The Secret Fiend (12 page)

Sigerson Trismegistus Bell stirs on his stool at the lab. He turns and faces his beloved apprentice.

“You have only one option now, you know, my boy.”

“And what is that, sir?”

“You must come out of retirement.”

THE SPRING HEELED JACKS

S
herlock Holmes tries to be a regular boy the next day. He attends school and listens carefully. He is the only one in his form, learning at a level, he has been told, that no other student has ever reached at Snowfields. Sherlock also puts in his two hours as a pupil teacher instructing the little ones, helps the Headmaster clean up afterward, and is the last one out before the big wooden door on the ground floor of the big brick building is locked. He will clean the apothecary shop when he returns home. It will be a satisfying day’s work.

But during all of this, a tension, a burning excitement, builds inside him. A devil wants out. At times he even notices his hands shaking. So far, he has resisted the volcano inside. Sigerson Bell
may
be right. Perhaps he should pursue this fiend.
Perhaps
. Feelings welling inside him are telling him as much. But they are
feelings
. He must be prudent.

As he walks home along Snowfields Road and heads past the large railway station, he spots London Bridge up ahead and sighs. He likes to play little mental games to keep his brain exercised.
How many steps is it from here to the bridge?
He is training himself to judge distances – there may
be a day when it will come in handy.
Nine hundred steps
, he estimates. Then he adds to his game.
If I am able to travel that entire distance without once thinking of the Spring Heeled Jack, I shall resist him for good, leave him to the police to catch. That’s a vow.

At step number two hundred and twenty-two, his head cast down and his thoughts disciplined, he is interrupted.

“Sherlock.”

A lovely voice.

Beatrice Leckie and her friend Louise appear in the crowd of faces coming toward him, having just crossed the bridge from the city, heading south. She has obviously taken this route to her father’s shop in order to intercept him, either rushing here at the end of a short day, or during a late tea time.

“Miss Leckie.”

She catches the less-than-enthusiastic tone in his voice. “Sherlock,” she says, “I did not volunteer information about you to the press.”

“But you did not keep quiet when asked, either.”

“No.” Her head lowers. Then she looks at him, her eyes large. “I am glad to have met up with you today.”

There is something about her that prevents Sherlock from being angry with her. “And I, you,” he says. He turns to her companion. “Good day, Miss Louise.”

“Good day, sir.” Louise actually curtsies. As the boy looks at her, it occurs to him that he knows nothing of this new friend of Beatrice’s, not even her last name.
Who is this person with my schoolmate? She was the victim the first time,
not Beatrice. Perhaps she was the only target.
Sherlock has never considered what her game might be in all the goings-on about the Spring –

He stops his thoughts.

“It is a fine day, ladies.” And it is: cold but clear, with spring in the air. “I am afraid that I am in a rush. I am needed at the shop.” If he’d had a hat, he would have tipped it. He starts on his way, but Beatrice reaches out and actually takes him by the arm, gripping him firmly, as if to hold him there. Pedestrians move past, taking notice of the bold young lady, standing so close to the young man that her chest almost touches his.

“I want you to find him.”

“I have no idea to whom you are referring.” He begins to pull away. He just has to make it to London Bridge without hearing that name, just six hundred and seventy eight steps and –

“The Spring ’eeled Jack.”

His shoulders slouch. And what happens next doesn’t help the situation. Beatrice slides her hand down to his hand and holds it tightly. Louise blushes, smiles, and speaks in a soft voice. “We is in danger, Master ’olmes.” Her tone appears calculated to sound weak and vulnerable.

“Nonsense.”

“I ’ope you are correct,” says Beatrice, squeezing his hand as he tries to get it loose, “but Master Lestrade, who ’as been spending time comforting me, says that the police are absolutely certain John Silver acted
only
last night.”

“That was not your fault, Master ’olmes,” adds Louise,
“thinkin’ that you ’ad nabbed the real ’un. I am sure that Master Lestrade could ’ave done no better ’imself.”

Sherlock feels the color rising to his face.

“And I
know
’e couldn’t ’ave!” declares Beatrice, still holding Sherlock’s hand tightly.

“This is a police matter.”

Beatrice turns those big, pleading eyes on him again. “It is clear that the villain who attacked us in Westminster was the one who assaulted those ladies in Knightsbridge, isn’t it? ’e is lunatic, a murderous one, and ’e knows who we are, how we come ’ome at night, perhaps even where we live.”

“Then you must be careful, take a different route, go with a gentleman, and come home earlier, as you are doing now.”

“I’m so afraid, Master ’olmes,” says Louise and a tear plops onto her cheek.

It is as if they are working together.

“There is no evidence that this fiend will strike at you again. There are four million people in London, so probability suggests that you are quite safe.”

“But ’e was reported near our shop past midnight last night,” says Beatrice.

“He was? By whom?”

“It was a couple of lads, out carousing.”

Sherlock smiles. “Hardly reliable.”

“Master Lestrade says they are. ’e came at dawn this morning to the shop, and interviewed them – roused them up from their beds. ’e tells me ’e believes them.”

“And that he must protect you?”

“Yes. ’e ’as convinced his father to post a man out on Borough High Street nearby, and ’e promises to stop in every night, too.”

“He would.”

“Pardon me?”

“How nice of him.”

“I wish it was you … protecting me. I know the police will do what they can to catch this villain, and that they have been embarrassed into action, but I also know that the inspector thinks it is no more than someone pulling pranks, that the fiend isn’t really dangerous. Master Lestrade told me as much. But I’ve seen the Jack – ’e will murder someone … maybe us!”

