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
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 linen 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.
Sherlock doesn’t say much as he walks back to Montague Street with Irene and barely remembers to look out for anyone pursuing. Her fear is outweighed by her astonishment at what she has seen. It is as if she entered another world with Sherlock Holmes and is returning with someone else. She wants to talk about his disguise and Malefactor and his advice, about all of it. But the boy’s mind is far away.
That could be anyone: a man, woman, or child – even Adalji. But the gang leader is absolutely right about the
