Eye of the Crow Read Online Free PDF Page B

smiles as he looks back at his son. Lately he and Sherlock haven’t had long conversations like they used to, when he would impart all the knowledge he could to his son, training him to use his brain as his weapon in life. It is wonderful to hear the boy asking questions again.
    “Well, some of my colleagues believe that crows can talk, or shall we say … communicate well.”
    “What else?” Sherlock stands up, and approaches his father. He doesn’t want to eat anything this morning, and intends to go as soon he can.
    “Let me see … they come from a whole family of birds who like shiny things.”
    “Shiny things?”
    “They seem to have fairly well ordered brains and if anything is out of place they are drawn to it. Shiny things stand out. They go to them like magnets.” A slight frown creases his brow. “That doesn’t help their reputation either. They are considered thieves. A little advice to you when in the company of crows, my boy: don’t leave anything of value lying about, or they might just relieve you of it.” He laughs.
    They are silent for a moment. Wilber turns to go again.
    “I’ve read that they’re omens of evil,” says Sherlock.
    His father stops in his tracks.
    “People do evil,” he replies decisively, “not birds.”

    Once Sherlock gets over the river that morning, he keeps north through the narrow streets. As he rounds a corner he notices something moving in the shadows up ahead where a lane leads off a roadway, and then a little army files out, like rats coming up from the sewers.
    His pulse quickens.
    Usually, if he sees the Irregulars, he tries to steer clear of them. They seldom let him pass without some sort of violence, no matter what he does or says. If they catch him far off a main thoroughfare, his chances dim. They seem to hate him. But it isn’t because of his Jewish blood. No, they have Jews in their fold. It is the blue in his veins. They sense that he isn’t from the street, not truly. It is acceptable that Malefactor is so well spoken, after all he is the brains of their operation, has some mysterious past he won’t speak of, and most importantly, delivers what they need in the underworld. But not the half-Jew. He is neither with them nor against them.
    The gang leader, as bright as a new English guinea, knows all about Holmes just by looking at him. It is curious though, Sherlock also senses that somewhere deep in that twisted mind the other boy respects him. The feeling is mutual. The criminal thoughts in Malefactor’s head are always magnificently conceived.
    Sherlock nervously stands his ground. He wants to talk this time.
    They are running right at him. Malefactor stops. He holds up his hand. The army grinds to a halt. There are thirteen of them altogether – their boss likes that number. They dress well, but are dirty and ragged, in a soiled display of soft felt hats, billycocks and caps, graying white linen shirts, and grimy silk neckties, having stolen everything they own – catching young Londoners alone and stripping them bare is a specialty of theirs – that and picking rich pockets. Hangings days are excellent for business. Sherlock has long since detected their backgrounds: seven of them Irish (including both bully lieutenants, Grimsby and Crew), two Welsh, a Scot, and two English Jews. Every one of them is an orphan or the child of workhouse parents, raised in rookeries or on the streets. All this is betrayed to Sherlock in the things they say and the way they say them. But their boss, the eldest by at least two years, is different. No child of a rookery speaks like him.
    “Master Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”
    “Malefactor,” the boy says calmly.
    “You want to talk?” The outlaw can read his mind.
    “It’s about the murder.”
    “That again?”
    “Yes. Any word?”
    “You’ll warrant a major beating if you ask me that one more time.”
    “The Arab didn’t do it,” offers Sherlock bravely.
    “A reasonable guess,” replies