The Secret Fiend Read online

  “In the newspaper? Which one?”

  “… In both of them, I am afraid.”

  Afraid?

  The shop receives two daily papers: the serious-minded Daily Telegraph and Bell’s gift to Sherlock, the sensational News of the World.

  “And were I a wagering man, I would place great sums on the probability that your name is in every publication in London this morning.”

  Sherlock had planned to have a sort of a victory chat with the old man this forenoon – laying out in detail his heroic actions and his solution to the Mystery of the Return of the Spring Heeled Jack. He hoped to have his explanation all finished and the apothecary’s deep admiration before he made his way to school. But this appearance in the morning publications more than gives him pause, as does Bell’s less-than-joyous attitude toward it.

  “Let us have a look.” The boy reaches out for the paper.

  “Perhaps after school?” Bell snatches it back.

  After school?

  Had Beatrice or Louise or maybe even John Silver not kept their word and informed the police, who had then informed the papers about his solution to this sensational crime? But if so … why isn’t Bell proud of him?

  “Before you read the article – after school – let me congratulate you upon the arrest of at least one culprit representing himself as The Spring Heeled Jack!” Bell summons a huge smile and pats Sherlock violently on the shoulder. It is a rather poor piece of acting.

  “One culprit? What do you mean by that, sir?”

  The apothecary sighs. “Perhaps you should, indeed … read the article. It is on the first page.” He hands the paper to the boy and sits at the table, unable to face him.

  Sherlock reads.

  IT STRIKES AGAIN

  The Spring Heeled Jack has struck once more. This time in Knightsbridge, near the homes of several cabinet ministers. This attack was indeed a frightening one, the villain appearing out of nowhere and knocking a coachman unconscious before pulling two terrified ladies from the carriage, manhandling them, and sending them to the ground. Both fainted and the Jack was looming over them like a monster when Constables Balfour and Cummey, who had heard the ladies’ screams, came sailing up Piccadilly to aid them. The fiend, however, took one look at the men in blue and vanished, lighting onto a water pipe and ascending it like a monkey before gaining the rooftops and disappearing into the night. The Bobbies recall a man dressed somewhat like a bat, wearing a cape, with devilish ears, and having claws on his hands. He wore large black boots as well and seemed to possess great bounding ability. Upon recovery, the victims described the assailant as well-muscled and spoke of their hearts fluttering at very high rates and the perspiration on the villain’s face actually dripping onto their own. They reported too that he had fiery red-eyes and something blue emitted from his mouth as he cried out in a deep voice. He shouted the same thing to them as he wrote on a note he left behind, described in blood-red lettering.

  “CHAOS!”

  Sherlock can’t believe what he has just read. Was it Crew? Or a new Jack? But despite this surprising news, there really isn’t anything in it that Sigerson Bell wouldn’t want him to see. Is there? Bell doesn’t know yet that he caught Silver last night, doesn’t know that he thought he had this case solved. Or does he? The old man has his back to him, but he is a mind reader of extraordinary power. Somehow, he knows the boy has paused.

  “Read on,” he says, waving his hand.

  The boy turns back to the remaining paragraphs.

  Curiously, an amateur imitator of the Jack was also accosted last night at about the same time the real one struck again in Knightsbridge. This was a mere boy named John Silver, who dressed himself in a Jack costume and attempted to frighten one of the young ladies who had been attacked by the real villain a few days past. Silver has revealed to the police that he knew her in school and had affection for her. In the course of the brief investigation, it was also discovered that a friend of the young lady’s, who had been following her too, came to her aid, breaking Silver’s arm.

  Members of the Force were quickly on the scene, thinking at first that the genuine Jack had struck again. A red-faced Inspector Lestrade, who came rushing to this location from Knightsbridge, emerged from interviews in a hatter’s shop nearby and, though usually tight-lipped about police matters, addressed reporters at length. He named the other boy who was in the school-boy scuffle – one Sherlock Holmes, a poor apothecary’s apprentice.

