage, and we’d promenade in Hyde Park.”
“I do not know, sir, what befell you in your life, but I do know that whatever it was, it should not have turned you away from doing what is right.”
“I do what is right every day, Irene. That is how I survive.”
“Then help me find Sherlock…. Help me free him and Mr. Adalji … and keep us all from more harm.”
“I …” Malefactor falters.
“Help us find that woman’s murderer.”
“I had a sister …” He says in a strange voice, then stops and shakes his head as if he were trying to shake something out. He smoothes his black tail-coat and doesn’t speak for a while. Then he addresses her sincerely.
“If you give me your hand and ask for help, I will do it. I cannot
make any more inquiries. It is not wise. But I can do something. A reasonable request from you will not go unheeded. Ask.”
Irene pauses, thinking.
“I will not ask you to find Sherlock,” she begins. “Or to pursue this case. But I will ask you this…. If he comes to you for help … and wants something you can provide … will you first, not harm him, and secondly give the advice he seeks?”
Malefactor says nothing. Sherlock peers around the doorframe, trying to see. There are times when he actually feels something like pity for the young crime boss. There is no question that he has suffered a terrible fall, that his parents are gone, a precious sister is dead, that it has all been unfair.
Irene reaches out her hand and takes one of Malefactor’s – his rough left hand that has been hanging limp by his side. Her soft, white hand envelops it.
“Yes,” he says softly, and Sherlock thinks he can almost hear the other boy swallow.
“He needs you,” smiles Irene, “especially now.” Then her face grows taut and she takes a deep breath. She has wanted to tell Malefactor this from the moment she saw him tonight. “I … had someone take me to Sherlock’s home yesterday, hoping he might be nearby. I had the feeling I was being followed. And just as I was leaving, I saw a carriage pull up and stop there for the longest time.”
“Perhaps a detective?” asks Malefactor, acting disinterested.
“It was …” she shudders and touches her bruised face, “… a black coach with red fittings.”
Sherlock snaps back his head and knocks his shoulder against the wooden door. Malefactor, a reptile sensing prey instantly swivels toward him. The criminal pulls his hand from Irene’s and glares at the doorway, not more than twenty yards away.
Sherlock has no choice. He tears into the street.
“HOLMES!” he hears Malefactor shout.
Sherlock vanishes into the fog. The heels of his old boots smack against the cobblestones, echoing in the street. He expects to hear the footsteps of a dozen boys in hot pursuit. But there are none. All he senses is Irene’s hand, reaching out to grip Malefactor again, holding him to his promise, and the leader’s other hand rising to halt his troops, though it frustrates him to do it.
As Sherlock runs, his mind is racing. He has to do something … now! He will see his mother tomorrow.
This deadly game is afoot!
THE EYES OF MAYFAIR
Sure that no one had followed or spotted him the last time he intercepted his mother coming home from Mayfair, Sherlock decides it is safe to meet her in the same area again. He slides down Carnaby past Lear’s shop, turns at Beak Street, and then walks west, staying close to the buildings. He repeats the route twice before he catches sight of her. Though she looks as if she’s aged even more in the last few days, a hint of excitement is mingled with the worry and sadness in her face. Her eyes are shifting back and forth as if she knows Sherlock is nearby. He creeps up behind her and in minutes they are behind the Haymarket again.
The boy has been having second thoughts during the day: perhaps, if he flees the city and tries to start life again somewhere else, the murderer will leave his parents alone. He’s been thinking about the black coach sitting outside their home; of it brutally trampling Irene. This has all grown too dangerous.
But then his mother turns to him with shining eyes.
“I’ve done it!” she gasps.
“Mother, I …”
“I have news. News you won’t believe.”
He hesitates. “You found a one-eyed man?”
“I found four.”
Sherlock is speechless.
“And they know each other. I have it straight from a long-serving housemaid.” Rose catches her breath. “Do you remember when I told you about the Mayfair gentleman who treated his wife terribly and had a strange look in one of his eyes? How one eye seemed dead?”
Sherlock nods.
“Well, the housemaid I asked was one of his. That gentleman, that brutish Mayfair man … has a false eye.”
Sherlock still doesn’t know what to say. What if they are really on the verge of solving this? What are the chances that there are more than four one-eyed men in wealthy little Mayfair? Isn’t one of them almost surely the murderer? He swallows hard. Maybe the nasty one is him! He has to stay calm. He is getting ahead of himself. Just because this man is unpleasant, doesn’t mean he is the villain. There are three others to consider.
“What do you mean they all know each other?” he asks.
“I was told that they have a great deal in common. All four married up in society; owe their wealth to their wives, bought positions in the army. All four were officers during the Crimean War and had the misfortune to suffer wounds to their eyes. On the first weekday in each month they get together, raise a glass of port, and talk about old times.”
A league of one-eyed men.
