The Secret Fiend Page 5

  They spot each other. For an instant, her expression softens, but then those brown eyes flare and she looks away. When she does, she sees Malefactor. She stops. The rascal doffs his top hat. Her father looks over and notices why they have come to a halt. Irene is unsure of what to do. But then she waves back. Her father glares at her and pulls both his children away.

  Andrew Doyle is liberal – very liberal. That is evident, not only in his many philanthropic ventures – help for the poor and downtrodden, his support of Radicals like John Bright and the forward-thinking John Stuart Mill (after whom he even named his dog) – but in the very fact that he is here today, amongst this rabble, bringing his five-year-old boy into a dangerous scene. Doyle and Son are obviously going to one day be a joint Liberal enterprise. But he draws the line at associating with people like Malefactor. Crime is no excuse, not even for the most desperate.

  Malefactor places his topper back on his head and sneers at the philanthropist. Irene turns away from her father, gives Sherlock an icy glance, releases the little boy’s hand, and raises her nose in the air. Doyle picks up Paul and makes his way toward the middle of the mob, Irene now trailing. They stop just ahead of Sherlock, not more than twenty feet away.

  Despite her attitude, Holmes is thrilled. He has a clear view of her. He can stare. He senses that she knows he is observing her. Her appearance nearly makes him melt in the early March air. Beatrice Leckie is a mere crow next to this golden-haired nightingale. Really, there is no comparison. If Miss Doyle were on a London stage, not an eye would leave her.

  Irene knows all of this. She has been more and more aware of her attractions as she has grown older and more womanly. She is changing both outside and in. And Malefactor, the bad boy she wants to reform, has been flattering and encouraging her for almost a year. As she stands there today, she is teasing Sherlock without his knowing. She has given him just the right view of her good side, the perfect pout of her lips.

  “Good morning, friends!” shouts John Bright from the stage. A roar goes up and fills Trafalgar Square. It is a wave of noise, a call to arms. Excitement is instantly in the air. They chant his name. Munby joins in, shaking his fist, encouraging the crowd.

  Bright is square faced and square built. Big mutton chops grow down his temples. He has a down-to-earth Lancashire accent, but there is nothing common about his eloquence. Despite his existence on the fringes of political life, his speeches are perhaps the best known in the land, the equal of Disraeli’s. When England had entered the Crimean War more than a decade ago, Bright had spoken of “the wings of the angel of death beating throughout the land” and stilled the House of Commons as the members sat in awe. He raises his hands now and all is silent.

  When he speaks it is not of rebellion, but of caution. He holds the massive audience in thrall, not with bombast and incitement to violence, but with carefully chosen words, political plans, even praise for the remarkably liberal Disraeli, a Conservative prime minister unlike any the nation has ever seen. He asks the people to give the Jew a chance, but to hold him and others to promises to continue to reform.

  He finishes speaking and there is another roar from the crowd. Many turn to go, but he asks them to wait and hear a young man say a few words.

  “I want to introduce Robert J. Hide, just twenty-two years old, but wise beyond his years, an English Alexander come to help his elders slice the Gordian Knot of the ruling classes’ grip on our nation. I found him speaking in poor London boroughs and his eloquence, his passion, astounded me. This young man is, like all of you, England’s future. Hear him!”

  A striking man strides forward, purposely avoiding Munby, and takes Bright’s spot at the front of the stage. Sherlock sees Irene’s reaction to him. She forgets that she is being watched. She lifts her head and stares up at the stage, entranced.

  Sherlock looks to Hide. He is indeed a handsome fellow, dark-haired, tall and well-built, fitting into his suit as if it were almost a second skin. His smile is beguiling, and his voice is pleasing.

  The young man says little, but what he does say is cleverly put and charms the crowd. He finishes within five minutes.

