than an inch in others – uneven, as though someone has cut it by tearing it. But the disguising effect is magnificent. Sherlock can sense it. He knows he must be whomever and whatever he needs to be.
“And last but not least,” says Malefactor.
Another gang member has a sack in his hand. This rake-thin little lad with ears like the handles on a teacup, a streaked face and bare feet, is the dirtiest of the Irregulars. He reaches into the sack, pulls out a piece of coal, throws the rest on Sherlock’s lap and then tips the boy’s head up. The urchin proceeds to draw deep, black lines around Sherlock’s eyes.
When the sooty Irregular steps back, Irene draws in her breath. A street waif sits in front of her.
Malefactor is pleased with his dusty creation. “Disguise is an invaluable tool in the game of crime. It shall stand you in good stead. My information is that your mother is a singing instructor. You must have some acting in your blood. Use it. Fit your movements, your whole person, to your costume.”
He turns and gazes at Irene as if he hopes she is impressed, then reluctantly steps back. The Irregulars begin fading into the night. The meeting has come to an end. Theboss vanishes too, though his disembodied voice registers in the night.
“You are looking for an unexpected villain.”
Sherlock doesn’t say much as he walks back to Montague Street with Irene and barely remembers to look out for anyone pursuing. Her fear is outweighed by her astonishment at what she has seen. It is as if she entered another world with Sherlock Holmes and is returning with someone else. She wants to talk about his disguise and Malefactor and his advice, about all of it. But the boy’s mind is far away.
An unexpected villain?
That could be anyone: a man, woman, or child – even Adalji. But the gang leader is absolutely right about the eyeball. Sherlock must get it back.
There is only one way to do it. The police are looking for him; they know all about his parents and where they live. If they catch him, they may hang him. But somehow … he has to go home. He can’t speak with his mother and father. He must get in and out like a thief.
HOME ROBBERY
W hen he rises the next night he is ready to rob his own home. Irene has kept him fed all day, and steered the maid and the governess away from the back windows. In a few minutes, he expects to see her again. But when he comes out to the street, she is nowhere to be seen. She knows he has to do this alone.
He pulls his cap down over his forehead and heads south. His charcoaled eyes look out from under the brim. On the way, he practices walking differently. He is a street person now. Malefactor was right about his mother. Fascinated by the operatic stage, she loves to talk about the art of playing roles.
“You have to become a character when you are presenting a part. The audience has to believe that you are someone else.”
The police have to believe he is from the streets. He walks slower, with a shorter step, imagining someone who has nowhere to go.
It has been more than a week since he’s been to Trafalgar. He desperately wants to see it again: a leisurelystroll along Oxford Street and down to the Square. But those days are over. If the Bobbies know anything about his habits, they’ll know the places he frequents. The Force often uses detectives disguised in everyday clothes. He makes for the river in a direct line and crosses at Waterloo instead of Blackfriars. Before long he is over the bridge and back in Southwark.
He sticks to the smaller streets, alert in the rookeries, ready to fight for his life in the dark Mint neighborhood. But it is an unusually cold, late spring night, the misty rain is uncomfortable in the fog, and fewer denizens are about. By the time he reaches the street next to his, his heart is pounding. He stays in the shadows, up against the buildings, in doorways. No one seems to be following.
But now, two people are coming toward him in the
“And last but not least,” says Malefactor.
Another gang member has a sack in his hand. This rake-thin little lad with ears like the handles on a teacup, a streaked face and bare feet, is the dirtiest of the Irregulars. He reaches into the sack, pulls out a piece of coal, throws the rest on Sherlock’s lap and then tips the boy’s head up. The urchin proceeds to draw deep, black lines around Sherlock’s eyes.
When the sooty Irregular steps back, Irene draws in her breath. A street waif sits in front of her.
Malefactor is pleased with his dusty creation. “Disguise is an invaluable tool in the game of crime. It shall stand you in good stead. My information is that your mother is a singing instructor. You must have some acting in your blood. Use it. Fit your movements, your whole person, to your costume.”
He turns and gazes at Irene as if he hopes she is impressed, then reluctantly steps back. The Irregulars begin fading into the night. The meeting has come to an end. Theboss vanishes too, though his disembodied voice registers in the night.
“You are looking for an unexpected villain.”
Sherlock doesn’t say much as he walks back to Montague Street with Irene and barely remembers to look out for anyone pursuing. Her fear is outweighed by her astonishment at what she has seen. It is as if she entered another world with Sherlock Holmes and is returning with someone else. She wants to talk about his disguise and Malefactor and his advice, about all of it. But the boy’s mind is far away.
An unexpected villain?
That could be anyone: a man, woman, or child – even Adalji. But the gang leader is absolutely right about the eyeball. Sherlock must get it back.
There is only one way to do it. The police are looking for him; they know all about his parents and where they live. If they catch him, they may hang him. But somehow … he has to go home. He can’t speak with his mother and father. He must get in and out like a thief.
HOME ROBBERY
W hen he rises the next night he is ready to rob his own home. Irene has kept him fed all day, and steered the maid and the governess away from the back windows. In a few minutes, he expects to see her again. But when he comes out to the street, she is nowhere to be seen. She knows he has to do this alone.
He pulls his cap down over his forehead and heads south. His charcoaled eyes look out from under the brim. On the way, he practices walking differently. He is a street person now. Malefactor was right about his mother. Fascinated by the operatic stage, she loves to talk about the art of playing roles.
“You have to become a character when you are presenting a part. The audience has to believe that you are someone else.”
The police have to believe he is from the streets. He walks slower, with a shorter step, imagining someone who has nowhere to go.
It has been more than a week since he’s been to Trafalgar. He desperately wants to see it again: a leisurelystroll along Oxford Street and down to the Square. But those days are over. If the Bobbies know anything about his habits, they’ll know the places he frequents. The Force often uses detectives disguised in everyday clothes. He makes for the river in a direct line and crosses at Waterloo instead of Blackfriars. Before long he is over the bridge and back in Southwark.
He sticks to the smaller streets, alert in the rookeries, ready to fight for his life in the dark Mint neighborhood. But it is an unusually cold, late spring night, the misty rain is uncomfortable in the fog, and fewer denizens are about. By the time he reaches the street next to his, his heart is pounding. He stays in the shadows, up against the buildings, in doorways. No one seems to be following.
But now, two people are coming toward him in the
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