There he is, in her room. It is a bit like being in heaven. He is distant from the depths of Southwark, the hell of his own home. He pours some water from a china pitcher into a basin on her washstand, finds some soap nearby, and washes himself, relieved to finally be clean. He pats his straight, black hair into place in a mirror and then looks around. Everything is bright; everything smells good. There are photo graphs on her dressing table and all over her walls. It looks like a gallery. Famous people are posed. He recognizes Adelina Patti, the great singer, the one and only “Champagne Charlie,” Leotard, the “Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze,” and many others. Her frilly red bed is stacked with sand-stuffed cloth animals. Books fill shelves. He sits on the floor and picks out a few. There’s Dickens of course, Thackeray, Wilkie Collins, Austen, and Poe, and some remarkably thick ones about Far Eastern history and English social issues, most in three-volume sets. He’s had no books, magazines, or even papers in jail. It has been a week since he’s read a single word on a printed page. Reading is like an addiction to him: he craves it the way desperate folks in the Lime House opium dens in the East End need their drug. He eyes the volumes hungrily. But it’s the children’s books that he can’t put down. He sits for a long time turning their pages, smiling at the ones whose insides pop up. It seems like only moments later that a rap comes on the door and a slim arm enters like a snake being charmed, and drops his clean clothes on the floor.
“Put them on,” she says. He hears her footsteps fleeing along the hallway and then down the stairs.
A short while later, they sit at the gleaming dining table on the ground floor, he in his worn but clean dark suit, she in another immaculate dress, this time partially covered by an apron. In front of him is a banquet of food – crumpets and tea, kippers and orange juice, links and eggs, the sort of food he’s rarely tasted. A yellow lark sits in a gold cage hanging from the ceiling almost over their shoulders, hopping from its perch onto a little green square of sod and back, fluttering its wings as if looking for a way out. It doesn’t say anything. Neither does Sherlock, who eats like a starving man. He speaks only when he’s finished every last morsel, and then his voice is shaking with emotion.
“I need to know how my parents are and get word to them … that I’m alive.”
But he knows a visit would be reckless, almost impossible.
“I have to see Malefactor first,” he adds.
“Who?”
“He’s a boy who lives on the streets and operates a gang. He hates me. But I have the feeling he’ll help me now, show me how to survive, do what I have to do. I have information I can trade, tell him things about the Bow Street jail, about how …”
Sherlock springs to his feet and heads for the front door.
“Stop!” shouts Irene.
The boy turns.
“Two things: you can’t go out in broad daylight, they are looking for you; and, when you do go, I’m coming with you.”
Her first point makes perfect sense. He feels like a fool for being so rash. The second part stuns him. Certainly, he had hoped she would help him: bring him food, let him stay near the house, not give him up to the police. But come with him to visit the Irregulars? He doesn’t care how unusual she is – he has no intention of bringing her with him.
“Right,” he says, “on both counts.”
Mr. Doyle is supposed to be away for most of the day so Sherlock is able to stay indoors for a while longer. The boy is well aware that it is improper for them to be alone together, but they have little choice. With time to themselves, they talk, each vigilant for any noise at the front door.
“My father is a man of some means, but not like most who have money,” she tells Sherlock with pride, motioning for him to clear the plates off the table and help her take them down to the kitchen.
Andrew Doyle, it turns out, is an Oxford-educated scion of a liberal family who can afford to spend his days at the head of an organization that not only aids the poor, but tries to make the government help them too. He is willing to leave the comfort of his home to roll up his sleeves and contribute in the hospitals, the jails, and even on the streets. He is a “new thinker” of the 1860s, gone from nearly sunrise to sunset, attempting to change the world.
“He wasn’t always that way,” says Irene, hanging up her apron, and motioning for them to return upstairs. “But when my mother died …” Her voice falters. She takes a few steps upwards, keeping her face turned away from her friend. When they reach the ground floor, she continues. “… when she died … on the day I was born … he started walking the streets to work off his grief.” Her voice gains in strength. “He went everywhere. He told me he saw misery like he had never imagined; misery that more than matched his own.”
