The Secret Fiend (24 page)

Sherlock springs to his feet.

Hide regards him. “Master Holmes?”

“A … a cramp in my foot. I’m often bothered by them. I just need to stretch it out.”

He walks toward Hide.
Perhaps I won’t be able to see what he is writing on the note; perhaps it will look too nosey.
He eyes the huge stack of papers on the desk instead. Robert Hide notices, scoops them up, and jams them into a deep drawer.

“I am sorry for the mess, Master Holmes. I tend to write everything down, and then I am left with these piles of rubbish. At every political meeting we have, I insist that we keep notes, minutes, and thorough schedules.” He chuckles.

Sherlock smiles back at him.
I have to see what he is writing.
He approaches the desk, glancing from Hide’s face, down his arm toward his writing hand. Hide adjusts his position on the chair, almost as if to block Sherlock’s view. But Holmes is quick. He pivots and looks over his shoulder.

Robert Hide’s handwriting!
He imagines rushing to Lestrade, laying it all before him, sending the Force off to Blackheath Village.

TWENTY POUNDS TO THE BEARER OF THIS NOTE.

His heart sinks.
The handwriting is nothing like the Spring Heeled Jack’s.

“Did you not believe me, Master Holmes?” asks Hide genially.

“You, uh … you made it out for twenty pounds, not ten.”

“Yes, I wish you hadn’t seen that either. Mr. Stevenson is truly in need these days.”

Louise embraces Hide and thanks him. In moments, she is gone. Hide keeps Sherlock engaged for a long time after she leaves, talking about how he has helped to improve her speech, increasing her vocabulary, reminding her not to drop her
Hs
. He wants her to have more in life. He goes on and on, obviously wanting Louise to have a head start on the boy, so she won’t worry about being pursued. But Sherlock has no interest in chasing her. He is feeling terrible. He suspected as good a man as England has, peering over his shoulder when he was secretly giving this poor girl and her family more than she had asked for.

“You are indeed a suspicious young man, Holmes.”

“Sometimes, too much so.”

“Oh, I don’t know. From what I hear of you, I understand you are a brilliant sort, a future detective.”

“I doubt that, sir. I may be leaving London soon, to start a new life.”

“What a shame. I could use someone with your wits. I’m sure I need not tell you that every day many children starve in this city. And yet, there is enough wealth in
England for all of us to share. The problem is not scarcity, it is greed. I asked Miss Stevenson a good deal about you when she first mentioned you, and I was impressed by what she said. Should you ever want to work with me, I would be glad to employ you.”

Sherlock Holmes leaves Blackheath downcast. Because of his success with the Whitechapel murder, the Brixton gang, and the Rathbone kidnapping, he had come to think highly of himself, as if he could solve any crime put before him. But good fortune had obviously been with him. It is indeed ridiculous to think that a boy his age could do what Scotland Yard could not. There had been times when he had thought that before, but now his inadequacy is really sinking in. He is at a dead end. He has absolutely no idea who the Spring Heeled Jack is, not a clue.

He must leave London now, leave Bell, and live in fear that Malefactor will pursue him no matter where he goes. He has been in over his head. He is drowning. He must depart, and try to keep his head above the waves.

GOOD-BYES

H
e doesn’t sleep well again that night. In fact, he doesn’t sleep at all. His trip home from Blackheath had been harrowing. It had grown dark as he went. Feeling distraught, his confidence diminished, he lost his nerve the minute he was out of the friendly suburbs and into Rotherhithe, unlit as much of it is at night. Malefactor, gone underground, was behind every corner; the Spring Heeled Jack, now a complete mystery to him, was lurking on every building. It was a nightmare. He actually began to run. The Thames Tunnel was the quickest way home, but he didn’t dare enter its confines. Instead, he sprinted many miles without stopping, all the way across Blackfriars Bridge, then up through central London to Denmark Street, getting from Southwark to home faster than he had ever made that journey. When he was through the door, he slammed it after him. All was silent. He waited to hear Sigerson Bell’s voice, but the old man was either asleep, or out somewhere, probably with his secret clan.

He lies in bed thinking one thing.
I must say good-bye to my father.

He doesn’t wake on Monday morning, he merely gets
up. Bell, of course, has risen early and seems to be in a glorious mood.

“My boy!” he begins, but then sees the haunted look on his young friend. “What … why …”

“I am leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving what … who?”

“You, sir.”

The old man blanches. He had been putting on his bright green tweed coat and red fez to go out, but he flops down into a chair with a bang.

Sherlock Holmes owns just the threadbare suit he has on – though he’d been keeping a few shillings in a jar in the lab to buy another – and no other possessions but a second pair of underclothing and socks, and his over-sized nightshirt, which was a hand-me-down gift from his employer. He is now holding them all in his hands. Perhaps the old man will give him a little food to take with him. He doesn’t want to offer an explanation of what has happened, but he figures he owes it to the kindly apothecary. It is just occurring to the boy that he must leave school too. He fights back tears. His dreams are shattered.

“But, my young knight, what has happened? I don’t think I can allow this!”

In a voice that is barely audible, Sherlock tells him the fix into which the Spring Heeled Jack investigation has put him, and what he now knows about Malefactor, and about Louise Stevenson’s visit to Robert Hide, and most importantly, about the note that Master Lestrade found at that horrible crime scene.

When the old man hears about the note, Sherlock thinks he sees a slight expression of suspicion flit across his face, but it doesn’t last. It is soon replaced with anger. He leaps to his feet and begins to pace.

“But you cannot have had anything to do with this!” He stops and glances back at Sherlock, “Could you have?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we shall save you.”

“How, sir?”

The old man is, for the first time since Sherlock has known him, lost for words.

“Well … well … well … well … well … let me think about it.”

