Eye of the Crow

guard each residence; a few stone steps lead up to the entrances, servants’ quarters are below. When he is all the way down the street, across from the Museum, he stops near a brick home. It has a brass plaque. He squints: “Society … of … Visiting … Friends….”

He’s found her.

But now what? He can’t just walk up the steps and knock. Mr. Doyle would immediately return him to jail.

He looks in both directions. No one is on the street. The Doyles’ house is attached to the dwelling to its north, but it is at the end of the row where a little passage about two feet wide cuts through to the back of the property. An iron gate stretches across it. He crouches down and moves toward it. The gate opens easily. He inches along the passage and soon finds himself next to a walled backyard the width of the house and about eight feet long. Through an entrance in the wall he can see that a good part of the small yard is filled with a little house … made for a dog.

Oh-oh!

Frantic, he returns to the passage. He faces the yard as he moves backward, ready for an attack or furious barking. But there is nothing. That is curious. The dog hasn’t noticed him. Could it be asleep? Is it ancient and hard of hearing? He spots its chain, lying on the bricks on the ground, and stops. It isn’t attached to anything.

A minute later he is lying in the empty dog kennel. Whatever canine the Doyles may own isn’t occupying its little mansion just now. Sherlock curls up, reluctantly wraps a stinking blanket around his legs, and sets his head on the hard ground, his eyes wide and his heart still thumping. When he finally settles, his first thoughts are of his mother. He needs to see his parents. He feels like he’s been running for days. Tears well up in his eyes. He stops them. Drift off he tells himself, drift off. There’s much to do. There’s much to prove.

Not long afterwards, he is fast asleep.

IN DISGUISE

He doesn’t wake until the sun is well up in the sky. And even then, it takes him a while to rouse himself. Feeling cold and sore, he slowly raises his head, instinctively fixes his hair, and then looks down his grimy clothing toward his boots and out the open kennel door.

Two eyes are staring back at him!

He tries to stand and smacks his head against the roof.

“Sherlock!”

Irene.

“You made it? You came here? To my house?” She speaks as if she were looking at an apparition.

But it is the ghost himself who is most frightened.

“H-How did you know I was in here?” He asks, his voice shaking. “Is there anyone else at home?” His eyes dart past the edge of the door, surveying the backyard, glancing up at the windows on every floor.

“No. Father’s gone out and we don’t keep servants in the house. He doesn’t believe in it. We do many of the chores. He pays a maid-of-all-works to help a few hours every day. She’s already been and gone, and my governess is off today. I looked out here and saw a boot sticking out.” She pauses, staring at him. “I helped you escape from a jail!” For an instant it looks like she might get up and run. “You have to promise me something. You have to promise that you are …” She is flustered and pauses again, “… good.” Then she seems uncomfortable. “I didn’t express that well. What I mean is …”

“I am good,” he says, looking at her intently. “I promise. I’m not a criminal, Irene.”

“But you can’t stay here. Can you?”

“I can if you help me.”

“Well … you’ll need food … and dry clothes.”

Normally Sherlock would be upset about the state of his garments. But for once their condition isn’t important.

“We need to know what really happened to that woman.”

“We do? You … and me?”

“Otherwise I’m in deep trouble … and Mohammad will die. He barely has two weeks left.”

She thinks for a second.

“Come into the house.”

Sherlock meets the dog just inside the back door.

The one and only John Stuart Mill.

He is a squat little brown-and-white Corgi who is past middle-age, with short, stubby legs, ridiculously tall ears, and is thick, both around his middle and between those startling hearing apparatus. He also has an evident problem with gas. The instant Sherlock enters the house, the slow-moving, slow-thinking little beast exerts an embarrassing noise from one end of his plump body and seizes the bottom of one of the boy’s trouser legs with the other, clamping on with a ferocious grip and not letting go.

“J.S. Mill is very protective,” says Irene with a red face, tugging him away from her friend. “I’ll put him downstairs. He has the run of the house as long as he behaves…. He decided he didn’t like sleeping outdoors some time ago.”

Their home is all wood and warmth. Huge colorful rugs lie on the floors, expensive paintings cover nearly every inch of the walls, and French furniture fills the many rooms. She marches Sherlock upstairs from the ground level, past the drawing room on the first floor, to the second, turns him down the hallway past her father’s bedroom, and then to her own. She closes the door from the outside. With her voice fading as she tiptoes away, she asks him to take off his clothes and drop them in the hall. He does and a minute later hears her walk gingerly back down the shining wood floor to retrieve them.

“Stay in there,” she calls, sounding nervous, almost commanding him. She is alone in the house with a boy. “I’ll have them clean and dry in two hours. There are towels by my washstand.” He hears her descending several flights, all the way down into the below-stairs area to where the servants and a laundress would normally work. Irene Doyle is indeed unusual.

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