The Secret Fiend (23 page)

DEAD END

S
herlock Holmes is not used to running out of ideas. But here he is, across the street from Robert Hide’s surprisingly idyllic home far from the troubles of downtown London, and he does not know what to do. If he had more time, he would retreat now, go back to the apothecary shop, maybe consult Sigerson Bell, gather his thoughts, and concoct a scheme. That would be the prudent – the scientific – way to proceed. But he doesn’t have
any
time. The sun is beginning to set and the village, equipped with just a few gas lamps, is growing darker. Before noon tomorrow, he must know the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. His only clue is in the person of Louise Stevenson, and she is in that house across the street consulting one of London’s most powerful reformers. It would, perhaps, be best if he waited for her to come out. But he doesn’t know if he can afford to even pause. A few more minutes pass, and she is still inside. He begins to think that it may be better to confront them together, anyway. If they are guilty of something, he might spook them, put them off their guard.
Make people ill at ease
and you can extract things from them all that much easier.
He wishes he had his horsewhip. He recalls Hide’s thick chest and arms, the fact that at twenty-two, he is in the prime of his life.

The boy takes a deep breath and gets up from behind the post in the little driveway down the street. He strides over to Hide’s house, swings open the creaking white gate, and is about to pound on the door when he realizes he can hear voices inside.

He puts his ear to the door, but he can’t make out what is being said. Then he hears two words very clearly.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

There is silence. He raises his fist to bang on the door, but suddenly, it opens. Robert Hide is standing there, his expression as serene as ever, a smile growing on his face, a truly handsome and charismatic man. He is wearing a mousy gray dressing gown, red Persian slippers, and holds a black pipe in his hand. Behind him, Louise Stevenson appears in the front hallway just beyond the vestibule, her bonnet still on. She puts her hand to her mouth in shock.

“You followed me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

“Won’t you come in?” asks Hide politely.

Should I?
“Yes … yes, I will.” He marches into the house. A rich, red Indian rug stretches along the hall floor. The walls are gleaming mahogany. A huge grandfather clock stands nearby, ticking quietly. He can see another room to his right, filled with paintings.

“What is the meaning of this?” demands Sherlock.

“Won’t you come into the morning room and sit down?” inquires Hide with a smile. “We can best chat in there. I believe we have met, have we not?”

He remembers me? He met me once, for a brief moment.

“I make it my business to remember faces. I believe you are skilled in that sort of thing as well, Master Holmes?”

“I … yes … I have been taught to be observant…. I don’t need to sit down. I am fine right here. I would like an explanation.”

“Master ’olmes, you must leave and go –”

“Nonsense, Miss Stevenson. Master Holmes is welcome to stay.”

Sherlock regards him. He is difficult to read. All the boy can see is an attractive, dark-haired young man with an honest smile, betraying – nothing.

“You were asking the meaning of this? I believe that was the way you put it?”

“Yes. Yes, I was.”

“To be honest, I am not exactly sure what you mean by that. But please explain and I shall answer you as best I can.”

“This young woman was attacked by the Spring Heeled Jack while in the company of one of my dear friends, Miss Beatrice Leckie. Though I would prefer to stay out of such things, I have become deeply involved in the pursuit of the fiend. The original attack does not make sense. Miss Stevenson has some explaining to do. I followed her here. Why, sir, is this working-class girl from Limehouse, who has had this unique experience, coming to you in Blackheath
Village directly after I questioned her on the subject – directly after she tried to evade my inquiries and looked frightened by them? Why did she fly to you?”

“Well, I know she was the unfortunate victim of that despicable villain’s first assault. Though I have not had the good fortune of meeting Miss Leckie, Miss Stevenson, who –”

“I need a direct answer, sir. A family was brutally murdered by the Jack just last night, you must know that. This is not just some passing concern!”

“Yes, Master Holmes, I am well aware of that.” His voice almost breaks. “In fact, the Treasure family was known to me. They attended my rallies … spoke to me. They, like Miss Stevenson, shared my political views…. You seem surprised about Louise, Master Holmes, but she is not what she seems.” He smiles at Sherlock. “She has given a good deal of thought to what she thinks her country should be and do. I would be proud to have her as a fellow voter.”

Sherlock regards Louise, who stares back at him defiantly. Any trace of a poor innocent girl has vanished from her face.

“With all due respect, Miss Stevenson can’t even read.”

“And neither, in essence, can many of our Members of Parliament. They cannot read the writing on the wall. Miss Stevenson, on the other hand, understands what must be done in England. When there are many millions like her, things shall change. Forever. Had the Treasure family not been forced to live in such squalor, perhaps they would not have become this maniac’s victims. Miss Stevenson is fighting for the likes of them.”

“I have known Mr. ’ide for a long –”

Hide raises his hand to her. It is the first time Sherlock has seen him look even the tiniest bit perturbed.

“I shall explain, Miss Stevenson, if I might? I will answer his question, directly.”

“Yes, Robert, of course.”

“I had seen this lovely young lady many times at my meetings –”

“With Beatrice?” asks Sherlock.

“I believe I mentioned that I am not acquainted with Miss Leckie.”

“Beatrice is a fine soul,” interjects Louise, “finer than any of us. She is above politics, just an honest child … who cares for you, Master Holmes … though I’m not sure why.” She gives him another look. Sherlock has noticed that her accent seems much improved.

Who is she? Who is this young woman?
“As I was saying,” continues Hide, “Miss Stevenson came to me at the meeting in Trafalgar Square, after she was attacked, and asked me to help her. She was traumatized by the assault, and at her wits’ end. I am afraid that all I could offer was comfort.”

“Not like you, Sherlock Holmes,” spits Louise, “who thought the assault a farce!”

“I have my methods, Miss Stevenson, and they pointed to such a conclusion.”

