The Secret Fiend Read online

He 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.

  “Ah, Master ’olmes. It is a pleasure to see you again, sir. You will forgive me. I was lying down on me little bed ’ere behind the counter to let Miss Beatrice do up some correspondence. I need me rest these days, me mind gets tired. She works so ’ard, she does, but keeps up the letters to our folks and friends, too. Why are you carrying that sack, sir?”

  “May I see her?”

  “Yes … yes, Master ’olmes. Just go through. She is always ’appy to see you. I’ll just lie down ’ere again. Won’t bother you two young folk.”

  Sherlock walks silently across the dark room, avoiding the hats hanging from hooks. When he gets close to the door, he stops and simply looks at her. Her head is bent down and she is writing carefully, thinking about what she is saying. She seems to be pressing the pen down hard onto the paper. Her bonnet is off and her long black hair hangs in ringlets almost onto the paper. There is a little wooden box on the table near her hand. Because she is next to the fire, she isn’t wearing a shawl. In fact, she has pulled the sleeves of her dress up, so her slender forearms and wrists are visible. Sherlock beams. A wonderful idea comes to his mind. In my new life, I can have a partner. There would be none better than Beatrice Leckie, and I know she would choose me too. Perhaps, in a few years, I can send for her. What if we talk about it … tonight.

  He pushes the door and it creaks. Beatrice turns with a smile, but when she sees who it is she gasps and puts her hand to her mouth.

  “Sherlock!” The look of fear dissolves into happiness. But there is something else there too. Guilt. Instantly, she turns to her writing and stuffs the paper into her dress pocket.

  The boy drops his cloth sack on the floor. “Doing your correspondence?”

  “Yes … yes, I like to write at night.”

  “The way you put your letter away when I came … it must be very private. I suppose you are writing to someone special. Perhaps I should go.” His heart is sinking. Why would I assume that Beatrice Leckie has no one special in her life? There were many boys at school who liked her.

  Beatrice sees his intent. “Oh, no! No, Sherlock, it isn’t like that!”

  “That is fine, Beatrice. I was just going, anyway.”

  “Sherlock!” she rises and takes him by the hand. “Don’t go. I’ll … I’ll show you what I would write … if I were writing to you.”

  She takes another piece of paper from a sideboard nearby, leans over it with a coquettish smile, hiding its contents from the boy. She writes. The ink is red. She hands it to him, glowing up.

  “I LOVE YOU,” it says.

  But Sherlock isn’t smiling back. There is a shiver going down his spine. And it isn’t pleasurable. Her handwriting! It is EXACTLY the same as the Spring Heeled Jack’s!

  He seizes her. For an instant, she thinks he is trying to embrace her. But he has her by the arms and is pulling her to her feet, hard.

  “Sherlock! You’re ’urting me!”

  “You wrote those notes! YOU!”

  “Please let me go!”

  He pins her to the table and reaches into her dress, fishing out the notes from her pocket. She wrests one arm free and holds it over the little wooden box on the table, as if to keep the lid down. Sherlock wrenches that arm off and almost in the same motion, flicks open the lid. There is a stack of papers inside. He sees two words written in red across the one on top, same handwriting, TREASURE FAMILY, and then some numbers and a word he can’t read. Struggling to hold her, he flicks it and sees the note underneath. MUST HAVE it says, but the rest is ripped. He sees the word CHAOS! on another note under that.

  “A family was murdered!” he shouts at her. He can feel tears coming to his eyes, but he won’t let her go. He digs deeper into her pocket. She sinks her nails into his hand, but he pulls out all the papers. There are three of them, one with writing, the other two blank. She reaches out and claws at him, but he throws her to the floor. He spreads the notes on the table.

  “Beatrice?” Her father has risen from his bed and is coming toward the door.

  MARCH 10 reads the first note and two addresses in Lambeth. He recognizes them as poor areas.

  “What does this mean?”

  On the floor, Beatrice is crying. “Sherlock, please don’t! You won’t understand!”

  March 10 is tomorrow.

  “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?”

  “I can’t tell you!” she cries.