  “This young brat, of Jewish origins, fancies himself an amateur sleuth, and has previously interfered with the Force. I doubt we will even charge Silver – he simply needs some stern attention to his derriere with a switch. There are too many amateurs about these days, both representing the villains and the side of justice. We will countenance no further interference. And I will assure the London public this … we will catch the true fiend and catch him soon.”

  “I am sorry, my boy,” says Bell in a quiet voice.

  But Sherlock isn’t feeling any sorrow for himself. He is simply seething. He is angry that he did not effectively keep his name from the news, and boiling about that ferret-faced Inspector, that buffoon who fancies himself a brilliant detective. And above and beyond everything, he is upset that he should have been in this situation in the first place. After having the good fortune to solve the Victoria Rathbone case, he had vowed that he would stay out of police work until he became a man, until he had worked diligently enough and long enough at his education, his fighting skills, his general maturity to face danger in the cause of justice, to truly help others wounded by villainy, and actually begin the job of avenging his mother’s death. He had told himself that he would only enter the fray if a case sought him out and he had absolutely no choice but to pursue it. There had not been much probability of that.

  Instead, he had allowed himself to get caught up in a little concern, a personal one, brought to him by a dark-eyed girl with a pretty smile and a deep admiration for him. He had been flattered into action … and look what had occurred, look what came of such feelings. He had been publicly humiliated, and his nemesis, that boob Lestrade, had been the agent of his embarrassment. On top of everything, a real fiend, a terribly dangerous one, veritably from the pages of the Penny Dreadfuls, is on the loose in London … and he hasn’t a clue who it is. The account in the paper frightens him: this “Spring Heeled Jack,” he is sure, will soon be murdering his victims. Beatrice, it seems, has been telling the truth all along.

  Sigerson Trismegistus Bell stirs on his stool at the lab. He turns and faces his beloved apprentice.

  “You have only one option now, you know, my boy.”

  “And what is that, sir?”

  “You must come out of retirement.”

  THE SPRING HEELED JACKS

  Sherlock Holmes tries to be a regular boy the next day. He attends school and listens carefully. He is the only one in his form, learning at a level, he has been told, that no other student has ever reached at Snowfields. Sherlock also puts in his two hours as a pupil teacher instructing the little ones, helps the Headmaster clean up afterward, and is the last one out before the big wooden door on the ground floor of the big brick building is locked. He will clean the apothecary shop when he returns home. It will be a satisfying day’s work.

  But during all of this, a tension, a burning excitement, builds inside him. A devil wants out. At times he even notices his hands shaking. So far, he has resisted the volcano inside. Sigerson Bell may be right. Perhaps he should pursue this fiend. Perhaps. Feelings welling inside him are telling him as much. But they are feelings. He must be prudent.

  As he walks home along Snowfields Road and heads past the large railway station, he spots London Bridge up ahead and sighs. He likes to play little mental games to keep his brain exercised. How many steps is it from here to the bridge? He is training himself to judge distances – there may be a day when it will come in handy. Nine hundred steps, he estimates. Then he adds to his game. If I am able to travel that
entire distance without once thinking of the Spring Heeled Jack, I shall resist him for good, leave him to the police to catch. That’s a vow.

  At step number two hundred and twenty-two, his head cast down and his thoughts disciplined, he is interrupted.

  “Sherlock.”

  A lovely voice.

  Beatrice Leckie and her friend Louise appear in the crowd of faces coming toward him, having just crossed the bridge from the city, heading south. She has obviously taken this route to her father’s shop in order to intercept him, either rushing here at the end of a short day, or during a late tea time.

  “Miss Leckie.”

  She catches the less-than-enthusiastic tone in his voice. “Sherlock,” she says, “I did not volunteer information about you to the press.”

  “But you did not keep quiet when asked, either.”

  “No.” Her head lowers. Then she looks at him, her eyes large. “I am glad to have met up with you today.”