“Come now Beatrice. As I said, there is little evidence that –”

“There’s something in the afternoon papers today,” says Louise, “about it appearing
again
, somewhere else, last night. We ’eard the newsboys shouting out something ’bout it trying to attack some ladies again. It was in Brixton, wasn’t it Bea? That’s so close to us!”

“I know that Inspector Lestrade thinks you are out of the way now,” says Beatrice, “because of what ’e said about you in the papers. But if you were to become involved in this, I think it would change everything. I think ’e would turn London upside down to find the Spring ’eeled Jack. I know ’ow ’e despises you and what you’ve done. You’ve made ’im look a fool … Master Lestrade ’as told me too.”

It almost makes Sherlock feel proud.

“London should be on fire with fear! Your involvement would ensure it!”

The boy is surprised at the expression in Beatrice Leckie’s face. It is lit up, her eyes actually angry. But she looks guilty the moment the words are out of her mouth. “I grow a little ’ysterical. I am sorry. But I’m … terrified.”

Louise puts her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

“That is natural, Miss Leckie,” says Sherlock. “You and your friend were assaulted. No wonder you are fearful. But … you have Master Lestrade. He will look after you.”

And with that, Sherlock loosens her hand and walks away, up toward London Bridge.

“You don’t need to find him all by yourself, Master ’olmes! Just let Lestrade know that you are interested! That would be enough!” shouts Beatrice.

“The inspector thinks ’e’s shamed you!” adds Louise, “that you don’t ’ave the courage to ’elp anymore!”

Holmes is trying not to listen, waving his hand as he moves away.
There are many crimes in London
, he tells himself.
I cannot solve them all. I cannot be swayed by emotions. And I am still just a boy. I was fortunate before – all of this is beyond me. I should only act if I have no options.

He walks slowly home, telling himself that the vow he made to investigate the Spring Heeled Jack if he heard or contemplated the villain’s name before he reached London Bridge was just a child’s game and that Beatrice and Louise’s fears are unfounded – they are safe. He reaches Fleet Street where the newspapers are published. He likes the atmosphere here.
There is always a bustle: the omnibuses and hansom cabs clattering, the newsboys shouting.

“Leaping Jack loose again!” one calls. Sherlock sees a few pedestrians take papers from this particularly loud little vendor, flipping coins his way, hungrily reading the front page. But most people are simply rushing along as if they have important places to go. He smells the constantly lingering aroma of burning coal, the refuse, the perspiration, the perfume. There is no fog late this afternoon, and he can see all the colors of London: the black and brown horses, big black-and-white signs, the gray, shoeless children, the red and purple dresses and flowery hats, the pale faces, all as clear as day. But as he gets to The Strand and then moves toward Trafalgar Square, it seems as though the crowd is thicker than usual. There is a commotion up ahead. Past Northumberland House, he sees that people are rushing into the square from the streets. That is certainly abnormal at this hour.

Sherlock crosses the street and peers over the heads of the crowd, the top hats and bonnets, and sees why.

Robert Hide. He is standing on another crude stage near the north end of the square, in front of the stately National Art Gallery. It is Thursday, just three days since his exciting appearance here with John Bright.
Two Reform League demonstrations in one week?
Sherlock has never heard of such a thing. Perhaps Hide has organized this on his own.

The boy makes his way through the crowd to get near the front. He passes all sorts – working class, middle class, and aristocrats. Then he spots her.
Irene.
She is at the front,
wearing another of those loose artistic dresses, orange this time, watching Hide with a look of admiration. In a sea of people in varying headgear, she alone is hatless. Her golden hair, hanging loose, glows in the sun.

Hide is pacing, the way a pugilist does before he enters the prize ring, as if holding something in. Sherlock notices Alfred Munby, dark and muscular in his green-and-black suit, heading toward the stage, but he is intercepted by a Reform League man who motions to him to stay off the podium. He glares up at Hide. But the young orator doesn’t notice. He is glancing down into the front of the crowd now, regarding his admirers. His expression changes from a frown to a glorious smile. Several of his fans reach up to him. He bends and moves along, touching hands … one of them is Irene’s.

Hide straightens and faces his audience. His brown eyes are glowing.

“My fellow Englishmen!” A big cheer rises, louder than any he received before. He is indeed a growing star. “I will take up little of your time this afternoon, but I thought it necessary in these extraordinary days – nay, in this extraordinary week – to speak with you once more.” He thrusts his arms into the air. “Because we have a new man now fully at work at Number Ten Downing Street!”

Some cheer and others groan.

“Mr. Disraeli is a leader unlike any other. He is brilliant and open-minded, a seeker of consensus. Some say though … that he is erratic and unpredictable! An opportunist!” Hide frowns and holds his hands in fists.

“Here! Here!” shout some.

“I do not! He is my leader as he is all of yours, and I bow to his guidance.” He places his hand over his heart. “But … he takes office at a time when trouble continues to dog our nation, when trouble seems to be growing. The markets are poor, the trade unions are restless, and the need for further reform is absolutely necessary.” Hide begins to pace again. “Can he take us further? Change our nation, douse the flame of discontent rather than throw coal upon it by turning his back on us?” As Hide reaches the end of the sentence he is shouting and the crowd is cheering. He pauses. Silence descends. Irene stares up.