  A startled Mr. Leckie is now at the door. “What is going on in here?” he asks.

  It’s a schedule. It’s tomorrow’s locations for the fiend’s attacks! It is growing dark outside. The police will be coming … the villain is about to prowl. What about tonight? Where is he scheduled to strike tonight?

  “Who is the Spring Heeled Jack, Beatrice? WHO IS HE!”

  “Don’t … don’t ask me,” she cries, putting her hands to her head. “I can’t tell you, Sherlock.”

  Mr. Leckie grips the tall boy and tries to knock him to the floor. “I can’t allow this! Why is you asking ’er this? What is you up to? Is you this fiend, Sherlock ’olmes!”

  “Let him go, father!” shouts Beatrice, getting to her feet and pulling him away from the boy. “He means no harm.”

  “Oh, yes, I do, Miss Leckie! I mean harm to anyone who means harm to others. And you are one of those!”

  “No, Sherlock!”

  “You were writing up the schedule for planned assaults for tomorrow night!”

  “No!”

  She wrote the notes that were left on the victims, in order to protect the Jack, in her girlish hand so the handwriting could never be traced to him. Very clever. But what about these schedules? For some reason, she was asked to make them up. Why? Is she the mastermind? Does the Jack want everything written down? If so, he’s an amateur – it leaves a trail. Are the notes sent by mail? Then he doesn’t live nearby.

  “Tell me one thing and save your soul, Beatrice Leckie. Tell me where he will strike tonight!”

  She sobs, holding her father, and says nothing.

  “Tell me!”

  “I can’t! I just can’t!”

  He turns back to the notes on the table. He remembers how hard she was pressing with the ink pen, making big, thick letters. He looks at the first of the two blank notes beneath. She must sit here at night and plan for attacks in different parts of London, moving things around to keep the police guessing – eluding them. She must have done this last night too! Then she sends them to the Jack! He picks up a blank paper and sees a faint outline of letters, impressed into the page. He can make
out the words MARCH 10. That came from writing today’s note. He picks up the other blank sheet. The trace of handwriting is very faint. This must have been made yesterday! It will have today’s attacks on it! But he can’t read it. He steps toward the fire.

  “NO!” shouts Beatrice and tries to grab his arm.

  He snatches the sheet away and holds it close to the flames. The impression becomes visible.

  MARCH 9 – ONE APPEARANCE – OLD NICHOL STREET ROOKERY, BETHNAL GREEN

  Crying, Beatrice is hugging him now, as if he were as dear to her as a husband. He shoves her away, picks up the notes from the table and the box, and leaving his cloth sack behind, runs out the door and into the street.

  “HOLMES!”

  It is Inspector Lestrade. He is just down the street, rushing toward the hatter’s shop, three Bobbies by his side. Several feet behind, as if reluctant to be part of this, is his son.

  Sherlock is off like a shot, and they are immediately after him. But he has run through the twisting and turning arteries of The Mint since he was a little child, and within minutes, he has lost them. He takes them south. Now, he doubles back and heads north, making for London Bridge. He tries not to think of Beatrice Leckie, his “flawless friend” … in league, somehow, with this violent fiend. Trust no one. Malefactor was right.

  The Old Nichol Street Rookery in Bethnal Green is a perfect site for another Spring Heeled Jack attack. Beatrice and whomever she is working with have made a smart decision. It is north of the river and almost all the other appearances have been to the south. It is also in a poor neighborhood, very poor – just above Whitechapel Road in the East End. The Old Nichol Street Rookery is a London slum unlike any other, infamous for its crowded conditions, its crime and disease. But Sherlock runs across the bridge toward it, heading for it like a racehorse. He knows where the Spring Heeled Jack is about to strike! He will confront him in the dangerous little streets and alleys of that desperate slum amidst its filth and poverty. It would be best to be accompanied by others, by young Lestrade, by the Force themselves. But that is impossible. His only hope of staying in London, staying with Sigerson Bell, and becoming the person he wants to be, is to do this alone, completely alone. Alone is best anyway. I can’t believe I thought of Beatrice Leckie as a partner!