They move to the dining room table again.
“I am his only child, and he wants me to grow up to care for others and make a difference in their lives, whether I’m a girl or not. He teaches me as often as my governess does. Maybe she shouldn’t even be called that. She was very carefully chosen and doesn’t live with us, just teaches me girlish things I need to know. Father has me read all sorts of things other girls aren’t allowed. You can ask me any political question! I can cook and sew and run without growing pale. He says I should be able to vote, and I’m allowed to stay home alone and do nearly anything I want.”
Her voice grows softer.
“It’s quiet here. We don’t have many people call. Father says I need to be shielded from … my outings are to workhouses and soup kitchens, and my books are my friends.”
Sherlock detects her sadness. The lark flutters its wings and she looks up at the cage.
“We purchased Blondin, there, from a bird dealer south of the river. Poor thing has a broken wing. I want to let him go, but father says he would perish in London.”
Her sadness doesn’t linger. The boy’s desperate situation seems to connect to everything she and her father believe in, and soon she is pressing him to tell her more about the murder case.
There is a sound at the front door. They sit very still, Sherlock poised to flee. Silence. Perhaps it was just a pebble or a piece of metal from a harness, thrown from the street by the wheel of a passing carriage. Irene turns back to the boy, now even more anxious to hear more about his troubles before her father returns.
He had planned to keep the most important details from her, but when she asks so earnestly, he can’t hold back. He needs to tell someone, and his trust in her is growing.
“There are things about this crime that I wasn’t able to speak about in jail,” he begins.
He tells her Mohammad’s whole story, outlines the information he has that might help him: about the crows, the eyeball, the police theory, everything. But everything doesn’t seem like much when he describes it. What does he really have? Just a few crows muttering at the crime scene … and a glass eye. What is that compared to the evidence compiled against the accused? The police have the murder weapon, found concealed under Mohammad’s coat. They have his bloody footsteps going from the scene to the shop. And on top of everything, Sherlock doesn’t have absolute proof that the Arab is innocent – he thinks of Adalji’s angry expression in the jail last night.
It seems to him that Irene believes everything he says, which makes things worse for her. If she had thought both he and the Arab guilty, she could have offered forgiveness and convinced him to turn himself in. But because she suspects he is innocent and caught in a deadly trap from which he might not break free, she is almost compelled to help him.
Only one thing about her truly disappoints him. He wants to know what the papers have been saying about the crime, but it turns out that the Doyles read only the stodgy Times of London. No sensation for them: no News of the World, no Penny Illustrated Paper, and certainly no Police News. Sherlock’s “scandal sheets” hadn’t known the identity of the murder victim during those first few days, and after a brief and restrained interest The Times said little about the crime: such lurid fascination was
beneath them. Irene can’t recall the dead woman’s name or even her occupation.
He is back in the dog kennel well before Andrew Doyle returns home. John Stuart Mill will be kept in the house today, and Irene will try to control his whereabouts over the next while. The maid usually feeds the dog inside anyway. A cloth hangs down over the kennel’s entrance, nearly touching the ground, obscuring the view from the back windows.
Sherlock lies awake until he sees all the lights go out in the Doyle house. He waits for what he guesses is an hour and then rises. Even if he actually wanted Irene to come with him, he wouldn’t take a chance on entering the house to signal her. He leaves the yard and moves down the passageway.
She is standing across the road, leaning against the gold-tipped wrought-iron fence that surrounds the Museum grounds.
“I’m coming,” she says clearly.
Almost as shocking as her presence in the night is her clothing. She appears to be wearing trousers.
“They’re father’s,” she says curtly, not even looking down at them. “They shrank in the latest wash and he thinks I threw them out.”