  There is something about her that prevents Sherlock from being angry with her. “And I, you,” he says. He turns to her companion. “Good day, Miss Louise.”

  “Good day, sir.” Louise actually curtsies. As the boy looks at her, it occurs to him that he knows nothing of this new friend of Beatrice’s, not even her last name. Who is this person with my schoolmate? She was the victim the first time, not Beatrice. Perhaps she was the only target. Sherlock has never considered what her game might be in all the goings-on about the Spring –

  He stops his thoughts.

  “It is a fine day, ladies.” And it is: cold but clear, with spring in the air. “I am afraid that I am in a rush. I am needed at the shop.” If he’d had a hat, he would have tipped it. He starts on his way, but Beatrice reaches out and actually takes him by the arm, gripping him firmly, as if to hold him there. Pedestrians move past, taking notice of the bold young lady, standing so close to the young man that her chest almost touches his.

  “I want you to find him.”

  “I have no idea to whom you are referring.” He begins to pull away. He just has to make it to London Bridge without hearing that name, just six hundred and seventy eight steps and –

  “The Spring ’eeled Jack.”

  His shoulders slouch. And what happens next doesn’t help the situation. Beatrice slides her hand down to his hand and holds it tightly. Louise blushes, smiles, and speaks in a soft voice. “We is in danger, Master ’olmes.” Her tone appears calculated to sound weak and vulnerable.

  “Nonsense.”

  “I ’ope you are correct,” says Beatrice, squeezing his hand as he tries to get it loose, “but Master Lestrade, who ’as been spending time comforting me, says that the police are absolutely certain John Silver acted only last night.”

  “That was not your fault, Master ’olmes,” adds Louise, “thinkin’ that you ’ad nabbed the real ’un. I am sure that Master Lestrade could ’ave done no better ’imself.”

  Sherlock feels the color rising to his face.

  “And I know ’e couldn’t ’ave!” declares Beatrice, still holding Sherlock’s hand tightly.

  “This is a police matter.”

  Beatrice turns those big, pleading eyes on him again. “It is clear that the villain who attacked us in Westminster was the one who assaulted those ladies in Knightsbridge, isn’t it? ’e is lunatic, a murderous one, and ’e knows who we are, how we come ’ome at night, perhaps even where we live.”

  “Then you must be careful, take a different route, go with a gentleman, and come home earlier, as you are doing now.”

  “I’m so afraid, Master ’olmes,” says Louise and a tear plops onto her cheek.

  It is as if they are working together.

  “There is no evidence that this fiend will strike at you again. There are four million people in London, so probability suggests that you are quite safe.”

  “But ’e was reported near our shop past midnight last night,” says Beatrice.

  “He was? By whom?”

  “It was a couple of lads, out carousing.”

  Sherlock smiles. “Hardly reliable.”

  “Master Lestrade says they are. ’e came at dawn this morning to the shop, and interviewed them – roused them up from their beds. ’e tells me ’e believes them.”

  “And that he must protect you?”

  “Yes. ’e ’as convinced his father to post a man out on Borough High Street nearby, and ’e promises to stop in every night, too.”

  “He would.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “How nice of him.”

  “I wish it was you … protecting me. I know the police will do what they can to catch this villain, and that they have been embarrassed into action, but I also know that the inspector thinks it is no more than someone pulling pranks, that the fiend isn’t really dangerous. Master Lestrade told me as much. But I’ve seen the Jack – ’e will murder someone … maybe us!”

  “Come now Beatrice. As I said, there is little evidence that –”

  “There’s something in the afternoon papers today,” says Louise, “about it appearing again, somewhere else, last night. We ’eard the newsboys shouting out something ’bout it trying to attack some ladies again. It was in Brixton, wasn’t it Bea? That’s so close to us!”

  “I know that Inspector Lestrade thinks you are out of the way now,” says Beatrice, “because of what ’e said about you in the papers. But if you were to become involved in this, I think it would change everything. I think ’e would turn London upside down to find the Spring ’eeled Jack. I know ’ow ’e despises you and what you’ve done. You’ve made ’im look a fool … Master Lestrade ’as told me too.”

