The Secret Fiend Part 11

"And what do you want with me?"

"Why did he let you go?"

"I suppose there is no sense in pretending that I don't know to whom you are referring?"

"No."

"I know things, things I shan't tell you." He goes back to sweeping the floor.

"What if I made it worth your while to tell me?"

The boy stops sweeping. "And how would you do that?"

"I know I don't look like much, but I have been instrumental in helping the police capture several important criminals."

"I know."

Sherlock smiles. "I should have guessed."

"Your reputation precedes you in some quarters."

"Malefactor, Master Utterson, would be my greatest prize. And should he be removed to the luxurious quarters of the Marshalsea Prison, you would never fear him again. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to put him there."

"You a.s.sume I fear him now."

"Do you?"

"Not exactly, though I know you do."

Seldom does Holmes meet anyone who can size up someone as quickly as he can. This boy is a contender.

"If you don't exactly fear him," continues Sherlock, "then you are not entirely comfortable with his existence on the streets of London, either."

The boy pauses and then motions toward the door. "Walk with me as we talk. We must head downstairs. You will be silent and I will speak. When we reach the entrance you will act as if I sent you away. Our visit must be seen as a very short one a rejection. We will never meet again. He is not who he says he is. He tells lies about his past. I knew him when he was a child in Ireland. The family name is not Malefactor though it has its similarities. His father was never a dustman. The family was well respected when I knew of them, accepted in society, sending their children to the best schools. Few were aware of their criminal activities, though. Their wealth came from underground business practices on the continent. They were found out by a gentleman who could benefit from their fall he was about to inform the police. They left Ireland before they were arrested, and came to England. But their reign was over and they were on the run. That That is how his family fell, how they went to an English almshouse where both his parents died leaving him with nothing but that tailcoat and where his sister, the only good soul in the family, died as well. He is bitter, yes, but because he believes that he and his family were singled out in a world where everyone is corrupt in some way, you and I, and the government too. We are all after power, he believes, especially the rich, and we all lie and cheat, but most of us pretend we don't. He considers himself an anarchist, saying the world would be better off in complete chaos, with each man for himself. He is a master debater on the subject. I am the only one who knows these things about his past, and I made sure before I left him that if anything happened to me, the police could trace my murder to him. I fear turning him in, but he fears killing me. We are at a stalemate. But you, Sherlock Holmes, can act. He lives in Knightsbridge by day Queens Gardens off Brompton Road. He owns the white house there." is how his family fell, how they went to an English almshouse where both his parents died leaving him with nothing but that tailcoat and where his sister, the only good soul in the family, died as well. He is bitter, yes, but because he believes that he and his family were singled out in a world where everyone is corrupt in some way, you and I, and the government too. We are all after power, he believes, especially the rich, and we all lie and cheat, but most of us pretend we don't. He considers himself an anarchist, saying the world would be better off in complete chaos, with each man for himself. He is a master debater on the subject. I am the only one who knows these things about his past, and I made sure before I left him that if anything happened to me, the police could trace my murder to him. I fear turning him in, but he fears killing me. We are at a stalemate. But you, Sherlock Holmes, can act. He lives in Knightsbridge by day Queens Gardens off Brompton Road. He owns the white house there."

"He what?"

They are at the outside door. Utterson flings it open and shoves Sherlock into the street, so hard that he knocks him to the ground.

"And stay stay away from me!" he shouts. He strides up to Holmes and whispers into his ear. "I will get out of London when I am educated, change my name, go to the South Seas, and write adventure stories. Life, you see, is stranger than fiction, and my life has been unbelievable." He kicks Holmes in the ribs and storms away, slamming the school door behind him. away from me!" he shouts. He strides up to Holmes and whispers into his ear. "I will get out of London when I am educated, change my name, go to the South Seas, and write adventure stories. Life, you see, is stranger than fiction, and my life has been unbelievable." He kicks Holmes in the ribs and storms away, slamming the school door behind him.

Sherlock rises slowly as people stop and stare. He doesn't know if he is more shocked by his sudden ejection and swift boot to the ribcage or by what Utterson has told him, especially what he said just before sending him flying out the door.

Malefactor lives in Knightsbridge?

He wants to go there immediately, but before he does, he must visit Beatrice. She will be home early on a Sat.u.r.day, a half day for a scullery maid. It is nearing the noon hour. He walks east toward Southwark, the Smith&Wesson pistol deep in a pocket of his old frock coat.

The hatter, red-faced and looking unwell, is happy to see Sherlock Holmes and even happier to hear that the boy is calling on his daughter. She appears, beaming at him, almost the instant Sherlock's voice is heard at their front door. He steps inside, noticing today what he should have noticed before: how shabby the shop looks and that fewer hats hang from the hooks. There are no customers to be seen. Beatrice wraps a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders, and as they step out together into the brisk March air, she puts her arm in his.

"I am told you are a political thinker, Miss Leckie."

She colors. "Who told you that?"

"A little birdie, actually a big, silver one."

"Oh, Master Silver! 'e thinks that anyone with an opinion is a deep thinker. I suppose 'e remembers my chat with 'im. I was angry about 'is father's situation, that's all. I leave politics up to the competent men of this nation ... leaders like Mr. Disraeli."

