Eye of the Crow (18 page)

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

T
he 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.