  “May I say in conclusion, that I hold with the great John Bright when it comes to our nation’s future. We must not be violent or rash. We must work with Mr. Disraeli, and with Mr. Gladstone, we must roll up our sleeves and do this together, Liberal and Conservative, man and woman. It is my hope that one day, we shall all vote. And by that I truly mean all. Ladies, the fair sex, the true beauty of our empire, must vote with us, add their voices to our political world, and teach us how to be gentlemen with true wisdom in these days of great change. We must ALL go forward together.

  “And so I say, good day to you! God bless you all! God Save the Queen!”

  The cheer that goes up is not quite the roar that Bright received, but it is substantial, and Sherlock detects that its pitch is slightly higher than any other that morning. Looking around, Holmes sees women, both working class and ladies, glowing up at Robert Hide, their eyes still following him as he leaves the stage. Irene stands there too, looking after him as her father and stepbrother turn to go. Mr. Doyle has to touch her on the shoulder to get her attention.

  Sherlock wants to follow Irene, but he shakes his head, trying to rattle good sense back into it. He must get going. He is late for school – if he goes now, then at least he can attend for most of the day. As he hurries across the square, he bumps into a small gathering of spectators. They seem to leap out of the crowd, causing him to run right into them.

  Irregulars. They surround him.

  “I am not pleased with you,” growls Malefactor, coming out from behind them. “You knew I had a stake in the Rathbone situation. You cost me money.” The two boys haven’t spoken for a while. One has been making himself scarce, the other trying to attend to shop duties and school. The older boy looks like he has grown an inch or two. There are wisps of sideburns spreading down his cheeks.

  “My dear Malefactor, what a pleasure it is to see you.” Sherlock looks about, hoping there are still Bobbies nearby.

  “We are not children anymore, Holmes. I have plans. I will never allow you to stand in their way again.”

  “I –”

  “DO YOU HEAR ME?”

  “Might you speak up?”

  “Match wits with me, Sherlock, and you will lose.”

  “We shall see.”

  A Bobbie trots by on a big black horse. Malefactor motions to his thugs and they move away from Holmes. Crew looks impassive, but Grimsby curses, disappointment etched on his face. He knows the apothecary’s assistant is becoming skilled in some sort of fighting art that Chinamen use, but Grimsby is a street fighter, a killer-in-training, with no use for such nonsense – he fights dirty. He would love to get Sherlock alone in an alley and finish things between them.

  “A lovely day,” says Sherlock to Grimsby.

  “Lovely, indeed,” responds Malefactor with a winning smile, the Bobbie within earshot.

  “Enjoy political rallies, do you?”

  The Bobbie trots away.

  “I enjoy chaos. If chaos doesn’t come to London, I will bring it. Good day.”

  “The same to you.”

  “And remember what I said. If you ever involve yourself in attempting to solve any crime that has anything to do with me again, I will kill you, Sherlock Holmes. I promise you that. Until now, I have just been toying with you. But that’s over. No more games.”

  Malefactor’s eyes look cold and dead. Then he turns and saunters away as his gang runs off, Grimsby’s giggle sounding across the square.

  Sherlock is shaking – not something he would admit to anyone. He walks up St. Martin’s Lane past the big stone church there, trying to compose himself. Before he has gone far, he sees a young woman sitting on a bench against a wall with someone leaning over her, his arm extended above her shoulder and his hand flat against the wall. They are deep in conversation.

  Young Lestrade and Beatrice.

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nbsp; Sherlock tries to slip past. But she spots him.

  “Master ’olmes?”

  He stops. “Miss Leckie.”

  Lestrade sighs and turns around. He looks a little embarrassed, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  “Master Lestrade.”

  “Holmes. I was just leaving. Good day, Miss Leckie.” He doffs his bowler and walks away.

  “Were you here for the demonstration, Beatrice?”

  “Oh no, Sherlock, I don’t believe in such things. I just ’appened to be nearby. I could ’ear that awful Mr. ’ide speaking. They say ’e is ’andsome, but I saw the side of ’is face when ’e was excited and don’t agree. There is something sinister about ’im. I think ’e wants too much, that if ’e ’ad his way it would be terrible for England. The working classes need not all vote, that is nonsense, and neither, certainly, should women!”

  Holmes smiles.

