Eye of the Crow (29 page)

I
nspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard finds a most curious collection of items on his desk the following morning, the day of Mohammad’s trial. There is a glittering bracelet, a glass eye splattered with blood, and a stained purse with a letter inside. Delivered to the night sergeant by an errand boy with his cap pulled down over his eyes, it is crudely wrapped in a newspaper. Across the sheet torn from
The Illustrated Police News,
written with the sharp end of something dipped in watered-down soot, is a detailed explanation of what happened on the night of the Whitechapel murder. It answers every question anyone could possibly have, tells of the sacrifice of brave Rose Sherrinford Holmes, and identifies the murderer and where he can be found.

Propped against the stone fence in a deserted Trafalgar Square in the pale and foggy dawn, Sherlock is seeing it now: the entire murder. Swooping down from the black sky, he lands on the edge of the building on Old Yard Street off
Whitechapel. Settling his oily feathers, he turns when he hears her rushing toward him down below, the sound echoing in the street. He cocks his head and trains his sharp eye on the scene. Observe. The beautiful woman, Lillie Irving, is running, her jewelry glowing, anxious to impress someone.
Shining.
It makes him mutter, his dark tongue poised in his beak. She hastens into an alley and turns to wait, her chest heaving, pretty hands nervously clutching a purse. He lifts off and lands above her, cocking his head again. Something else is glowing in the moonlight on the filthy ground not far from her … a knife.

A street away a black coach comes to a halt and a large, middle-aged man steps down onto the pavement, the carriage bouncing as his weight leaves it. He is rushing too, and soon has entered the alley. Sherlock’s heart beats faster in his black breast.

She reaches out tenderly for the man when he nears. He grabs her wrist and something glittery flies off. Her other arm reaches out. He pushes her back. She begins to cry. Then she grows angry. She is threatening him. He is warning her. She rears and slaps his face and then shoves him. He staggers and steps on something. He picks it up.

Up above, Sherlock cries out as he sees what it is….
Mohammad’s blade.

Down it comes. Once. She screams. A pretty white hand comes up like a cat’s paw, nails out, and grips the man’s face, a finger digging into the eye, gouging. He screams. The knife comes up in the moonlight again.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Five.

She falls, gasps, and is still.

The man looks skyward for a second. A crow gazes back. It’s
him
– the man in the bed in Mayfair!

The murderer looks down at the knife. Drops it. Hesitates. Snatches up the purse. Runs. Around the corner, holding his face, making for the coach. He enters it on the fly, shouting something to his black-liveried coachman, and they race away at full speed.

The murder done, the crow drops down. Time to search for those shiny things.

Sherlock can see them in the dawn. As always, they are gathered on Morley’s Hotel and atop palatial Northumberland House, on its golden lion across the square. They are watching, preening their black feathers, sticking close to each other, their brains alert. The boy smiles weakly.

He doesn’t leave the square all day. He can’t move. A few people begin to appear and then a few more. Then things start to bustle. Malefactor materializes before long, and eyes him from a distance through the crowd, not sure why he is leaving himself so visible to the police.

But the Bobbies already have their man – an hour before, a whole flock of the Force arrested the killer in his Mayfair mansion, Lestrade at their head, his chest puffed out.

Sherlock stares back at Malefactor. The criminal can see that there is no more fear in the half-breed boy’s cloudy gray eyes. Something has changed. Forever.

Malefactor nods at Holmes, signals to his swarm, and melts into the crowd.

Over on Bow Street, Mohammad Adalji is stepping out into the sunlight. The fog has lifted; spring is finally here to stay. There is a smile on his face, but wariness remains in his eyes. There have been no explanations, no apologies. He’s just been released without comment. Had he been a betting man, he would have wagered that the tall, thin boy with the desperate eyes had something to do with this.
Freedom.
Mohammad walks slowly down Bow Street, but starts to run when he turns at the Strand. He wonders if he should just keep on running. East. East. East. Until he is all the way home.

Sherlock thinks of many things: of his father and wonders what is next; of Irene and wishes he could be with her; and of his mother. But when he thinks of her, he cries. That will not do.

In Southwark, Wilber Holmes is still sitting on the bed in their flat, rocking his wife in his arms. He had come home in the dark and found her there. Hatred changed his life, but couldn’t destroy it as long as he had Rose, his beautiful Rose, who had sacrificed her dreams for him. Now she is gone.

Sherlock wipes his eyes and gets ready for the evening papers.

His friend Dupin, the cripple, will find him one. He won’t have to wait.

When Big Ben strikes 5:00, the boy makes his way across the square. Dupin sees him coming and looks the other way so the lad can take the freshest edition he’s ever held in his hands. The shadows envelop him as he moves into an alcove against a building. The stone surface is cool and clammy.

It is time for a brief moment in the sun amidst the darkness and horror. He gave Lestrade all the details and surely the inspector has told the press: London will at least know that Rose Sherrinford was the bravest and best woman on earth, that she marched into the lair of the murderer, that she loved her son with her life, and that he, Sherlock Holmes, solved the unsolvable crime of the Whitechapel murder. He gave precious freedom to a wrongly accused man, and allowed Lillie Irving to rest in peace. His mother will not have died in vain. She, and he, will at least and at last be … somebody.

It is splashed across the front page.

“
BRILLIANT MURDER SOLUTION!
”

He reads every word. Not one of them is
Holmes.

There, amongst the many pages of coverage, are illustrations of the triumphant Inspector Lestrade along with his thoughts on his own clever solution to the crime. He holds up the bracelet, the purse, the glass eye, and the letter. The
Force, he tells the reporters, doubted that Mr. Adalji was the real villain from the start – they had been watching Mayfair for weeks.

The tall, thin boy’s first reaction is despair. He has been fighting to control himself. Now he almost faints, dropping to the ground and pulling his legs up to his chest. Not only has his involvement in this horror killed his mother, but he has buried her deeper in anonymity than she ever was in life.

But then an image of Rose comes to his mind, speaking to him the last time he saw her. He can’t collapse. He sits up cross-legged, his big head against the wall. Anger begins to spread through him. He and his mother
will
get their due. He will seek vengeance for
all
who are wronged.

The crows lift off into the dark sky, making their horrible sound. He watches them fly.

What did she say to him just before she died?

“You have much to do in life.”

She is right. He knows now what his big brain can accomplish. He has solved a crime that eluded Scotland Yard. Fear had tried to invade him on those rooftops and passions had sometimes made him careless and easier for the police to spot, but he had steeled himself to his task by setting aside his emotions, becoming ice cold, turning himself into a machine. It had proved the right approach. Now, he needs to go further.

He will never allow himself to be emotionally attached to anyone again. Attachments are unaffordable. Instead, he
will spend every waking hour seeking justice, as villainous in his search as any criminal. He will become a deadly thinking force.

They will all pay. He will make them.

No one will ever know the depth of his pain, but those who stand in the way of justice will feel it. He will hide his past and create a new future. Someday everyone will know the name Sherlock Holmes.

The Master looks out at London. The fog is settling. Darkness is falling. He stands up to his full height, shoulders back, and walks into the streets. His gray eyes observe every stimuli, his beak-like nose smells every scent. He doesn’t know where he will go or stay, but he knows exactly what he will do.