“You cared about as much for me and what happened to me as you likely do about the poor of this country, the working people, and women! Half of this nation is starving or ill-fed or dying of heartbreak! When they lose their jobs,
jobs the upper classes give and take on whims, they lose their lives and their families! The government sits by idly and lets it happen! Most people in this country still do not even have the right to vote – to change things! Women, if we were given power, would turn this nation upside down!”

Hide smiles. “Miss Stevenson, though I quite agree with you, this may not be the time for such a political discussion. I am sure that Master Holmes is not without feelings for the poor. I understand that you, sir, have experienced difficulties in your own life.”

“Yes … I have.”

“Prejudice and poverty sometimes go hand in hand. I am dedicating my life to eradicating both.” He motions for Sherlock to enter the morning room and calls for a servant to bring tea.

Sherlock glances around the room before he sits on a plush black chair with green stripes. Hide sits across from him, while Louise stands behind, looking sullen.

“Mr. Hide, I must say that your home surprises me. I had heard rumors that you came from more humble beginnings.”

He chuckles. “Yes, I have heard that said. It must originate from the fact that I speak in the workhouses and soup kitchens, spend most of my time in the East End and Clerkenwell, and try to stand up for those who have little. My family is an old Blackheath one, sir, wealthy, yes. My parents died just a few years ago on an Atlantic crossing to America. I am their only child. They left me this.” He glances around the room.

“I am sorry for the loss of your family.”

“I thank you for that. My parents were forward-thinking sorts; knew John Stuart Mill and John Bright. Father was a scientist and an inventor. He patented many cures and elixirs, and the profits from such discoveries made us quite comfortable. I was selfish as a youth though, more intrigued by athletics than helping others; was a champion broad jumper at Eton, you know. But their deaths changed me. I wanted to do something that would make them proud. I am attempting to do what I can now, with the talents I have for speaking and political thought, to change our society for the better. As a youth I had wanted to be a scientist, like father, but I am not endowed with his type of brain. Perhaps that is for the better; though I do dabble in the world of chemistry and the like. I have my own laboratory, out back. I gather you are of a scientific turn as well. Would you like to see it?”

How does he know so much about me? Has Louise been feeding him information: If so, why?

Hide gets up and motions for Sherlock to follow him. They pass through a large library. The boy notices Marx’s and Engels’ names on several spines. The lab door is locked. In fact, it has three or four latches on it. The young man takes several keys out of his pocket. It takes a while, but he gets the locks open. They enter the lab. Sherlock realizes this is the extension at the back of the house. He can see now, that it is almost like a greenhouse: the expansive ceiling is completely made of glass. The room is huge, and many hundreds of test tubes and torts sit on a series of black-topped
tables, making Bell’s laboratory look modest, indeed. It smells of chemicals, though one odor predominates.
Sulfur.
Sherlock also hears things bubbling and boiling, then notices glass smashed and lying on the floor.

“Oh!” says Hide, looking guilty. “I asked them to clean that up.”

There is a knock on the door, but not at the front of the house. It is coming from a small entrance at the rear of the lab.

“Excuse me,” says Hide. “There is a gentleman who visits from time to time who, for some reason, likes to use the back door.”

Sherlock waits as Hide walks away between the messy tables. The rear door is also locked in several places.
This is a very secretive man
. Finally, Hide gets the door open and speaks to the visitor in hushed tones. Sherlock moves to one side to see better. The man is holding two vials in each hand. He’s elderly, eccentrically dressed in a gold cape and wearing a pink skullcap in which something bulges.
Stethoscope.
This strange man is an apothecary. He gives the vials to Hide, who pays him.

“Thank you, Simian.”

The man leaves by the same door, Hide locks every latch again, then unlocks a glass cabinet, puts the vials inside and locks it again. He smiles at Sherlock.

“Shall we return to our chairs? It must be getting late …” He hesitates, pulls his pocket watch out of his dressing gown, and looks at it. “… I have to tell you that I have not been entirely honest with you … and I am afraid
I may have to tell you the true reason for Miss Stevenson’s visit tonight. I wish I did not.”

A grim expression has come across Hide’s face. Sherlock feels a jolt of fear pass through his system.
Have I seen something I should not have seen? Is he going to hold me here? Or worse?
He yearns again for his horsewhip.

“Robert,” says Louise anxiously as they return, “I must be going. Can you … can you give me –”

“Of course, Miss Stevenson – I was just telling Master Holmes that I must explain the exact reason for your coming.”

Louise sighs. “Couldn’t we just do it in the back room?”

“That wouldn’t be polite, not with a guest here, especially a suspicious one.” He grins at Sherlock and then shouts for his manservant, asking for a piece of family stationery. When it arrives he walks to a nearby desk and sits down, dipping a pen in an inkwell. The boy spots a stack of papers at his elbow.

“As I said, Master Holmes, I would prefer that you did not know this. No one is aware that I do such things and it is best that way. I am writing a note so Miss Stevenson can take it to my bank and withdraw ten pounds in order to support her family for the next month. That is why she is here … if you
must
know. I trust you don’t object?”

But Sherlock Holmes isn’t thinking about the generosity of Robert Hide, nor does he feel any shame. Something else is suddenly riveting his attention.
Handwriting!
He is remembering that the Jack’s handwriting was the same on every note he left behind.

If I can find the hand that wrote those notes, and look up that arm to the face … I will have my solution! They weren’t written by Louise Stevenson, but here is this well-muscled, dark-haired young man to whom she has just secretly flown, who wants to change England by any means, who speaks of chaos to the masses, who was a champion leaper at Eton, who has made a study of me, who has the smell of sulfur lingering in his lab, whose house is locked at both ends as if he were keeping enormous secrets … and he’s writing a note!