  “I suppose I should ’ave told you that I picked that note from your pocket, and that I went to Scotland Yard with it. I am sorry.”

  “Not at all, Miss Beatrice. It is I who must apologize. I was a cad. You were frightened. I am sure that you did not invent what happened on the bridge. I hope the police will help you.”

  “They will not, but Master Lestrade ’as consented to look into things.”

  “That is a start.”

  “I have reflected on your reaction to what I told you the night before last and I understand why you would doubt me.”

  “Well –”

  “No, Sherlock, I understand. What I told you would seem quite ridiculous, if you weren’t there. I don’t know ’ow you did not laugh out loud. But you were too polite.”

  “I did not mean to make light of your ordeal. Nor did I mean to suggest that you were in any way enamored of me.”

  “But I am.”

  Sherlock is taken aback. Those big black eyes look yearningly up at him. A beautiful crow, he thinks, a beautiful crow indeed. “Excuse me?”

  “I do like you, Sherlock ’olmes.” She glances down shyly, but then looks boldly up at him. “There is no use in denying it anymore. I cannot lie. I think you have become a fine young man.”

  The boy is tongue-tied. No one, since his mother was alive, has said anything like this to him. Beatrice notices that he is having trouble speaking and wants to help him, so she goes on.

  “I am ’onored that you would think that I ’ave affection for you.”

  “Well … I …”

  “And I am sorry to ’ave bothered you about all of this. Master Lestrade ’as many plans for ’ow he will investigate it. I am thankful for that.”

  “Perhaps … perhaps I could …”

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps I might investigate just a little more too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And ’ow will you do that?”

  “Will … will you be home this evening?”

  “I certainly shall be, Master ’olmes,” she says.

  “Then might I see you at your parents’ place of residence? At the shop? About nine?”

  “You will be calling on me?”

  “You could tell me what happened again, and I shall listen very carefully this time and see if there is anything of interest that strikes me.”

  “I ’ope something of interest strikes you, Master ’olmes, I do indeed. I shall see you at nine.”

  JACK IN THE NIGHT AGAIN

  Sherlock Holmes wonders why he agreed to visit Beatrice Leckie. It was as if she gave him a chemical compound that drugged his senses, as if he didn’t have the will to refuse. He figures it had something to do with the way she looked at him. But he told her he would call on her, so now he has to go. All day at school, he has been dreading this interview.

  He tells Bell he won’t be long and heads away. It is after eight o’clock and there’s a pitch-black sky over the city. He crosses the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge and sets a course for his old neighborhood in Southwark. Dangerous London streets lie ahead.

  Bravery is important to Sherlock. It is a British characteristic, seen not only in battle against the Spanish Armada and the great Napoleon, but on the playing fields of the nation’s schools. It is also a characteristic that he knows he must have in order to confront evil. So, he always pushes himself to take courage. But tonight, he decides that following a direct route through the dark warrens and alleys toward his old neighborhood would be empty courage, a useless show that might end in his being attacked. There are many thugs and roughs who haunt this parish. He has time – he will take a slightly longer way, down the main thoroughfares, along Blackfriars Road and then up Borough High Street, before he turns off the main road to find the hatter’s shop.

  He tells himself that this decision has nothing to do with Malefactor or the Spring Heeled Jack.

  But even in the slight flow of evening folks on the wider roads, he can’t shake the feeling that something or someone is lurking behind him, down an alley to the side, or awaiting him up ahead.

  By the time he approaches St. George’s Circus, the loud roundabout near the big Surrey Theatre, he has had enough of taking this long route. Dangerous or not, he is sick of wasting his time, upset that he is allowing himself to be fearful.

  He swings east down a narrow lane and moves past the stinking domes of the Phoenix Gas Works. Soon the street becomes darker and deserted and his heartbeat picks up. He keeps moving, refusing to look back, even when he thinks he hears scuffling along the cobblestones behind. He finds himself recalling his Bellitsu moves. Then, just before he reaches bigger, busier Bridge Street with its glowing gas lamps – a light at the end of the tunnel – he hears someone call out to him.

