Eye of the Crow

you away from doing what is right.”

“I do what is right every day, Irene. That is how I survive.”

“Then help me find Sherlock…. Help me free him and Mr. Adalji … and keep us all from more harm.”

“I …” Malefactor falters.

“Help us find that woman’s murderer.”

“I had a sister …” He says in a strange voice, then stops and shakes his head as if he were trying to shake something out. He smoothes his black tail-coat and doesn’t speak for a while. Then he addresses her sincerely.

“If you give me your hand and ask for help, I will do it. I cannot make any more inquiries. It is not wise. But I can do something. A reasonable request from you will not go unheeded. Ask.”

Irene pauses, thinking.

“I will not ask you to find Sherlock,” she begins. “Or to pursue this case. But I will ask you this…. If he comes to you for help … and wants something you can provide … will you first, not harm him, and secondly give the advice he seeks?”

Malefactor says nothing. Sherlock peers around the doorframe, trying to see. There are times when he actually feels something like pity for the young crime boss. There is no question that he has suffered a terrible fall, that his parents are gone, a precious sister is dead, that it has all been unfair.

Irene reaches out her hand and takes one of Malefactor’s – his rough left hand that has been hanging limp by his side. Her soft, white hand envelops it.

“Yes,” he says softly, and Sherlock thinks he can almost hear the other boy swallow.

“He needs you,” smiles Irene, “especially now.” Then her face grows taut and she takes a deep breath. She has wanted to tell Malefactor this from the moment she saw him tonight. “I … had someone take me to Sherlock’s home yesterday, hoping he might be nearby. I had the feeling I was being followed. And just as I was leaving, I saw a carriage pull up and stop there for the longest time.”

“Perhaps a detective?” asks Malefactor, acting disinterested.

“It was …” she shudders and touches her bruised face, “… a black coach with red fittings.”

Sherlock snaps back his head and knocks his shoulder against the wooden door. Malefactor, a reptile sensing prey instantly swivels toward him. The criminal pulls his hand from Irene’s and glares at the doorway, not more than twenty yards away.

Sherlock has no choice. He tears into the street.

“HOLMES!” he hears Malefactor shout.

Sherlock vanishes into the fog. The heels of his old boots smack against the cobblestones, echoing in the street. He expects to hear the footsteps of a dozen boys in hot pursuit. But there are none. All he senses is Irene’s hand, reaching out to grip Malefactor again, holding him to his promise, and the leader’s other hand rising to halt his troops, though it frustrates him to do it.

As Sherlock runs, his mind is racing. He has to do something … now! He will see his mother tomorrow.

This deadly game is afoot!

THE EYES OF MAYFAIR

Sure that no one had followed or spotted him the last time he intercepted his mother coming home from Mayfair, Sherlock decides it is safe to meet her in the same area again. He slides down Carnaby past Lear’s shop, turns at Beak Street, and then walks west, staying close to the buildings. He repeats the route twice before he catches sight of her. Though she looks as if she’s aged even more in the last few days, a hint of excitement is mingled with the worry and sadness in her face. Her eyes are shifting back and forth as if she knows Sherlock is nearby. He creeps up behind her and in minutes they are behind the Haymarket again.

The boy has been having second thoughts during the day: perhaps, if he flees the city and tries to start life again somewhere else, the murderer will leave his parents alone. He’s been thinking about the black coach sitting outside their home; of it brutally trampling Irene. This has all grown too dangerous.

But then his mother turns to him with shining eyes.

“I’ve done it!” she gasps.

“Mother, I …”

“I have news. News you won’t believe.”

He hesitates. “You found a one-eyed man?”

“I found four.”

Sherlock is speechless.

“And they know each other. I have it straight from a long-serving housemaid.” Rose catches her breath. “Do you remember when I told you about the Mayfair gentleman who treated his wife terribly and had a strange look in one of his eyes? How one eye seemed dead?”

Sherlock nods.

“Well, the housemaid I asked was one of his. That gentleman, that brutish Mayfair man … has a false eye.”

Sherlock still doesn’t know what to say. What if they are really on the verge of solving this? What are the chances that there are more than four one-eyed men in wealthy little Mayfair? Isn’t one of them almost surely the murderer? He swallows hard. Maybe the nasty one is him! He has to stay calm. He is getting ahead of himself. Just because this man is unpleasant, doesn’t mean he is the villain. There are three others to consider.

“What do you mean they all know each other?” he asks.

“I was told that they have a great deal in common. All four married up in society; owe their wealth to their wives, bought positions in the army. All four were officers during the Crimean War and had the misfortune to suffer wounds to their eyes. On the first weekday in each month they get together, raise a glass of port, and talk about old times.”

A league of one-eyed men.

“And here are their names.”

One of Rose’s shaking, aging hands plucks a torn piece of paper out of the pocket in her dress. There are four names scrawled on it, and beside them, four addresses.

“Mother, you shouldn’t have …”

She puts a quivering finger to his lips.

“Don’t say another word. I asked more questions, yes, found their addresses. That is what you need. Solve this, son. Free yourself and that poor man, and come home to me. And let that woman rest in peace.”

She’d told him what to do.

Staggering through Trafalgar Square, reeling from what she said and not watching for enemies, he considers his options. Fleeing is not one of them. The villain might not know he is gone for some time or might do something to make sure he stays away. He must solve the crime and do it soon. It’s the only way to make sure they’ll all be safe forever.

“Master ’olmes!” says a voice through cupped hands. He’s been spotted. Without thinking, he responds by lifting his head.

He’s near Dupin’s kiosk. The crippled newspaper vendor is motioning him over.

“’ead down!” he instructs. “What’s wrong with you, guvna’? You’re about in plain view!”

Sherlock snaps out of his stupor and lowers his head.

“Take this,” mutters Dupin and jams something into the boy’s grimy coat.

The News of the World.

He leafs through it, his mind riveted elsewhere, knowing he must act immediately, but not sure how. There is