believes in helping the unfortunate, not in judging, but helping.”
“He sounds like a fine gentleman, Miss.”
Irene seizes the moment. “Master Holmes needs your help.”
The young criminal takes his eyes from her only for an instant to glance at Sherlock, then looks back.
“I was once more than I am now, Miss, and I will be more again some day. I am at your service.”
Sherlock doesn’t need any more invitation than that. They slip into the darkest part of the Fields and crouch low. First, Holmes gives Malefactor his information: dimensions inside the Bow Street jail, the habits of the turnkeys, and how he got out. Then he turns to the murder. He explains everything he knows, including how he found the glass eye. Malefactor simply nods his head and closes his eyes. After a while, he opens them and begins to focus.
“Several things. There are some details I
may
possess about this crime. I shall give you none. As to what you might do about it yourself: first, you need to be incognito. You need a disguise. I suggest cutting your hair very short, getting out of those clothes – we’ll find you some – and putting some grime on your face.” He knows the obsessively clean Sherlock will hate that. “You will work at night from now on. And you need that eye. You must go and get it, whatever the danger. Lastly, you must find the purse. When you find
it,
you will have the solution.”
Malefactor’s helpful attitude is surprising. Sherlock suspected that the master thief might find the situation intriguing, might think it good fun to meddle in all of this and see how things turn out (perhaps in the half-Jew’s death), and offer some sort of small return in exchange for the Bow Street jail information. Sherlock also wondered if Malefactor might finally consider him one of his own and help out a fellow “criminal.” The young Napoleon of crime believes in the code of the street: the shadows look out for each other. But his interest is beyond anything Holmes had hoped for. He wonders why. His answer comes immediately.
“Bring Miss Doyle when you return with a report,” Malefactor smiles, turning to her. His face grows sterner as he glares back at Sherlock. “Just give me a report, is that clear? Expect no further assistance. I cannot help you more than I shall tonight. The Irregulars and I … this isn’t our game.” He turns aside. “Suitcase please.”
The blond, silent Crew, who knows their inventory well, goes to a nearby cart. It overflows with stuffed boxes, trunks, cases and other valuables – a cache of stolen goods. He examines the selections and then plucks one out, like a professor choosing the perfect book. Malefactor nods to him and seizes a wooden chair.
“Come, Master Holmes. We are ready for your disguise. You may keep your trousers. The Peelers only look from the waist up and mostly at the face.”
Sherlock is placed in the chair. Crew, dressed in his oversized, once-scarlet military tunic, opens the suitcase and picks out a dark shirt, a bulky black coat, and a blue kerchief. He searches around again and produces a navy blue cap like a sailor might wear. Malefactor nods again and Crew pulls off Sherlock’s coat, undoes his cloth necktie, and motions for him to remove his linen shirt. Irene turns away. The old clothes are tossed on the cart and the new ones thrown onto his lap. Sherlock puts them on, then ties the kerchief around his neck. He can barely stand it. The clothes are filthy.
“Sit down,” says the leader with a smile, enjoying the boy’s discomfort. He pushes Holmes onto the chair again. “You need some grooming.”
Grimsby steps forward, producing a pair of rusty scissors out of a deep pocket in his overcoat. With a grin, he takes his customer roughly by the head and begins to snip violently. Great hanks of black hair drop to the ground and in minutes there is a transformation. Sherlock’s usually perfect hair is now only a few inches long in most places and less
“He sounds like a fine gentleman, Miss.”
Irene seizes the moment. “Master Holmes needs your help.”
The young criminal takes his eyes from her only for an instant to glance at Sherlock, then looks back.
“I was once more than I am now, Miss, and I will be more again some day. I am at your service.”
Sherlock doesn’t need any more invitation than that. They slip into the darkest part of the Fields and crouch low. First, Holmes gives Malefactor his information: dimensions inside the Bow Street jail, the habits of the turnkeys, and how he got out. Then he turns to the murder. He explains everything he knows, including how he found the glass eye. Malefactor simply nods his head and closes his eyes. After a while, he opens them and begins to focus.
“Several things. There are some details I
may
possess about this crime. I shall give you none. As to what you might do about it yourself: first, you need to be incognito. You need a disguise. I suggest cutting your hair very short, getting out of those clothes – we’ll find you some – and putting some grime on your face.” He knows the obsessively clean Sherlock will hate that. “You will work at night from now on. And you need that eye. You must go and get it, whatever the danger. Lastly, you must find the purse. When you find
it,
you will have the solution.”
Malefactor’s helpful attitude is surprising. Sherlock suspected that the master thief might find the situation intriguing, might think it good fun to meddle in all of this and see how things turn out (perhaps in the half-Jew’s death), and offer some sort of small return in exchange for the Bow Street jail information. Sherlock also wondered if Malefactor might finally consider him one of his own and help out a fellow “criminal.” The young Napoleon of crime believes in the code of the street: the shadows look out for each other. But his interest is beyond anything Holmes had hoped for. He wonders why. His answer comes immediately.
“Bring Miss Doyle when you return with a report,” Malefactor smiles, turning to her. His face grows sterner as he glares back at Sherlock. “Just give me a report, is that clear? Expect no further assistance. I cannot help you more than I shall tonight. The Irregulars and I … this isn’t our game.” He turns aside. “Suitcase please.”
The blond, silent Crew, who knows their inventory well, goes to a nearby cart. It overflows with stuffed boxes, trunks, cases and other valuables – a cache of stolen goods. He examines the selections and then plucks one out, like a professor choosing the perfect book. Malefactor nods to him and seizes a wooden chair.
“Come, Master Holmes. We are ready for your disguise. You may keep your trousers. The Peelers only look from the waist up and mostly at the face.”
Sherlock is placed in the chair. Crew, dressed in his oversized, once-scarlet military tunic, opens the suitcase and picks out a dark shirt, a bulky black coat, and a blue kerchief. He searches around again and produces a navy blue cap like a sailor might wear. Malefactor nods again and Crew pulls off Sherlock’s coat, undoes his cloth necktie, and motions for him to remove his linen shirt. Irene turns away. The old clothes are tossed on the cart and the new ones thrown onto his lap. Sherlock puts them on, then ties the kerchief around his neck. He can barely stand it. The clothes are filthy.
“Sit down,” says the leader with a smile, enjoying the boy’s discomfort. He pushes Holmes onto the chair again. “You need some grooming.”
Grimsby steps forward, producing a pair of rusty scissors out of a deep pocket in his overcoat. With a grin, he takes his customer roughly by the head and begins to snip violently. Great hanks of black hair drop to the ground and in minutes there is a transformation. Sherlock’s usually perfect hair is now only a few inches long in most places and less
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