Eye of the Crow

“Because of what he said about the crows,” says Sherlock.

“Yes?” It means Holmes is to say more.

“When I first spoke to him,” Sherlock continues, “he mentioned very innocently that he’d seen the crows in the sky at the Old Bailey courthouse. That was all he knew about them.”

Malefactor grasps it instantly.

“Elementary, Holmes.” He nods, “The Arab hadn’t seen or heard the crows before, but the murderer would have. The person who killed that woman heard the crows scream and saw them in the alley … and would never forget it.”

“I’d just told Mohammad that the crows led me to the murder site.”

“And he never made a connection.”

“Precisely.”

“Simplicity itself,” Malefactor mutters.

“You and I think alike sometimes,” says Sherlock.

“Not really,” retorts the older boy. “You want some advice? … Talk.”

Holmes gathers himself. “I have to break into a house in Mayfair.”

Malefactor wonders what Holmes is getting himself into. “First,” he begins, “you need an obvious reason to be there, so that if someone sees you on your way, they won’t be suspicious.”

“I have a reason. I am a chimney sweep.”

He pops open the handbag and pulls out his costume and containers of makeup.

Malefactor raises his eyebrows. He is astonished. Holmes has picked the perfect disguise – one that will allow him to get into a house – black, so as to camouflage him at night, take him down the chimney instead of through a door, and make him unrecognizable if someone sees him.

“You must be in the house for only a brief time. You will know exactly what you are looking for before you enter – and where it is apt to be. Therefore, you will visit the house ahead of time and observe your entry point and how to get to it. You will note the occupants of the house and their habits.”

Sherlock nods.

“Either the house will be empty, or everyone will be asleep when you enter. If that does not turn out to be the situation, you will immediately vacate the premises. You will know, at all times, exactly where, and how, you will leave the building.”

Malefactor pauses. He motions for the Irregulars to leave, then moves closer to the tall, thin boy.

“What exactly, might I ask, are you looking for?” He knows the boy has been withholding information.

“A one-eyed man.”

“And a lady’s coin purse?”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock chooses the first address on Rose’s list, the one where the rude man lives. Then he puts on his chimney sweep costume and enters Mayfair. He’s never seen anything like it. This is an opera for the rich. The big, white and yellow houses rise on each side of every street like the ornate homes of gods, many five storeys high: gleaming black iron gates on the streets, pillars up the steps at the arched entrances, flowered balconies on upper floors, and areas for servants below stairs. Ladies with purple parasols and matching silk dresses stroll by or clatter past in phaetons and broughams, attended by liveried coachmen. Butlers and footmen appear on front steps. Uniformed cooks and maids scurry around the houses and in through back doors.

Sherlock’s destination takes him into the heart of Mayfair, past the extravagant shops of New Bond, onto a smaller street leading to extra wealthy Berkeley Square, and just past it. He begins casing the house, watching everything that happens near it and around it. He notes the help, the lady, the perfectly dressed children … and then, just as the sun sets, the gentleman on his way home. He is a big man, broad shouldered and a little fat, his cheeks and chin overgrown with red mustachios and a long, red goatee – indeed the cad whose face his mother disliked, and maybe, just maybe … the villain. One eye never blinks.

After the man enters his house, Sherlock looks through one of the tall front windows. From there he can see much of the ground floor – a majestic dining room filled with gleaming furniture. He walks casually down the street and returns, then glances in the other front window and sees a wood-stained staircase leading upstairs.

He’s heard that there are never bedrooms on the ground floors of the rich. As dangerous as it is, he will have to enter one. That is where he will find the man himself. Moreover, if there is any evidence of guilt about, it won’t be in the areas of the house the rest of the family frequents. Sherlock isn’t sure how the rich live, but he has a feeling that unlike his poor mother and father, many wealthy husbands and wives sleep in separate bedrooms, in their own private worlds.

He has to go upstairs, find where the man sleeps or where his desk or study is, where he might keep something he wants to hide from others. If anything incriminating was in the villain’s possession when he left the murder scene, Sherlock is betting that it made sense for him to keep it, thinking at first that no one would ever dream of searching a Mayfair mansion, then within a day, knowing that an Arab would swing for the crime and he would never be a suspect. There would be a smarter time to destroy it, after the butcher-boy is dead and the case is closed.

Sherlock looks up at the house. There are five chimneys. He will get in through one of them. He heaves a sigh. It is nearly six o’clock. The whole family is home. The time has almost come.

Tonight!

CRIMINAL ACTS

Sherlock appears on the grand street that night like a shadow. He has taken off his shoes and blackened his ankles and the tops of his feet. He moves silently and stealthily, finds a house nearby that is easy to ascend – it has a little lane, and iron rungs on its side for laborers to use when repairing its roof – and in minutes has climbed to the top. He crosses three attached houses, up and down on the slanted surfaces above the top-floor servants’ quarters, with barely a sound. His feet pat gently on the tiles.

Soon he is on the one-eyed man’s roof

There are the chimneys. He chooses the largest one, which will take him straight down onto the ground floor of the house.

“In and out quickly,” he says to himself

It isn’t difficult to get on top of the brick column, but going down and coming back up will be hell. Just decades ago, most sweeps had been small children; but the climbing boys’ treatment had been brutal and exploitive. Now there are age restrictions. But even for the dirty, skeletal older boys and men who hold these jobs, climbing up and down the barely foot-wide chimneys, like the one Sherlock peers down now, is a daunting task. He thrusts a hand inside. At least it isn’t hot, no recent fires. Being built like a starving man is, for once, going to be helpful.

He takes a deep breath and wedges himself in.

It is tight and claustrophobic, so much so that he thinks he’ll soon be squeezed to death or become stuck and then roasted in the morning. Somehow, he has to move downward. Twisting himself like a contortionist, he descends inch by inch, skinning his arms, his chest, and his legs. It seems to take forever. He can’t make a sound – he goes down through the interior of the house, all five storeys, past sleeping servants, owners, and children. His muscles begin to ache. He stops once and stares back up at the opening, wondering how he will ever go back up. Several times, he fears he’ll let go and fall, but finally, he lands safely. He is actually inside the house. His heart beats as though it will burst from his chest.

He is in the fireplace on the ground floor. In front of him stands the regal dining-room table, its mahogany surface covered with a white lace cloth, attended by five chairs, all carved in rich French style. Silently, he brushes the extra grime from his rags and the soles of his feet, removes the fire screen, steps over the grate, and avoids the coal scuttle. The steady tick of a big clock in the hall makes the only sound in the house. The long windows have dark drapes that hang to the floor, paintings cover the walls, ferns sit in vases, and his bare feet stand on a soft,