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.
After the man enters his house, Sherlock looks
through one of the tall front windows. From there he can see much of the ground floor – a majestic dining room filled with gleaming furniture. He walks casually down the street and returns, then glances in the other front window and sees a wood-stained staircase leading upstairs.
He’s heard that there are never bedrooms on the ground floors of the rich. As dangerous as it is, he will have to enter one. That is where he will find the man himself. Moreover, if there is any evidence of guilt about, it won’t be in the areas of the house the rest of the family frequents. Sherlock isn’t sure how the rich live, but he has a feeling that unlike his poor mother and father, many wealthy husbands and wives sleep in separate bedrooms, in their own private worlds.
He has to go upstairs, find where the man sleeps or where his desk or study is, where he might keep something he wants to hide from others. If anything incriminating was in the villain’s possession when he left the murder scene, Sherlock is betting that it made sense for him to keep it, thinking at first that no one would ever dream of searching a Mayfair mansion, then within a day, knowing that an Arab would swing for the crime and he would never be a suspect. There would be a smarter time to destroy it, after the butcher-boy is dead and the case is closed.
Sherlock looks up at the house. There are five chimneys. He will get in through one of them. He heaves a sigh. It is nearly six o’clock. The whole family is home. The time has almost come.
Tonight!
CRIMINAL ACTS
Sherlock appears on the grand street that night like a shadow. He has taken off his shoes and blackened his ankles and the tops of his feet. He moves silently and stealthily, finds a house nearby that is easy to ascend – it has a little lane, and iron rungs on its side for laborers to use when repairing its roof – and in minutes has climbed to the top. He crosses three attached houses, up and down on the slanted surfaces above the top-floor servants’ quarters, with barely a sound. His feet pat gently on the tiles.
Soon he is on the one-eyed man’s roof
There are the chimneys. He chooses the largest one, which will take him straight down onto the ground floor of the house.
“In and out quickly,” he says to himself
It isn’t difficult to get on top of the brick column, but going down and coming back up will be hell. Just decades ago, most sweeps had been small children; but the climbing boys’ treatment had been brutal and exploitive. Now there are age restrictions. But even for the dirty, skeletal older boys and men who hold these jobs, climbing up and down the barely foot-wide chimneys, like the one Sherlock peers down now, is a daunting task. He thrusts a hand inside. At least it isn’t hot, no recent fires. Being built like a starving man is, for once, going to be helpful.
He takes a deep breath and wedges himself in.
It is tight and claustrophobic, so much so that he thinks he’ll soon be squeezed to death or become stuck and then roasted in the morning. Somehow, he has to move downward. Twisting himself like a contortionist, he descends inch by inch, skinning his arms, his chest, and his legs. It seems to take forever. He can’t make a sound – he goes down through the interior of the house, all five storeys, past sleeping servants, owners, and children. His muscles begin to ache. He stops once and stares back up at the opening, wondering how he will ever go back up. Several times, he fears he’ll let go and fall, but finally, he lands safely. He is actually inside the house. His heart beats as though it will burst from his chest.
He is in the fireplace on the ground floor. In front of him stands the regal dining-room table, its mahogany surface covered with a white lace cloth, attended by five chairs, all carved in rich French style. Silently, he brushes the extra grime from his rags and the soles of his feet, removes the fire screen, steps over the grate, and avoids the coal scuttle. The steady tick of a big clock in the hall makes the only sound in the house. The long windows have dark drapes that hang to the floor, paintings cover the walls, ferns sit in vases, and his bare feet stand on a soft, ornate green carpet. Gingerly feeling a path around the table, he finds his way into the hallway. Straight ahead is the morning room, to his left the big staircase, and to his right … the front door. Memorize it; the quickest way out in an emergency.
He turns to the stairs and places his feet carefully on the wide wooden steps, minimizing creaks. His legs are shaking, but he does it well and within seconds is on the first floor. He turns down the hallway. A drawing room full of furniture spreads out to the right. Where is the master’s bedroom? Where is his study?
But he never makes it to either.
Edging down the hall, his breath coming in gasps, his sleeve brushes against a little round table. There is a jingling sound and something starts to fall. Frightened, he throws a hand out and catches it.
Sherlock stands stock still for a full minute, waiting to hear the sound of the house rousing, remembering the route down the stairs and out the front door.