They are tied tightly around her waist with what appears to be a belt from a bathrobe. All her clothes are dark. Smart girl. But from the neck up she still glows like an angel: that blonde hair looks like a light, shining around her in the night.
“Shall we go?”
Perhaps this isn’t a bad turn of events, thinks Sherlock. The police will be looking for a tall, thin boy … on his own.
They search for a long time without finding any scent of the Irregulars. Irene moves like a pale apparition beside him as they descend into the London night, mortified by the ghoulish scenes around her. Still, she keeps up to him and never mentions her fear. Sherlock watches every shadow. Tonight he is both hunter and hunted.
Down a dark Westminster street, they hear a shout directed their way.
“You lot!”
It comes from behind. Irene turns and sees a policeman running toward them. They freeze. The Bobbie rushes past, sounding his rattle, in pursuit of two loud, drunken soldiers, who stagger away in the distance and disappear around a corner. Sherlock finally lets out his breath.
Not long afterward, they catch sight of an Irregular – a lone miscreant on Wild Street near Drury Lane. It is one of the younger ones and he is scurrying east. The gang is likely on the alert and moving tonight after their little encounter with the police fewer than twenty-four hours before. Sherlock pulls Irene against the buildings every time the Irregular, sensing someone trailing, turns to look back. They stay hot on his meandering route all the way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This is the largest square in London. Prime Ministers have lived in the big homes that line its exterior. But at nighttime, inside its iron fence and among the shadows created by its many giant trees, thieves find perfect harbor. Sherlock spies the Irregulars ensconced on the grass at the north-east end. Malefactor is standing in front of them, addressing the corps, holding an iron lock high in the air.
“Picking locks.” he intones. “First one needs two sharp objects.” He produces a couple of ladies’ hatpins, one expertly bent at its tip. “Insert both into the lock.” Malefactor does so with a single hand, like a magician. “Feel inside with your specialized tool. Each tumbler needs to be pushed up and away from the cylinder to clear it, each tumbler must fall into place. It is simple geometry.” Malefactor feels around with the bent hatpin. A smile crosses his lips. He turns the other tool … and the lock springs open.
“Presto!” he says. But almost instantly, he frowns. He can feel the presence of intruders.
“You were followed!” he barks at his young charge. Then he gathers himself and turns to the emerging figures. “Master Holmes, I perceive.”
But he doesn’t tear into the half-Jew
Sherlock has never seen such a look on his face. His dark features seem to lighten, reflected in the glow of Irene Doyle. For an instant he loses his composure. It is hard to believe he is capable of such a thing. He swallows so hard Sherlock can see his Adam’s apple bouncing.
“Miss,” he says, sweeping his battered hat from his head. “Miss,” he repeats. “Whom do we have the pleasure of …”
“This is Irene …”
“Shut up, Holmes!”
“Miss Irene Doyle,” she says, feeling uneasy both about him and the scene around her, yet trying to smile.
“Welcome, Miss Doyle. I am known as Malefactor and these are my associates.” He motions to them and speaks through clenched teeth. “Stand up in the presence of a lady, you scum!”
They all leap to their feet.
“Why have you brought her here, Holmes?” he asks, returning to his pleasant voice. He is incapable of taking his eyes from her.
“She helped me escape.”
Malefactor beams.
“She doesn’t normally do things like that. Her father is a respectable man who believes in helping the unfortunate, not in judging, but helping.”
“He sounds like a fine gentleman, Miss.”
Irene seizes the moment. “Master Holmes needs your help.”
The young criminal takes his eyes from her only for an instant to glance at Sherlock, then looks back.
“I was once more than I am now, Miss, and I will be more again some day. I am at your service.”
Sherlock doesn’t need any more invitation than that. They slip into the darkest part of the Fields and crouch low. First, Holmes gives Malefactor his information: dimensions inside the Bow Street jail, the habits of the turnkeys, and how he got out. Then he turns to the murder. He explains everything he knows, including how he found the glass eye. Malefactor simply nods his head and closes his eyes. After a while, he opens them and begins to focus.