“And here are their names.”
One of Rose’s shaking, aging hands plucks a torn piece of paper out of the pocket in her dress. There are four names scrawled on it, and beside them, four addresses.
“Mother, you shouldn’t have …”
She puts a quivering finger to his lips.
“Don’t say another word. I asked more questions, yes, found their addresses. That is what you need. Solve this, son. Free yourself and that poor man, and come home to me. And let that woman rest in peace.”
She’d told him what to do.
Staggering through Trafalgar Square, reeling from what she said and not watching for enemies, he considers his options. Fleeing is not one of them. The villain might not know he is gone for some time or might do something to make sure he stays away. He must solve the crime and do it soon. It’s the only way to make sure they’ll all be safe forever.
“Master ’olmes!” says a voice through cupped hands. He’s been spotted. Without thinking, he responds by lifting his head.
He’s near Dupin’s kiosk. The crippled newspaper vendor is motioning him over.
“’ead down!” he instructs. “What’s wrong with you, guvna’? You’re about in plain view!”
Sherlock snaps out of his stupor and lowers his head.
“Take this,” mutters Dupin and jams something into the boy’s grimy coat.
The News of the World.
He leafs through it, his mind riveted elsewhere, knowing he must act immediately, but not sure how. There is little in the paper on the Whitechapel murder, anyway. Mohammad’s fate is sealed. In five days, he goes to trial. It will be over in an instant. Sherlock can barely think. What is he going to do? The big daily ad for entertainments at The Crystal Palace looks back at him; beside it a much smaller one for a chimney cleaning company.
Chimney sweeps! He looks down at his frame … thin as a rail.
He has to get close to his suspects, very close, and he has to find indisputable evidence of one man’s guilt. Suddenly … he knows how he’ll do it.
He crosses the river and walks south for miles out of the city into the new suburbs and on toward the green, rolling pastures and villages of Sydenham. No one seems to be following him. He finds another field, another stone fence, and collapses. It is a beautiful, early May evening and as the sun falls, he can hear the birds singing. Somewhere not far off, crows are calling. He drifts into the deepest sleep he has had for weeks. He is frightened, but his mind is set.
He has come to this countryside in pursuit of the tools he needs to execute his final and most dangerous moves. The Crystal Palace is just a mile or two away; in fact, he saw it glowing in the night when the sun first set. Wilber Holmes works there, and though he may never know it, he is about to become an accomplice in his son’s desperate scheme.
When Sherlock wakes, the sun is already well up in the sky. He finds a stream and tries to make himself as respectable as possible, then begins trekking through the fields past the village of Forest Hill and along a road into Sydenham. There, on an elevated stretch of land, sits the mighty Palace.
It was built in 1851 a
s part of the Empire’s Great Exhibition, right near the heart of London in beautiful Hyde Park. Much of the world came to the city that year to see the grandeur of Queen Victoria and her people. From Europe, Asia, Africa, the Far East, and America, an incredible one million per month passed through its doors. Inside, nations (naturally lead by the British Empire) displayed the progress of civilization: spectacular new machines, remarkable weapons, exotic silks, precious china, and famous jewels. It was a magical building made of nearly a million square feet of glass, like a see-through castle from the future come to life.
When the Exhibition ended, its masterminds did another amazing thing. They packed it up and moved it, thousands of tons of iron and glass, to this hill in Sydenham. There “The Palace of the People’s Pleasure” grew and show business added its flavor: you could see Blondin on the high rope, The Farinis flying through the air, operas so big they might have been performed for God, circuses with their roaring menageries, and Ethardo, balancing on his ball as he climbed his twisting slide to the sky.
It looms now in front of him.
Sherlock can never decide exactly what it looks like: either the biggest glass cathedral the world has ever known, or a greenhouse made for giants. It stretches an impossible length, its endless panes of curved glass walls and ceilings shine in the sun.
People are moving in crowds from the train stations as he ascends the massive grounds, past the life-size models of ancient dinosaurs, the colorful flowers, and the many pools, artificial lakes, and magnificent fountains.
The boy has been here before on a few free employee days with his parents. He knows exactly where he needs to go and how he needs to do this. He walks up one of the huge stone staircases. The steps lead to a wide, wrought-iron-gate entrance.
In order to get in, he is going to try what the Irregulars call “the rush,” a simple way of entering a crowded event without paying. He’s heard Malefactor instruct his charges about it before. The rush simply involves getting into the flow of a crowd and moving quickly, eyes looking forward, giving the impression that you are meant to be where you are, walking forthrightly into any venue. If you do it correctly, you will rush past the ticket taker and into the building. If he calls out to you, you never look his way, but simply keep moving and disappear into the entering throng. It works best in wide, crowded entrances, and such is the case today. In Sherlock goes, eyes cast into the Palace, moving spryly with the flowing mass. They sweep him ashore.
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