“But there is no time, sir. Master Lestrade said he will show the note to his father at noon. He is a good lad and he will likely take his time, give me a few additional hours, but he
must
show it to him. I would do the same – that family was brutally murdered and my name is on the most valuable clue they have. Before the sun sets, the Inspector will know and the Force will come for me.”

“They will come here first,” nods Bell, “you must leave here, but just for now.”

“I must leave here, period.”

“No.”

“Sir, you always say I should tell the truth, and seek it. You say there are times when we must bow to it.” He starts for the door.

“Sherlock!”

Holmes turns back to Sigerson Bell. The old man’s eyes are reddening.

“My boy … my lad … my … uh … my son…. Take these!” The apothecary turns to his cupboards and reaches for a couple of sticks of bread and a bottle of milk and some carrots and onions and jars of stewed fruit and sweets, one after the other, and heaps them into the boy’s arms. Then he tosses him a little cloth sack … and the horsewhip. He looks like he wants to hug Sherlock as he watches the boy quickly fill the bag with the food and clothes and stuff the whip up a sleeve, but he turns away.

“Go.”

“Good-bye, sir … and thank you…. I …”

“Good-bye, Master Sherlock Holmes, keep well.”

The boy goes quietly out the door.

About twenty paces down Denmark Street, he hears Bell yelling to him.

“Sherlock!”

The old man is running his way. He has taken off his coat and shoes and even his shirt underneath, as if he had decided to retire to bed, but then remembered something. He’s left the red fez on his head. He is naked from the waist up. Pedestrians stop and stare, mouths open; a few women scream. The flesh on his sagging chest hangs down like a dozen thin waves on the sea.

“You mentioned an apothecary at Mr. Hide’s…. What was his name?”

“Simian.”

Bell nods.

“Sir?”

“Farewell,” says the old man, and walks back to the shop.

Sherlock is undecided about to whom he should say good-bye. He won’t bother with his school.
Irene, his father, Beatrice. No, not Beatrice, just the other two.
His sits on a bench in little Soho Square for a long time, likely a couple of hours, before he can get himself to his feet to do what he must do. He will have to say good-bye for good. The sun is almost directly above. It is nearing noon already.

If he sees Irene first, he can then go to Sydenham to the Crystal Palace. By the time he gets there it will be late afternoon – his father will be in the midst of his duties – Sherlock will at least be well out of London, far to the south. He will then continue in that direction. Perhaps he can walk to Portsmouth, join the Navy, go far away to sea where Lestrade or Malefactor will never find him. It is a good plan.

He heads toward Bloomsbury.
If I had kept my nose out of all of this I would be home now with Mr. Bell, reading a wonderful book from his library, discussing chemistry or literature with him … and later there’d be a warm fire, a meal we’d make together.

When he gets to the Doyle home on Montague Street, he can’t bring himself to enter. He hears Irene singing on the floor up above. He can’t listen. As he walks away, he hears something else and turns to look at the house. The Corgi, John Stuart Mill, is at a window and has spotted him. He is barking loudly.

Sherlock shuffles off down the street. He makes his way south to the river and over it at London Bridge. It will take him several hours to get to the Crystal Palace so he must keep moving. On Mondays, his father finishes work at 5:00 p.m.

But when he passes The Mint, he can’t help stopping. He turns off Borough High Street and walks into his old neighborhood. Will this be the last time he ever sees his family flat above the hatter’s shop, where he held his mother in his arms as she died? She had told him that he had much to do in life….
Maybe she meant something other than my silly dream of justice.
He slides against a wall across the little square from the shop and looks up at the top floor. Before long, his eyes drop to ground level.
I have come here to see Beatrice, not the flat.
Miss Leckie is almost a perfect human being – kind and gentle, but brave and intelligent and … he will admit, very beautiful. She is beautiful both inside and out. He must also admit that he feels drawn to her; very much so. Now, when he compares her to Irene Doyle, he sees how much more there is to this lowly hatter’s daughter. She has no airs. People too often judge others by their out-sides, the cut of their clothing, and their friends. He has known Miss Leckie almost since they were born. It is as if she were meant for him. Miss Doyle is from another world. What did Louise Stevenson say? “
Beatrice is a fine soul – finer than any of us – who cares for you, Master Holmes … though I’m not sure why.
” No truer words were ever spoken. Will he ever know anyone like her again?

He sits there, not caring who sees him slumped on the foot pavement. A few locals recognize him, try to engage
him – Ratfinch the fishmonger rolls his eel cart past and attempts to get him to rise – but he waves them all off. It begins to grow darker. He must get up and go to Sydenham. He will hide there in a field somewhere and say good-bye to his father in the morning. Young Lestrade will have shown the note to his father by now. The Inspector will already have the Force searching the streets for him. They will come here. In fact, they are likely on their way.

He rises. He notices a dim light flickering on in the hatter’s shop, their only gas lamp, or perhaps it’s a candle.
I must take this chance, do what is right, see her, and tell her, at least, that I admire her. I owe her that.
He walks to the shop and knocks gently on the door.

Her father answers. His cloudy red eyes look more tired than ever, and his meaty round face appears as though it has begun to shrink. In the old days, it was often set in a scowl, but he wasn’t, and isn’t, an angry man, just serious and dedicated to his trade. He has had to work without stopping for many years to keep himself and Beatrice alive. He dearly loves his daughter.

The sales part of the shop with its counter and hat trees is dark. Over Mr. Leckie’s shoulder, through a door left ajar, Sherlock sees light coming from the living quarters. Sitting at a table in there, leaning over something with a pen in hand, is Beatrice. There is a fire on in the room – the light the boy had seen flicker. Sherlock gazes at her, barely hearing Mr. Leckie.