But no one stirs.
What does he hold in his hand? It is a wooden container of some sort, the size of a snuffbox. Slowly, he opens it and slides his hand inside. It is a small ball … made of glass.
When Irene searched the directories at the library she had also checked for information about glass eyes. Though she hadn’t found much, she did learn the simple fact that they sometimes become cracked or nicked … and most people keep extras.
Has Lady Luck smiled on Sherlock tonight?
He kneels on the floor and pulls a match from his pocket, an essential tool of a thief. Malefactor had roughly thrust a few into his hand as they departed that afternoon.
He lights it. He’ll only have a second and then the flame and its smoke will have to be extinguished.
There is the eyeball with its … pale blue iris.
It takes him an excruciating amount of time to get back up the chimney and onto the roof. It is a harder climb than he even imagined – several times he thinks he won’t make it. But he has to, so he does. Battered and bruised, blood on his rags, he actually smiles when he reaches the roof – he knows all he needs to know about this house and its owner. This gentleman is not his villain.
It is one of the other three.
He wants to keep moving quickly. Maybe that is careless, but he fears that the villain’s side may strike at any moment. The next morning, every dark-liveried coachman he sees in London terrifies him, compels him to speed up; his sense of being followed increases. There are three days left before Mohammad is condemned. He cases the next house in the afternoon and plans to enter that very night. But nerves begin to overwhelm him as he stands above the chimney. The fear inside him now seems greater than the rage. He is losing the smoldering energy needed to attempt these dangerous break-ins. The reality of it all is setting in.
But down the chimney he goes.
He need not have worried. Searching this house turns out to be easier than the first. When he arrives, the interior is so dark that he can’t locate his emergency exit. Trying not to panic, imagining how impossible it will be to find the evidence he needs when essentially blind, he goes down on all fours and finds his way through the ground floor to the front door. There: that’s his way out.
Once he is near it, he can see a little better: the moon shines brightly through a window in the stone-floored entrance hall. Just as he turns to move up the stairs and search the house, something catches his eye. Leaning against the wall beside the umbrella stand are two crutches. They are long and thick and obviously belong to a man: the owner of the house.
Sherlock hadn’t observed the gentleman outside his home that morning. During the short stretch the boy took to survey the house, the master hadn’t made a single appearance.
A pair of crutches? What could that mean? The man has either suffered a recent injury, or … Sherlock decides to look around. At first he doesn’t find what he is searching for, but after a few silent footfalls back into the dining room, he sees it: a photograph. It sits on the mantle over the fireplace. He takes it back to the entrance and examines it in the glow
of the moon. There are five people in the picture: a woman, three children, and a gentleman … on crutches. Sherlock squints and looks down at the man’s feet. He has wooden legs.
It is elementary. This war veteran isn’t his villain, either. He can’t have been the man who brutally murdered a healthy young woman strong enough to gouge out a man’s eye; he can’t have been the man who ran from the scene and leapt into that black coach with the red fittings.
Sherlock can go. But he doesn’t want to climb back up the chimney, doesn’t have the heart now. He is feeling overwrought and simply wants out.
And so he makes a careless decision. He retraces his steps to the door, unlocks it from the inside, and walks out the front steps onto the street.
He can’t bolt the door again from the outside. So he leaves it unlocked.
The next day, slithering through the narrow arteries of Soho, Sherlock hears something on wide Regent Street that almost makes him faint. It is the cry of a child, a young girl. He can hear her shouting above all other sounds in the din: “ARAB WILL SWING!”
She is repeating it at the top of her lungs. When he draws closer he can see her standing there in her soiled dress, about Irene’s age but much smaller, with straggly black hair and a dark complexion, deformed in size. She holds a clutch of the latest edition of the Daily News.
Across Regent Street, a skinny boy is competing with her, yelling so loudly that Sherlock can hear his every word. “PENNY ILLUSTRATED!” he cries, surveying the crowds, anxious for a sale. “ADALJI’S TRIAL IN TWO DAYS!” He holds his sheets high in the air. “DEATH SHALL SURELY FOLLOW!”
Sherlock can feel the blood drain from his face. Seeing this in black and white makes it horribly real. And the paper’s assurance of an immediate execution shoots another terror into his mind: if they hang Mohammad … what would they do to him, the accomplice? His pulse starts to race. They are all running out of time.
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