Eye of the Crow (24 page)

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 as 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.

The boy doesn’t even bother to look up at the magnificent glass ceiling. He has to find his father. At exactly noon each day Wilber releases the birds.

Sherlock’s scheme for getting close to the Mayfair suspects, so close that he can prove one guilty, is a daring, almost reckless plan. He is about to put it in motion.

The moment when his father releases the Palace’s doves of peace is always spectacular. Thousands of birds are freed from their cages at once, watched by much of the day’s crowd, sometimes numbering more than twenty thousand strong. Sherlock has seen it and loves it. Everything seems to stop when the moment comes. All eyes go to the glass roof as the birds soar. The boy, given to being just as interested in a crowd’s reaction as he is in the attraction itself, remembers looking up, and then down at the spectators’ awed response. That was when he noticed that even the professionals who had seen the doves fly so many times were riveted. Among them were the dancers who performed the popular Chimney Sweep Stroll not long after. A row of them sat on benches nearby and stood as thousands of white wings took flight. Each had a handbag. Each left it unattended as they looked to the ceiling.

Sherlock is guessing that those bags contained their costumes.

He sees his father at a distance. Wilber is immersed in his job. He has the ability to do that, to set aside whatever trials life has given him and concentrate. Sherlock can see
the lines in his face, which seem deeper every year. The boy wishes he could speak with him.

But not today.

He keeps his eye on his father’s progress and slips around to where the chimney sweep dancers are gathering. There they are, bags in hand, sitting. He creeps up close, pretending to be fascinated by the preparations for the release of the doves.

He waits.

Noon hour. His father is always punctual. A great fanfare of trumpets begins. The crowd hushes. They watch the cages. The dancers stand up, setting their bags on the floor.

Whoooooooooooosh!

Up go the doves. Up go the eyes of nearly twenty thousand people. Sherlock pounces.

Seconds later he is running across the grounds of the Palace, heading north toward the city, a chimney sweep’s handbag in his grip. It is his ticket into the mansions of Mayfair.

But first he will hold Malefactor to the pledge he made to Irene.

It doesn’t take Sherlock long to find the Irregulars. They, after all, are keeping an eye out for him. He spots a dirty little head looking his way from a lane near the Seven Dials. It pops back and disappears. Sherlock enters the
lane. Malefactor is leaning against a dirty building, tight-lipped as his rival approaches. The mixture of respect and hatred that is always in his face when they meet has increased. He isn’t pleased that he is being compelled to help Sherlock Holmes, that he and Irene were listened to, undetected, that this upstart is doing well. He clearly wants to scream at the boy or strike him, but he can’t – his voice and his arms are pinned back by the words of Miss Doyle.

“I need some advice,” says Sherlock, stopping just beyond an arm’s length away.

Malefactor lunges, seizing him by the shoulders and pulling him down an intersecting passageway and into a little court. There, he pitches him to the ground. An abandoned vendor’s basket is overturned nearby. The gang leader picks it up, straightens it, and sits on it, his eyes dead, his mouth closed. Several Irregulars, led by Grimsby and Crew, slither up to listen.

“I knew from the beginning that the Arab didn’t do it,” snaps the boss. “But you, how did
you
know?” It isn’t for Sherlock Holmes to know more about a street murder than he. At the very least, the outlaw wants further information in exchange for his advice.

Sherlock doesn’t want to tell his rival. It’s never seemed right to him to tell this criminal everything he knows.

“How were you so sure the Arab was innocent?” repeats Malefactor, impatient.

“By looking into his eyes,” says Sherlock, sitting up and rubbing an elbow.

“Not good enough, idiot!” screams Malefactor, standing up and looming over him.

The boy needs more from the gang leader – so he will have to play cricket with him.

“Because of what he said about the crows,” says Sherlock.

“Yes?” It means Holmes is to say more.

“When I first spoke to him,” Sherlock continues, “he mentioned very innocently that he’d seen the crows in the sky at the Old Bailey courthouse. That was
all
he knew about them.”

Malefactor grasps it instantly.

“Elementary, Holmes.” He nods, “The Arab hadn’t seen or heard the crows before, but the
murderer
would have. The person who killed that woman heard the crows scream and saw them in the alley … and would
never
forget it.”

“I’d just told Mohammad that the crows led me to the murder site.”

“And he never made a connection.”

“Precisely.”

“Simplicity itself,” Malefactor mutters.

“You and I think alike sometimes,” says Sherlock.

“Not really,” retorts the older boy. “You want some advice? … Talk.”

Holmes gathers himself. “I have to break into a house in Mayfair.”

Malefactor wonders what Holmes is getting himself into. “First,” he begins, “you need an obvious reason to be
there, so that if someone sees you on your way, they won’t be suspicious.”

“I have a reason. I am a chimney sweep.”

He pops open the handbag and pulls out his costume and containers of makeup.

Malefactor raises his eyebrows. He is astonished. Holmes has picked the perfect disguise – one that will allow him to get into a house – black, so as to camouflage him at night, take him down the chimney instead of through a door, and make him unrecognizable if someone sees him.

“You must be in the house for only a brief time. You will know exactly what you are looking for before you enter – and where it is apt to be. Therefore, you will visit the house ahead of time and observe your entry point and how to get to it. You will note the occupants of the house and their habits.”

Sherlock nods.

“Either the house will be empty, or everyone will be asleep when you enter. If that does not turn out to be the situation, you will immediately vacate the premises. You will know, at all times, exactly where, and how, you will leave the building.”

Malefactor pauses. He motions for the Irregulars to leave, then moves closer to the tall, thin boy.

“What exactly, might I ask, are you looking for?” He knows the boy has been withholding information.

“A one-eyed man.”

“And a lady’s coin purse?”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock chooses the first address on Rose’s list, the one where the rude man lives. Then he puts on his chimney sweep costume and enters Mayfair. He’s never seen anything like it. This is an opera for the rich. The big, white and yellow houses rise on each side of every street like the ornate homes of gods, many five storeys high: gleaming black iron gates on the streets, pillars up the steps at the arched entrances, flowered balconies on upper floors, and areas for servants below stairs. Ladies with purple parasols and matching silk dresses stroll by or clatter past in phaetons and broughams, attended by liveried coachmen. Butlers and footmen appear on front steps. Uniformed cooks and maids scurry around the houses and in through back doors.

Sherlock’s destination takes him into the heart of Mayfair, past the extravagant shops of New Bond, onto a smaller street leading to extra wealthy Berkeley Square, and just past it. He begins casing the house, watching everything that happens near it and around it. He notes the help, the lady, the perfectly dressed children … and then, just as the sun sets, the gentleman on his way home. He is a big man, broad shouldered and a little fat, his cheeks and chin overgrown with red mustachios and a long, red goatee – indeed the cad whose face his mother disliked, and maybe, just maybe … the villain. One eye never blinks.