  It almost makes Sherlock feel proud.

  “London should be on fire with fear! Your involvement would ensure it!”

  The boy is surprised at the expression in Beatrice Leckie’s face. It is lit up, her eyes actually angry. But she looks guilty the moment the words are out of her mouth. “I grow a little ’ysterical. I am sorry. But I’m … terrified.”

  Louise puts her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

  “That is natural, Miss Leckie,” says Sherlock. “You and your friend were assaulted. No wonder you are fearful. But … you have Master Lestrade. He will look after you.”

  And with that, Sherlock loosens her hand and walks away, up toward London Bridge.

  “You don’t need to find him all by yourself, Master ’olmes! Just let Lestrade know that you are interested! That would be enough!” shouts Beatrice.

  “The inspector thinks ’e’s shamed you!” adds Louise, “that you don’t ’ave the courage to ’elp anymore!”

  Holmes is trying not to listen, waving his hand as he moves away. There are many crimes in London, he tells himself. I cannot solve them all. I cannot be swayed by emotions. And I am still just a boy. I was fortunate before – all of this is beyond me. I should only act if I have no options.

  He walks slowly home, telling himself that the vow he made to investigate the Spring Heeled Jack if he heard or contemplated the villain’s name before he reached London Bridge was just a child’s game and that Beatrice and Louise’s fears are unfounded – they are safe. He reaches Fleet Street where the newspapers are published. He likes the atmosphere here. There is always a bustle: the omnibuses and hansom cabs clattering, the newsboys shouting.

  “Leaping Jack loose again!” one calls. Sherlock sees a few pedestrians take papers from this particularly loud little vendor, flipping coins his way, hungrily reading the front page. But most people are simply rushing along as if they have important places to go. He smells the constantly lingering aroma of burning coal, the refuse, the perspiration, the perfume. There is no fog late this afternoon, and he can see all the colors of London: the black and brown horses, big black-and-white signs, the gray, shoeless children, the red and purple dresses and flowery hats, the pale faces, all as clear as day. But as he gets to The Strand and then moves toward Trafalgar Square, it seems as though the crowd is thicker than usual. The
re is a commotion up ahead. Past Northumberland House, he sees that people are rushing into the square from the streets. That is certainly abnormal at this hour.

  Sherlock crosses the street and peers over the heads of the crowd, the top hats and bonnets, and sees why.

  Robert Hide. He is standing on another crude stage near the north end of the square, in front of the stately National Art Gallery. It is Thursday, just three days since his exciting appearance here with John Bright. Two Reform League demonstrations in one week? Sherlock has never heard of such a thing. Perhaps Hide has organized this on his own.

  The boy makes his way through the crowd to get near the front. He passes all sorts – working class, middle class, and aristocrats. Then he spots her. Irene. She is at the front, wearing another of those loose artistic dresses, orange this time, watching Hide with a look of admiration. In a sea of people in varying headgear, she alone is hatless. Her golden hair, hanging loose, glows in the sun.

  Hide is pacing, the way a pugilist does before he enters the prize ring, as if holding something in. Sherlock notices Alfred Munby, dark and muscular in his green-and-black suit, heading toward the stage, but he is intercepted by a Reform League man who motions to him to stay off the podium. He glares up at Hide. But the young orator doesn’t notice. He is glancing down into the front of the crowd now, regarding his admirers. His expression changes from a frown to a glorious smile. Several of his fans reach up to him. He bends and moves along, touching hands … one of them is Irene’s.

  Hide straightens and faces his audience. His brown eyes are glowing.

  “My fellow Englishmen!” A big cheer rises, louder than any he received before. He is indeed a growing star. “I will take up little of your time this afternoon, but I thought it necessary in these extraordinary days – nay, in this extraordinary week – to speak with you once more.” He thrusts his arms into the air. “Because we have a new man now fully at work at Number Ten Downing Street!”