glass eye, either. It might be the Arab’s only chance, the only clue to what really happened. He can’t just give it away, not to the very people who hold Adalji’s life in their hands.
“No, sir.”
“I’ll ask you again.”
“No need.”
“Why?” The detective thinks the boy may be ready to confess something.
“I know nothing.”
Lestrade’s face turns red.
“We have jailed one scoundrel, young sir. But a coin purse is missing. We know that because we found beadwork particular to such an item in the alley. We know you frequent the streets, consort with gangs.”
“My son does not con …” starts Wilber, but Sherlock cuts him off
“I know nothing about the purse.”
“Then you had better come with me,” barks Lestrade.
“WHERE?”
It is Rose. She has risen from her bed and entered the room to see two policemen and an inspector surrounding her son.
“We are arresting your boy on suspicion of withholding evidence.”
“Or on the possible involvement in a murder.” It is the constable with the gas lantern. He looks at Mrs. Holmes with cold eyes. He is a soldier against evil and it shows.
“But that’s absurd!” sputters Wilber Holmes and reaches out toward his son.
“Obstruct us and you will come too,” says the constable.
The detective nods at the boy. The policemen seize him. Rose Holmes cries out. She tries to pull her son away but Wilber takes her into his arms and holds her tightly. She beats her hands on his chest and then buries her face in his neck and sobs.
“Come quietly and there will be no difficulties,” intones Lestrade. “We don’t wish to cause anyone pain, but we must get to the bottom of this.”
Sherlock goes quietly, indeed. In fact, he banishes his mother’s cries and his father’s eyes from his mind; erases them. He can’t break down. Emotion won’t get him anywhere. He must be like steel. As of this second, he
Now … he has to save himself
MOHAMMAD’S STORY
In the morning he awakes to a prayer, uttered in a weeping voice, soft and frightened. He starts upright on his stone bed, shocked to find himself in a dark little holding cell in the Bow Street Police Station.
He had dreamt of eyes. Thousands of eyes had been in his bed at home staring at him, pleading for help. A bigger one had emerged from under his mattress. All the others had turned to it.
That was what had first roused him. Then, as his head cleared, he heard the prayer. He once came across it in a book about the Crusades and remembers it well: he can photograph things with his mind’s eye.
He swings his legs around and sits on the edge of the bed, listening. It is a call to Allah in a time of distress. Sound travels poorly in these cave-like rooms, but he can tell that the voice is coming from the cell next to his.
When it fades into silence, Sherlock sits, listening to his own breathing. Then he takes a chance.
“Mohammad?”
There is absolute stillness. Sherlock doesn’t breathe. No answer.
He sighs and stands up. The hard bed is the only piece of furniture in the damp, stone room. There are no windows, just a small square opening with three bars cut at the height of his eyes in the big iron door. There is no mirror either, which irritates the boy: his hair must be terribly messy.
Suddenly, a sound ends the silence.
“Yes?” The voice is clear and quiet.
Sherlock advances to the door. Peering out, he sees the high wall of a long stone hallway and two small, barred windows on it, up very high. Twisting his neck and looking to the right, he can just see the fingers of two brown hands clutching the bars in the door next to his.
“Are you Mohammad Adalji?”
“Yes. But I didn’t do it.” He sounds firm and earnest. There is a slight eastern accent to his words.
“I’m the boy you spoke to outside the courthouse.”
“You are?” A little hope creeps into Mohammad’s voice.
“My name is Holmes.”
“And you are in jail?”
Sherlock looks out the two small windows in the hallway where light is coming in. Finally, there is blue sky in London … and he’s in here.
“They think I know something … that I’m connected to the murder in some way.”
Mohammad says nothing for a moment and then speaks softly.
“I will tell them you were not involved.”
“Much obliged, but they won’t believe you.”
“Yes they will, because they want to think I acted alone. I am an Arab.”
“And I’m a Jew, a poor one.”
“A Jew?” There is hesitation in the accused man’s voice.
“Lower half Jewish, upper half English … respected part disowned.”
“That is not good.”
“Precisely.”
Sherlock can hear the Arab sigh.
“Why do they suspect you?” he asks.
“Because you spoke to me.”
Sherlock hears another sigh.
“I am sorry.”
“And because I’ve been to the murder site … twice.”
“You have?”
“I followed the crows.” Sherlock pushes his face up tightly against the bars, trying to see more of his jailmate.
“Crows?”
“They landed right in the alley,” muses the boy, seeing the scene again.
“They’re …” murmurs the other, “they’re
Sherlock is still remembering that last frightening trip to Whitechapel. “I went back a second time … because I pieced something together.”
“What do you mean?” A tiny tone of hope returns to Mohammad’s voice.
Sherlock doesn’t answer at first. But if his listener could have seen him, he would have noticed a pleased expression beginning to spread across his face.
“Say that again,” Sherlock demands.
“I merely asked a question.”
“No, before that, about the crows.”
“That I saw them.” It had seemed like an innocent remark.
“And you said where?”
“Above the Old Bailey.”
There is a long pause.
“Mr. Adalji, I don’t think you committed the murder. I believe you.” Sherlock’s voice is matter-of-fact.