  “Sherlock Holmes!” says a voice in a hiss.

  He has to turn around.

  “Chaos!”

  The sound appears to be coming from above, on the rooftops. The boy looks up, scanning the uneven horizon of the haphazard stone and wooden structures, some abandoned, others sagging, all shadowy in the night. For an instant, he thinks he sees a human-sized figure up there, dark and batlike, moving away from the edge of a building. It appears to have black, pointed ears, like the devil. The boy stands staring for a moment, frightened as much by his own fevered imagination, as by what he might have seen. He shakes his head to drive away the fantasy and moves on.

  As he crosses Bridge Street, he is tempted to stay on it and resume a more circuitous, safer route to the hatter’s shop. But he tells himself that is nonsense. He crosses the street, determined to walk straight toward his old haunts. He enters another lane. Almost immediately everything grows dark. There are no gas lamps here, just the dim glow of candles in one or two windows of the poor little homes and shops. He trips over something. No, it’s someone, who moans. He leaps, jumping over the body, but when he regains his pace and surges forward, he sees a figure coming the opposite way, toward him.

  “Ah, ’ere we is!” it cries. The voice is bizarre, a growl ushered up from an inhuman throat. Sherlock can’t see the figure clearly. It looks as if it is wearing fur. He veers to the other side of the street, but it keeps coming at him.

  “You can’t run from me! I is more than one folk. I is everywhere!”

  Sherlock can see him now, a beggar in bare feet, wearing rags, indeed made of furs, as if he were a caveman from prehistoric times. His hair is white on one side, black on the other: his face old and wrinkled, with calm eyes on the left, young and wild on the right. He has suffered some horrible disease or injury. He reaches out for the boy. Sherlock delivers a blow, the most severe he can muster, right from the toolbox of the Bellitsu art, produced with his left hand – his best – from a balanced stance, brought up from below the chest, turning his hips as he follows through. The beggar goes down instantly and for seconds is dead silent. Then, he utters a groan.

  Holmes begins to run. Why did I hit that poor wretch? Why am I running? He wants to turn back and help the beggar to his feet. But then he hears that voice again
, the one he heard in the other lane, calling to him from above.

  “Sherlock Holmes! Chaos!”

  He turns, glances up, and thinks he sees a winged shadow, high on a building again. But he doesn’t pause. He turns back and sprints until he is all the way to Borough High Street. Stopping there for a moment under a gas lamp, his chest heaving, he changes his plans. He will give in: angry with himself, he makes his way along this well-lighted main thoroughfare. He moves quickly in the thin crowd under the lamps – seeing tradesmen getting home late, couples out for entertainment, men for drinks – past the shops and offices, under taller buildings and awnings. By the time he nears Mint Street, he has calmed down considerably.

  But now, as he turns off the wide road, he must make his way through a few more narrow lanes to get to the hatter’s shop. He shouldn’t be afraid here: this is his old neighborhood of friendly buildings and little businesses. If anything, he should be sad. When he last came here, he had held his dying mother in his arms. But he can’t stop feeling spooked.

  He slips down a familiar little artery, his eyes alert. He has to be vigilant: the only light here comes from the main street’s glow and a few little gas lamps behind windows. He gets down the first street, shoots along another and then turns onto his own.

  His heart sinks when he sees the hatter’s shop. Up above, in their little flat, he spots a dim light. Someone has lodgings in their old home. He knows it isn’t his father. The boy has made enquiries and was told that Wilberforce Holmes is still living near the Crystal Palace in rooms provided for him by that entertainment complex’s owners. It is for the best. Still, Sherlock wishes he could talk to him. He wants to hear his voice and pick his brilliant mind like in the old days. But he can’t. Instead, he sends him letters, visits the Crystal Palace and watches him at a distance, sadly working with his white doves. Sherlock understands that he must stay away from his father, knows that his very presence would remind Wilber not just of his beautiful wife Rose, but of how his son, this son, Sherlock Holmes, caused her death.