within earshot. As he leans against the base of Nelson’s Column they stand in front of him watching the passersby He is listening intently when he sees both policemen stiffen.
“Sir!” they both say together.
Sherlock turns to see Inspector Lestrade approaching. His head instantly drops to his chest.
“Good day.”
“Gentlemen,” says a higher voice. It sounds like it comes from a boy. Sherlock peers out from under his cap. It is a lad indeed, the spitting image of Lestrade, except for the mustache. He looks a little older than Sherlock and wears a brown tweed suit.
“This is my son, constables: Lestrade the Second.”
They all laugh. But the inspector’s boy doesn’t.
“Helping Father, are we?” says one of the Peelers once the laughter subsides.
“Yes,” comes the dead-serious response. “I intend to follow in his footsteps.”
“A detective, no less. And what are you on the lookout for today?”
“A boy whom we once had in custody pertaining to the Whitechapel murder. We know he is about, and know he has a friend who was nearly killed in a traffic accident recently. Eyewitnesses claimed she had a boy with her, but he vanished.”
Sherlock’s pulse quickens.
“Sherlock Holmes,” says the elder Lestrade. “We have our main villain. But there is still the question of the purse.”
“Precisely,” says the junior detective. “So we shall jail Master Holmes again if we find him, and proceed with prosecution. If you see him, let us know.” The policemen nod solemnly. “His friend, this girl, is at home now. She wasn’t forthcoming when questioned, but they may try to meet.”
Sherlock is petrified. He doesn’t dare move. But as the Lestrades turn to go, the younger one walks directly his way! He curls up into a ball.
“Boy,” says young Lestrade firmly, reaching into his pocket. In horror, Sherlock realizes that it is he who is being addressed.
“Boy!”
“Yes?” Sherlock offers.
“Do you want this or not?” There is a farthing in his hand.
“It’s me eyes, sir …” mumbles the beggar. “I’m blind … I don’t like to look up.”
The coin clatters on the pavement in front of him.
“God bless you, sir,” says Sherlock Holmes.
Having escaped such a close call, it would make sense to lie low for a while. But the news about Irene is too much to resist. He doesn’t want to speak with her, doesn’t want her to see him, but maybe, just maybe,
He makes his way up to Montague Street that night, finds his spot in the shadows outside the British Museum and watches the Doyle house. The lights are still on. He can see figures moving inside. It looks warm in there. There is Mr. Doyle … and there is Irene. She passes by quickly … too quickly. Then she passes again. He waits. Soon she comes to the window and looks out. She seems to be searching the streets. Her left arm is in a sling. It is hard not to stare at her. She is everything that is right about the world in a world that has so much wrong.
He stays there until their lights go out and then slumps to the ground against the wall and can’t leave. Eventually his eyelids start to close, but just before he falls asleep, he sees movement outside the house.
The front door is opening and someone is coming out. Whoever it is, he or she is walking slowly, gingerly, as if it is painful to move.
Irene. She’s dressed in dark clothes.
He shrinks back against the wall.
She comes out to the street, closes the wrought-iron gate, and turns down the foot pavement. She is heading into the city alone. He can’t believe it. All her injuries are to her upper body, but walking must be excruciating.
He follows. If anyone touches her, he will protect her with his life.
The fog is beginning to settle in.
She seems to be looking for someone.
Maybe. He follows her into areas he has recently frequented. As he grows more and more anxious for her safety he draws closer, hidden by the fog.
They are moving along a narrow street when she suddenly tries to pick up the pace. Soon she is almost running, hobbling forward. He can tell by the way she holds her free hand in a fist that she is frightened. Out in front of her, a shadow seems to be scurrying. Then she comes to a halt, her chest heaving, and shouts:
“MALEFACTOR!!”
There is silence. The noise echoes in the narrow street as if all of London has stopped to listen. And then, from the very place where that shadow evaporated, a bigger one appears.
“Miss Doyle, a pleasure to greet you. Please excuse the conduct of my young associate – it is in his nature to flee.”
His hat is in his hands. He has flattened down his greasy hair, his yellow teeth are showing, and he wears a genuine smile. Sherlock can’t believe that the young master criminal hasn’t spotted him, but Malefactor’s eyes are fixed on the girl and the fog is heavy. Holmes looks to his side. He is within a yard of a deep doorway. He disappears into it, so close to the others that he can hear every word they say. She has no experience in street whispers and speaks as if she is in a drawing room with one of her father’s friends. Malefactor replies, out of respect, in clear tones.
“I … I …” she begins.
“How are your injuries, my dear?” He seems truly upset. The sight of her in this condition appears to pain him. He holds out his hands as if to touch her, but then folds them into each other in front of his chest.
“My health is returning,” she responds and then adds quickly, “I am looking for Sherlock.” She speaks as if she has come to say something difficult and is adamant about stating it bluntly.
There is a long pause.
“Master Holmes?” asks the outlaw as he tries to maintain his smile.
“Yes, sir.”
“I would prefer that you call me Malefactor, all my friends do.”
Irene says nothing. Sherlock peeks out from his spot. She seems to be breathing heavily, as if she is still very frightened.
“You are trembling, Irene. May I call you that? There is nothing to fear. I will not harm you. In fact, you are safer now than you have been for weeks. I shall see you home untouched. That idiot Jew, whom you say you want to find, almost had you killed.”
“It was not his fault,” she insists, looking down.
“Oh?”
“He is only seeking justice. It is what I seek too.”
“Justice? Not justice again!”
“Yes,” she says clearly, without flinching.
“Come, come, now. There has never been, is not now, nor will there ever be such a thing as justice.” He spits out the last word as if it tastes vile in his mouth.
“I would dispute that.”
“If justice were about in our lifetime then my existence would be different from this.” He holds his hands out from his body, palms up, and gestures to the surroundings as if he were a king showing off his realm. He lowers them. “The children of London would not be dying in the rookeries.” He eyes her and his voice softens. “You and I would not be standing here as we are; we would be equals…. forgive me, that is incorrect. No one, my dear, is your equal. And I do not flatter.”
Irene blushes and her head lowers.
“But if justice existed, we would at least look each other in the eye…. I might take you for a ride about London in my carriage, and we’d promenade in Hyde Park.”
“I do not know, sir, what befell you in your life, but I do know that whatever it was, it should not have turned
