Eye of the Crow by Shane Peacock

father’s,” she says curtly, not even looking down at them. “They shrank in the latest wash and he thinks I threw them out.”
    They are tied tightly around her waist with what appears to be a belt from a bathrobe. All her clothes are dark. Smart girl. But from the neck up she still glows like an angel: that blonde hair looks like a light, shining around her in the night.
    “Shall we go?”
    Perhaps this isn’t a bad turn of events,
thinks Sherlock.
The police will be looking for a tall, thin boy … on his own.
    They search for a long time without finding any scent of the Irregulars. Irene moves like a pale apparition beside him as they descend into the London night, mortified by the ghoulish scenes around her. Still, she keeps up to him and never mentions her fear. Sherlock watches every shadow. Tonight he is both hunter and hunted.
    Down a dark Westminster street, they hear a shout directed their way.
    “You lot!”
    It comes from behind. Irene turns and sees a policeman running toward them. They freeze. The Bobbie rushes past, sounding his rattle, in pursuit of two loud, drunken soldiers, who stagger away in the distance and disappear around a corner. Sherlock finally lets out his breath.
    Not long afterward, they catch sight of an Irregular – a lone miscreant on Wild Street near Drury Lane. It is one of the younger ones and he is scurrying east. The gang is likelyon the alert and moving tonight after their little encounter with the police fewer than twenty-four hours before. Sherlock pulls Irene against the buildings every time the Irregular, sensing someone trailing, turns to look back. They stay hot on his meandering route all the way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This is the largest square in London. Prime Ministers have lived in the big homes that line its exterior. But at nighttime, inside its iron fence and among the shadows created by its many giant trees, thieves find perfect harbor. Sherlock spies the Irregulars ensconced on the grass at the north-east end. Malefactor is standing in front of them, addressing the corps, holding an iron lock high in the air.
    “Picking locks.” he intones. “First one needs two sharp objects.” He produces a couple of ladies’ hatpins, one expertly bent at its tip. “Insert both into the lock.” Malefactor does so with a single hand, like a magician. “Feel inside with your specialized tool. Each tumbler needs to be pushed up and away from the cylinder to clear it, each tumbler must fall into place. It is simple geometry.” Malefactor feels around with the bent hatpin. A smile crosses his lips. He turns the other tool … and the lock springs open.
    “Presto!” he says. But almost instantly, he frowns. He can feel the presence of intruders.
    “You were followed!” he barks at his young charge. Then he gathers himself and turns to the emerging figures. “Master Holmes, I perceive.”
    But he doesn’t tear into the half-Jew
    Sherlock has never seen such a look on his face. His dark features seem to lighten, reflected in the glow of IreneDoyle. For an instant he loses his composure. It is hard to believe he is capable of such a thing. He swallows so hard Sherlock can see his Adam’s apple bouncing.
    “Miss,” he says, sweeping his battered hat from his head. “Miss,” he repeats. “Whom do we have the pleasure of …”
    “This is Irene …”
    “Shut up, Holmes!”
    “Miss Irene Doyle,” she says, feeling uneasy both about him and the scene around her, yet trying to smile.
    “Welcome, Miss Doyle. I am known as Malefactor and these are my associates.” He motions to them and speaks through clenched teeth. “Stand up in the presence of a lady, you scum!”
    They all leap to their feet.
    “Why have you brought her here, Holmes?” he asks, returning to his pleasant voice. He is incapable of taking his eyes from her.
    “She helped me escape.”
    Malefactor beams.
    “She doesn’t normally do things like that. Her father is a respectable man who