Eye of the Crow

Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He finds Malefactor nearby in a little lane, sitting on a rusted-out, overturned rain barrel against the back of a building, his Irregulars scattered along the wall. His moth-eaten top hat is perched at that jaunty angle on his sweaty hair, his tail-coat folded neatly beside him. In his hand is a notebook, one Sherlock has often seen him scribbling in. The outlaw enjoys inventing numerical problems to see if he can solve them. Sometime in his mysterious past, he had learned this: studied mathematics and been a whiz. “It keeps the mind sharp” he often says. “Prepares one’s brain for the challenges of life.” Though long aware that Sherlock is approaching, he simply glances up when the tall, thin boy nears and then looks down at his numbers again. It was made perfectly clear that he would provide the fugitive with no more help. All he expects tonight is information.

Sherlock may hang if he doesn’t find the East End fiend, so he summons his courage and asks his question – carefully.

“I … need to know if anyone heard anything on the night of the murder. Could the Irregulars make enquiries in the East End?”

The brilliant young criminal gets to his feet and crosses his arms.

“Where’s the girl?” He doesn’t sound pleased.

“She couldn’t be with us this evening.”

The crime boss doesn’t find that funny. He studies Sherlock’s face.

“You should not be drawing her into this sort of trouble. I wouldn’t.”

“She wants to be involved.”

“Why?”

“She believes in justice.”

Malefactor laughs. “I doubt she’s a fool.”

“She’s a caring human being.”

The boy in the tall hat appears ready to deliver a punch. He stops himself by an obvious effort of will. He demands his report. Sherlock tells him what he’s learned, picking and choosing details to reveal, hoping it is enough to please. When he is done, Malefactor regards him like a king deciding if his life should be spared, if any of this information is worthwhile putting into the Irregulars’ vast mental log of underworld activities. Inquiries in the East End? It is highly irregular. But then the young crime lord thinks of the remarkable Irene Doyle and her plea for this wretched lad. If he turns down Holmes, she will know and think less of him. There is also an outside possibility that Holmes, if he doesn’t get himself killed, can actually tell him something more about this murder – it’s never a bad thing to be informed about such incidents. He looks away.

“I’ll do this one thing … for the girl.”

Sherlock stays out all night. He keeps pondering the murder victim. He has to know who she is and he has to know now. He needs to read his kind of papers.

He’s been thinking about how many days have passed and by his calculations this is a Sunday morning. That gives him an idea. Before the sun rises he carefully makes his way toward the vendors he knows near Trafalgar Square.

Most of the newsboys, whether young or ancient, consider him a nuisance. In the past, he’s attempted to steal papers when he couldn’t find what he wanted in a bin. They’d spot him trying and pretend to call the police. One, who owned a bull terrier with a dark circle around its eye, once set that vicious brute upon him.

But there is one seller who is different, a poor legless chap with a misshapen face named Dupin, who sits on a low stool behind a rough, homemade wooden kiosk to hawk his papers, pitifully trying to look as respectable as he can. His deeply-lined face has been twisted from birth, his mouth constantly shows its yellow teeth – it is often hard to tell if he is happy or sad. Sherlock has seen him many times going home after work, transporting himself on a dirty little wooden platform with small iron wheels, his torso and the tools of his trade strapped to the surface. Dupin propels himself with hands protected by filthy, fingerless gloves, appearing like half a man – a ragged suit, a tie, a face, and a crushed bowler hat. He and the boy have spoken many times.

“Master Sherlock ’olmes?” he says in surprise in his raspy way, somehow knowing to keep his voice down as he notices the boy coming out of the shadows and drawing near. The cripple focuses to make sure he isn’t being deceived. He is struggling to erect his big, torn umbrella over his crude little table and can’t quite make it bloom. “You looks like a ’ellhound is after you, you do.”

“That’s about right,” says Sherlock.

The tall, thin boy grips the umbrella by the stem and shoves it open.

“’eard you was in jail.”

“You heard correctly.” Sherlock is glancing around, keeping his head down.

The cripple looks up at the gangly lad. As usual, there is sympathy in his eyes. Sherlock marvels at this man: how he can care about others despite his lot in life.

“I’m wagerin’ this ain’t no social visit.”

“I need a favor.”

“For a million crowns, you’ve got it, guvna.”

Dupin has a peculiar hobby. Most newsboys can’t wait to dump their extra papers the minute their day is over, but he keeps a copy of every issue he’s ever sold of both the glorious Daily Telegraph and his Sunday paper, the sensation-filled News of the World. In fact, he often keeps a few of each. He can recite from memory nearly every word in every paper going back several weeks at a time. Disraeli’s speech on India? Tuesday, page 7, columns one through five, running over three columns onto 8. He is a veritable living index. Rumor has it he keeps a book that contains a brief biography of every person he’s ever read about in the news.

A month’s collection of papers is always near his side at his barrow and when he isn’t shouting “The Day-leeeeeeee! Tel-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-graph!!” at passersby he rereads the recent news, committing it to memory.

Sherlock speaks quickly.

“I need what you have about the Whitechapel murder.”

“Need it?” The cripple’s expression narrows. “You mixed up in that someways?”

The boy shakes his head. “No. Others have mixed me into it.”

“That will be a million crowns,” says the little man quietly and moves to a stack of papers behind his cart: The News of the World. He runs his hand down their edges like a clerk consulting a file, expertly plucks out the perfect choice, last Sunday’s thick paper, and hands it over as secretly as a dormouse.

“Thank –”

“Be off with you, Master ’olmes.”

Sherlock walks quickly back to Montague Street, thinking about time and how little he has left. In less than two weeks Mohammad will be condemned. This paper has to tell him something.

John Stuart Mill’s bulging carcass is stretched across the back of the dog kennel when the boy sneaks into it again. The snores are almost deafening. This is going to be a challenge thinks Sherlock, as he rolls the dog over several times like a baker worrying his dough. He gets him out of the way and nearer the door. The canine doesn’t so much as stir. The boy props himself on the dog’s round belly positioning his newspaper in just the right way at the entrance to gain enough sunlight to read and still keep his head from view. Anyone peering down from the Doyles’ windows will think they are simply seeing J.S. Mill in glorious repose.

The Illustrated Police News hadn’t mentioned the victim’s name for the first three days: something about her identity being unconfirmed and authorities trying to locate and notify possible next of kin. But now Sherlock is looking at the first News of the World that appeared directly following the murder, on the next Sunday, six days after it happened, sold on the streets when Sherlock was in jail. And it is a goldmine! The paper has leapt at the story. He runs his eyes hungrily down the first column until he finds something about the victim.

“Rumors circulated, during days immediately following the crime, that she was an actress …”

That’s strange, he thinks. He pauses to consider it. Why wouldn’t an actress be quickly identified, especially one who, if Sherlock’s theory is right, had the sort of income that allowed her to wear expensive jewels?

There is only one answer. This wasn’t a rising star, no Ellen Terry or Nelly Farren. She had to be a bit player,