Eye of the Crow

randomly.

Why randomly?

Instantly a piece of the puzzle falls into place.

In the violent struggle, an item of jewelry must have come loose and been thrown somewhere in the alley. Who did it belong to … the woman or the person who killed her? Find it first, he reminds himself.

He advances on the crow. It flies up again and lands overhead. This time it and its mate mutter at him. Sherlock decides to try something reckless.

He looks toward the street: the odd person passing…. No one looking.

He regards the bloodstain once more and imagines where the woman might be standing: likely with her back to the dead end as she waits to meet someone. In a struggle, where would jewelry fly? He narrows it down to an area about eight feet by eight, closer to the dead end than the rubble of bricks. He takes out the magnifying glass, glances back at the street, then drops to all fours, the glass held close to his eyes.

Sherlock looks for a long time. Too long. His knees are getting sore, so he gets to his feet.

The crow screams.

The boy glances behind him.

His foot had knocked something ajar when he stood up. It is a heavy old horseshoe leaning against the wall and there beside it, partially underneath, something the size of a sovereign is glinting. He scrambles to pick it up. When he puts his hand on it, he realizes that there is more to it than he first thought. Some of it is jammed behind the horseshoe, stuck between it and the wall. He tugs and it slithers out, like a glittering snake. A bracelet. It looks delicate, like it would fit a pretty wrist, and it seems expensive, a luxury item. Diamonds and little silver charms hang from it. Sherlock examines them. One of them is an eye.

The crows are upset. They caw and squawk and look like they want to descend on Sherlock. Up the alleyway on Old Yard Street, two tradesmen stop, look toward the black birds and then down at the boy with the dirty face. He instantly pockets the bracelet.

It is time to move.

He wants to run, but doesn’t. He takes on his street character and shamble. Wishing he could glance everywhere, he holds his gaze down and moves. Who are these onlookers? At the entrance to Old Yard Street he takes a hard right. The men don’t follow.

But then he sees another man, this one large and thick, dressed in the black livery of a coachman, two thin vertical slashes of red on his coat, standing still across the street, staring in his direction, then looking up at the shrieking crows as if startled by them. Sherlock can’t see his face because a shadow is cast across it. A detective? Would the police use that disguise?

He races toward Whitechapel, then turns onto it, desperate to disappear into its crowds. A hand grabs him from behind.

“Sherlock!”

It’s a higher-pitched voice than he feared … that smell of soap, the slender arms.

Irene.

She’s been waiting. She nods to someone who is walking with her, probably a servant who once worked for her father. The man pretends to not see the boy – a skill particular to experienced domestic help – and fades into the crowd.

“Did you find anything?” she asks.

Sherlock glances back toward Old Yard. His heart is racing. The big coachman in black livery seems to have vanished. Did Sherlock imagine him? Was he a ghost?

“I’ve … I’ve been here too long,” he says through clenched teeth. “Act like I’m begging and you’re giving me something. Reach into your purse. Hand me a penny!”

She does. He sweeps his cap from his head and bows.

“You didn’t answer me. Did you find something?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“We can’t talk here. We need to be where it might seem reasonable for you to be speaking with a street person … a big church.”

“St. Paul’s,” she answers immediately.

“I’ll meet you on the front steps where the crowds are.”

She takes the direct route and pretends she is with others. He swings south, toward the Thames, and approaches the cathedral from the river. As he walks, he realizes that he has put himself in even more danger. Now he is a black-faced street boy … with a lady’s diamond bracelet in his pocket.

“What did you find?” she asks the instant he arrives.

They are at the top of the big stone steps near the pillars and high wooden doors at the magnificent entrance. There are many street people nearby, some in bare feet, pleading for food and money. Gentlemen wearing tall hats and ladies in long, silk crinoline dresses are pausing as they climb the stairs, handing coppers to children. Sherlock motions to Irene to move into the shadows under the columns. It feels cold here, even in the warmth of the day.

“This,” says Sherlock, glancing around, then drawing the long glittering bracelet from his pocket.

Irene gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth. “It’s beautiful.”

“There’s an eye on it.”

Irene takes it into her hand for a moment. Her face seems to glow in its reflection.

“What do you think it tells us?” she asks.

“It might mean she was rich, or it might not. She might have simply owned this single, expensive thing…. Or maybe it belonged to the person who killed her….”

Irene’s face turns pale. “A woman?”

“It connects the two of them,” says Sherlock.

Irene wonders exactly how. But she doesn’t ask him to explain. She knows this isn’t the right time. She also knows she shouldn’t try to comprehend this remarkable boy, that that is the way to be his friend. One understands him by not understanding, by trusting his mind. When they’re home, he’ll tell her more.

Sherlock is actually feeling pleased. Not just because he is beginning to see things about this murder – see a possible path through the labyrinth he has to get through to find a solution – but because he knows he has a friend standing beside him, a true friend for the first time in his life.

Then another light comes on in his brain like the beam on a locomotive. It frightens him to his boots.

“They saw it,” he mumbles.

His whole face has changed: a look of horror has come over it.

“What?” she asks, unsettled by his expression.

“They saw it,” he says again.

“Who?”

“The crows.”

“Saw what?” She knows the answer but wants him to go on.

“I’ve been guessing that the crows were there when it happened.” He pauses, staring down the elegant white steps. “Now … I know they were. They saw the whole thing.”

Sherlock’s eyes turn to hers. His black pupils are huge.

“They watched this person … murder her.”

SEEING EVIL

Sherlock won’t explain until they get back to Montague Street. He seems petrified. He stares ahead as if he