“Several things. There are some details I may possess about this crime. I shall give you none. As to what you might do about it yourself: first, you need to be incognito. You need a disguise. I suggest cutting your hair very short, getting out of those clothes – we’ll find you some – and putting some grime on your face.” He knows the obsessively clean Sherlock will hate that. “You will work at night from now on. And you need that eye. You must go and get it, whatever the danger. Lastly, you must find the purse. When you find it, you will have the solution.”
Malefactor’s helpful attitude is surprising. Sherlock suspected that the master thief might find the situation intriguing, might think it good fun to meddle in all of this and see how things turn out (perhaps in the half-Jew’s death), and offer some sort of small return in exchange for the Bow Street jail information. Sherlock also wondered if Malefactor might finally consider him one of his own and help out a fellow “criminal.” The young Napoleon of crime believes in the code of the street: the shadows look out for each other. But his interest is beyond anything Holmes had hoped for. He wonders why. His answer comes immediately.
“Bring Miss Doyle when you return with a report,” Malefactor smiles, turning to her. His face grows sterner as he glares back at Sherlock. “Just give me a report, is that clear? Expect no further assistance. I cannot help you more than I shall tonight. The Irregulars and I … this isn’t our game.” He turns aside. “Suitcase please.”
The blond, silent Crew, who knows their inventory well, goes to a nearby cart. It overflows with stuffed boxes, trunks, cases and other valuables – a cache of stolen goods. He examines the selections and then plucks one out, like a professor choosing the perfect book. Malefactor nods to him and seizes a wooden chair.
“Come, Master Holmes. We are ready for your disguise. You may keep your trousers. The Peelers only look from the waist up and mostly at the face.”
Sherlock is placed in the chair. Crew, dressed in his oversized, once-scarlet military tunic, opens the suitcase and picks out a dark shirt, a bulky black coat, and a blue kerchief. He searches around again and produces a navy blue cap like a sailor might wear. Malefactor nods again and Crew pulls off Sherlock’s coat, undoes his cloth necktie, and motions for him to remove his lin
en shirt. Irene turns away. The old clothes are tossed on the cart and the new ones thrown onto his lap. Sherlock puts them on, then ties the kerchief around his neck. He can barely stand it. The clothes are filthy.
“Sit down,” says the leader with a smile, enjoying the boy’s discomfort. He pushes Holmes onto the chair again. “You need some grooming.”
Grimsby steps forward, producing a pair of rusty scissors out of a deep pocket in his overcoat. With a grin, he takes his customer roughly by the head and begins to snip violently. Great hanks of black hair drop to the ground and in minutes there is a transformation. Sherlock’s usually perfect hair is now only a few inches long in most places and less than an inch in others – uneven, as though someone has cut it by tearing it. But the disguising effect is magnificent. Sherlock can sense it. He knows he must be whomever and whatever he needs to be.
“And last but not least,” says Malefactor.
Another gang member has a sack in his hand. This rake-thin little lad with ears like the handles on a teacup, a streaked face and bare feet, is the dirtiest of the Irregulars. He reaches into the sack, pulls out a piece of coal, throws the rest on Sherlock’s lap and then tips the boy’s head up. The urchin proceeds to draw deep, black lines around Sherlock’s eyes.
When the sooty Irregular steps back, Irene draws in her breath. A street waif sits in front of her.
Malefactor is pleased with his dusty creation. “Disguise is an invaluable tool in the game of crime. It shall stand you in good stead. My information is that your mother is a singing instructor. You must have some acting in your blood. Use it. Fit your movements, your whole person, to your costume.”
He turns and gazes at Irene as if he hopes she is impressed, then reluctantly steps back. The Irregulars begin fading into the night. The meeting has come to an end. The boss vanishes too, though his disembodied voice registers in the night.
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