down Carnaby Street, observing them between pedestrians as they emerge. They are too excited by what they’ve just learned to notice. They turn up the street, away from the man. A black coach with red fittings awaits him nearby.
“A glass blower on the outskirts of Mayfair who supplies only Mayfair doctors!” Sherlock says into Irene’s ear as they walk. He continues to keep his head down for a few strides, then stops. “Our suspect … is a man, a wealthy one who almost certainly lives in Mayfair, has brown irises with violet flecks, and a false eye; he not only knew Lillie Irving, but was her secret friend. She lived in Aldgate and was raised in Whitechapel.”
Much of it makes sense to Irene – she has followed nearly all of Sherlock’s moves. But when she hears him say all he now knows in one categorical sentence, adding things he has learned on his own, it amazes her. Her gloved hand reaches down and takes one of his, with its long, white fingers lined by dirt, and squeezes it. A strange expression comes over his face, a look of wonder, a sudden loss of the haunted, desperate expression he usually wears. Then she lets him go.
She has to get home. Her father will be back soon.
Sherlock is tempted to think about Irene and nothing else for a long time that day – she fascinates him, the most intriguing person he has ever met – but other subjects are competing for attention in the compartments of his brain.
The pieces of his puzzle are being located at an increasing pace. He is putting them into position and setting up the blueprint into which the remaining ones will fit.
The next piece is going to be found on the streets that night. He needs a place to hide…. Malefactor’s answers are due.
But another subject worries him much more, more than anything he has contemplated since the moment he saw that first article in
He is about to make his mother a part of this deadly game.
A DANGEROUS MOVE
The first thing to do that night is locate Malefactor. Sherlock doesn’t want to try in the light of day – too risky. The police will be watching. But he has to find him. He needs a report on whatever interviews the Irregulars have conducted in Whitechapel.
He hides in alleys throughout the rest of the day but as it wears on, becomes restless. He begins to walk aimlessly his hat pulled down. It seems like there are Bobbies on every street corner and they all appear to be looking for him.
Past midnight he begins searching the streets in earnest. For a while, it feels like the gang has vanished. They don’t seem to be in any of the most likely places. He goes farther east than their usual territory and searches near the river. Finally, just past the stone arches of London Bridge, the Tower looming up ahead, he looks toward the east side of the big wharf and sees dark shapes near the old Billingsgate Fish Market. They vanish into the shadows as he approaches, just as they should.
As he nears, the stench of fish is almost overwhelming. Nearby, the brown Thames laps gently. He puts his hand to his nose, turns off the street and walks between a dark warehouse and the big market building, toward the water, his eyes alert. It would be dangerous here even if he weren’t a fugitive. During the day it is jammed with people; the vilest words in all of London fill the air. Billingsgate and cursing go together like twins. But at this hour, everything is eerily still. Some of the fishmongers’ stalls and sheds stand vacant on the far side of the market, facing the water. Sherlock peers into the crude open stands, looking for the shapes he spotted from a distance. They seem to have disappeared somewhere into this slimy labyrinth. There is a sudden movement behind him.
“Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”
Sherlock turns.
The other boy is standing as straight as a statue, legs wide apart and hands on hips, the river behind him.
“Malefactor.”
“The one and only.” The boss swaggers forward a few steps, apparently unaffected by the chilly late April breeze blowing off the river and the drizzle that is resuming again. “I’m glad you didn’t bring the girl. At least you have some sense. This isn’t a place for her.”
“Nor you, really.”
“Not our territory, no.”
“Then why?”
“Need you ask?” sneers Malefactor. He points a long bony finger to the north-east. “Whitechapel. We are here, thanks to you. We have made the enquiries. I thought it best for us to be in unexpected places for a day or two.”
“Wise.”
Malefactor bows slightly.
“And what was the word?” demands Holmes.
The criminal isn’t pleased with the way the question is phrased and thinks he detects a slight smile. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks Sherlock what else he has learned about the murder. The boy reveals a few things, keeps others to himself, and it appears to satisfy. Malefactor finally begins to unveil his answers.
“This is strictly for the girl. Your cause must have some worth to it, if she is interested. There is a villain not playing by the rules here. Our inquiries confirm as much.”
Malefactor enjoys keeping his listener in suspense. He adjusts his dirty black topper, this time tipping it back on his domed forehead, smoothes out his tail-coat, and looks at his chewed fingernails.
“There were two screams,” he says calmly, “a woman’s and then a man’s. Several people swear to it. There was a gentleman of wealth rushing from the area, clutching his face. He entered a private coach: black, red fittings. It left at a gallop.”
Sherlock is seeing it … from above.
“And something else,” boasts the young boss.
“The cry of crows,” murmurs Holmes.
Malefactor is displeased. It appears as if he wants to strike the other boy again. “Yes,” he mutters. His eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to say anything more. But he gives in.
“I shan’t ask you how you know that. Though I
“Which way did the coach go?” inquires Sherlock, gambling that pride will make his rival say even more.
The boy in the top hat shows his teeth. “Think I might not have that answer?”
“I …”
“The coach fled from there going west!” Malefactor places his arms across his chest and sticks out his chin, observing Sherlock’s reaction.
“Thank y –.”
“There is nothing good in this world, but if there were, Miss Doyle would be the closest thing to it. Protect her, or feel my wrath.”
“Of cours –”
“Goodnight, Jew-boy”
Malefactor’s inquiries have confirmed everything Sherlock has suspected and much more: screams, evidence that the victim saw her attacker, the crows, a rich man fleeing westward in a well-described coach … west toward Mayfair.
He knows what he has to do next. He has to stride right into the middle of this battle and begin with his
