The Secret Fiend (27 page)

“You still weren’t ’elping us, Sherlock. I had to MAKE you. I know you, and I guessed you wouldn’t give in. I did what I ’ad to do.”

“But why a note ripped in two?”

“Because if they caught you, if you were really in trouble, I was going to bring the other part to police headquarters … and give myself up.”

Sherlock has to steel himself. “I didn’t calculate that properly,” he says weakly.

“Whatever your theories are, Master Holmes,” says Lestrade, glaring down at Robert Hide, “I want this fiend bound by hand and foot like the pig he is! You shall all stay here with him while I send word to my father! You, Miss Leckie, and Miss Stevenson, shall be taken to Scotland Yard and brought before the magistrates for aiding and abetting –”

“What?” interrupts Sherlock.

“A … a …”

“A Penny Dreadful character?”

“Who –”

“Who committed the crime of scaring people, in order to make England a better place?”

Lestrade has no immediate response.

“When he comes to,” says Sherlock, “let him go.”

“No! I cannot allow this!”

“With this proviso … that he arranges for the sale of his property and follows the Treasure family to Canada, where he will never use terror to do what is right. If he stays here, your father, indeed, must arrest him.”

“But –”

Holmes puts his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. The older boy sighs, then nods.

“Thank you,” says Beatrice. She is glowing at Sherlock again, and her eyes are watering. She reaches out to him.

He pulls away. “Miss Leckie, you were playing with fire. I would advise you too, if you seek to do good in this world, to never use fear or terror to do so.”

“Like you?” she asks, giving him a hardened look. “No, you would
never
do anything unsavory to bring about justice, would you?”

“Best not to answer that, my boy,” says Bell.

But Sherlock has turned away from her, to Lestrade, “Give your father this.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls out the two halves of the ripped note and hands them over. “And assure him that the threat of the Spring Heeled Jack has been taken care of. Should he have any questions, he knows where to find me.”

A big grin spreads over the apothecary’s face.

The poor girl in the stained dress, with the greasy hair and gap-toothed smile has been forgotten in all of this. She is looking down at the fiend who intended to attack her. He is beginning to groan and stir. She smiles at him.

“Thank you,” she says.

THE MAN

S
herlock walks home alone that night, despite Sigerson Bell’s objections. The boy knows he won’t be able to sleep anyway. He wants to be on Westminster Bridge. When he gets there, he ignores the stragglers, the prostitutes, the drunks, who stagger in circles behind him and make rude talk. He even ignores the possibility that somewhere in the shadows, Malefactor may be watching him. Instead, he leans over the balustrade where Beatrice and Louise and Robert Hide enacted their dramatic scene.

Despite his triumph, he is feeling sad. He knows he must always be wary of slipping into deep, dark moods, but he feels one coming on.

How could she have done what she did? But it was for good, wasn’t it? Isn’t she still a remarkable person? Isn’t Irene?
He isn’t sure. He looks up at Big Ben.
Trust no one. But shouldn’t we all do the opposite – trust one another, care for each other? Are we capable of that? We all have a secret fiend inside.

He steps away from the wall and walks toward Westminster Palace. Up ahead, he sees a beautiful four-wheeled carriage moving very slowly along the street, the
liveried coachman holding the reins tightly … and a man walking beside it. His dark suit looks expensive but somehow ill-fitting; and though he seems rather elderly, his tall top hat sits on a big head with black curly hair hanging down, so black it looks as if it were dyed. He walks with a slight stoop, deep in contemplation, his gleaming walking stick tapping out each step. Sherlock nears. Then his heart almost stops.

Disraeli.

The prime minister of the British Empire is fifteen strides in front of him: this great man, this Jew, unique in history – a popular novelist and dandy in his youth, now the most powerful man on earth, who rose through genius and courage, despite the prejudice against him … who gave a quarter of England, after two thousand years, their democratic rights. Sherlock feels as though he may faint. Instead, he darts across the road.

“You avoid me, young man? Am I not fit to speak to?” says a low voice.

Sherlock comes to a halt. So does the carriage.

“The prime minister wishes your presence,” says the coachman.

The boy turns and walks slowly back across the road, his head lowered.

“Look at me, son.”

The aging visage, wrinkled from work and care, still has those dark, twinkling eyes, that big nose the political illustrators like to exaggerate, as if he were a Hebrew Pinocchio, as if he were Mr. Dickens’ evil Jew, Fagin. For
Sherlock Holmes, looking at him is like looking into the face of God.

“You are about the streets at a rather late hour.”

“So … so are you, sir.”

The prime minister lets out a huge guffaw.

“Oh! I do not get to laugh much anymore.”

“Sir … why can we not all vote: women and men and all the poor?”

“Ah. You are a thinker. That is good.” He pats Sherlock on the shoulder. The boy wonders if he will ever clean that spot again. “When I was a youth I was impetuous. I wanted to be the greatest novelist the world had ever seen and the choice of all the ladies
and
the fanciest dresser. And when I first became a politician, I wanted to change the world … on my first day in parliament!”

Sherlock smiles.

“But humanity will not put up with that. We are a rather large group with many points of view. There will always be poverty, hatred, poisonous ideas, as well as love and kindness and decency. Life changes slowly. The most important thing is to do your part to
steer
things in the right direction. And that is what I am trying to do. Like my fellow human beings, I am not always right … I am not always good. I have a bad side. We all do. I have, for example, a very poor opinion of my
scandalous
opponent … Mr. Gladstone, and I use the term
Mr.
with some reservation. But I am trying, I have my nose, this big Jewish nose, pointed, I think, in the right direction. And with me, I
hope to take the English people. Some day, we will, indeed,
all
vote.”

“I am a Jew,” blurts out the boy.

“Are you? What is your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, Master Holmes, if you might allow me to impart some advice, do not be too much of a Jew. Be a human being first. Treasure your Jewishness, but listen to others – they may be, believe it or not, just as noble as you. That’s what the Christians must do – and the Muslims and the Conservatives and the Liberals and the Irish, who are igniting bombs in our city to get their way, and the Americans, who so often think they are right when they have no idea, and cause damage in the world.”

Benjamin Disraeli pauses and sighs.

“This Spring Heeled Jack chap, he who wants to scare us into change – his terror will not work, I assure you. We shall change, together, at our own speed. He is of the mistaken impression that what he believes is the truth … and all others are wrong. It is good to have beliefs, do not misunderstand me. But if you think you are absolutely right about something, my son, about anything … then you probably aren’t. Human beings are not God. We were cast out from the Garden of Eden when we tried to be. We are all imperfect, but if we are wise, we learn every day. Tell me, what are you going to do with your life?”

“My mother was killed by a criminal. I want to seek justice. But I can’t, not yet. I am still just a boy.”

“Nonsense!” shouts the prime minister. He glares at the lad, sending a shiver right into his heart. “BEGIN TODAY!” Disraeli turns away. He taps his stick on his carriage and gingerly climbs in. It starts to pull away.

“I am counting on you, Sherlock Holmes,” he says, as the coachman urges the horses past the Palace of Westminster, into the London night. Up above, Big Ben strikes midnight.