They stop down the street and he edges her into an alley.

"Sherlock?"

"I have something for you."

"You do?"

He pulls the pistol from his pocket and she gasps.

"What is that for?"

"For you."

"Me? But I don't know 'ow to use it."

"I will show you. I want you to be safe. Carry it with you at all times. If the Jack attacks you, do not hesitate to point it at him. That will likely be enough, but use it if you must. It will be self-defense. And by the way ... I am now certain who this villain is."

"You are? But who "

"Never mind, that's not your concern. I'll tend to accosting him, just carry this and keep yourself safe. That way, you won't need the police around your door, upsetting your father."

"Yes, Sherlock."

He shows her how to load it, point it, and fire, though she can't practice here in the alley. Strangely, she doesn't seem to take it seriously. She appears more interested in having him show her, than in really learning. She keeps getting him to stand near her and wrap his hand around hers as she holds the gun. She doesn't ask any questions about the Spring Heeled Jack. She doesn't even seem to fear him. It appears she would rather just be close to Sherlock.

She is a brave girl ... but if she only knew who this villain is ...

It is a good hour's walk to Knightsbridge. Clouds gather in the cool day as he finds his way eastward through Lambeth and crosses the Thames at Westminster Bridge. It has been a full week since Beatrice and Louise were attacked here. He stands on the south side of the bridge near Astley's Theatre and looks across the wide, brown river with its crowd of noisy boats of all sizes, and up at the Palace of Westminster with Big Ben rising above it. He imagines the Spring Heeled Jack perched on the bal.u.s.trade wall, the government buildings framing him. Now that he considers things, with more facts in hand, this whole sensation is exactly Malefactor's style. He put the fear of G.o.d into those dear girls, but made sure they survived to tell their tale. He saw to it that one of them was Sherlock's friend. Malefactor knew it would draw me in, force me to protect Beatrice, and do it on my own, which would put me out on dangerous streets at night and make me vulnerable to a deadly attack. Malefactor knew it would draw me in, force me to protect Beatrice, and do it on my own, which would put me out on dangerous streets at night and make me vulnerable to a deadly attack. Malefactor could eliminate the thorn in his side and have the deed done by a disguised perpetrator who would frighten all of London and bring chaos to the city when fear and uncertainty was at its height. He started proceedings on Westminster Bridge, with the symbol of the Empire's stability as audience. He figured low-lifes would try to imitate the Jack, and things would begin to spiral. It was, and is, a deep and tangled plan, accomplis.h.i.+ng many things in just a few bounds. His opponent, Sherlock must admit, is a genius. Malefactor could eliminate the thorn in his side and have the deed done by a disguised perpetrator who would frighten all of London and bring chaos to the city when fear and uncertainty was at its height. He started proceedings on Westminster Bridge, with the symbol of the Empire's stability as audience. He figured low-lifes would try to imitate the Jack, and things would begin to spiral. It was, and is, a deep and tangled plan, accomplis.h.i.+ng many things in just a few bounds. His opponent, Sherlock must admit, is a genius.

He pa.s.ses Westminster Abbey and moves up Birdcage Walk past the big green expanse of St. James's Park, the queen's ma.s.sive urban lawn with her swans on its ponds, fronting Buckingham Palace. Even the strolling pedestrians look nervous today. Governesses with children, young men with young ladies, nannies out with babies in prams all seem to be glancing around. There is a fiend on the loose. The city is uneasy. Or is it my imagination? Or is it my imagination? He crosses in front of the palace, serene and majestic as usual, and goes up Const.i.tution Hill toward Knightsbridge Road. He crosses in front of the palace, serene and majestic as usual, and goes up Const.i.tution Hill toward Knightsbridge Road. Can Malefactor really live in this wealthy neighborhood? Can Malefactor really live in this wealthy neighborhood? A different fear crosses his mind. Is this a setup? A different fear crosses his mind. Is this a setup? Irene is Malefactor's friend now. Did she intentionally tell me about that boy, Utterson ... or whatever his name really is? Can Irene be trusted anymore? Are Utterson's directions leading me into some sort of dead-end in a Knightsbridge neighborhood where I will be mugged and beaten by the Irregulars? Irene is Malefactor's friend now. Did she intentionally tell me about that boy, Utterson ... or whatever his name really is? Can Irene be trusted anymore? Are Utterson's directions leading me into some sort of dead-end in a Knightsbridge neighborhood where I will be mugged and beaten by the Irregulars? He warily watches for little figures darting at him from either side. But something comforts him, at least somewhat: this isn't Malefactor's time of day. He's noticed that the crime boss rarely does much when the sun is out. He warily watches for little figures darting at him from either side. But something comforts him, at least somewhat: this isn't Malefactor's time of day. He's noticed that the crime boss rarely does much when the sun is out.

At Hyde Park Corner, where rich Belgravia and Mayfair meet, he goes through the Wellington Arch with its ridiculously large statue of the late Duke of Wellington atop, aboard his famous charger, Copenhagen. Wellington's old home is nearby, known to citizens as "Number One, London." The great national hero, the vanquisher of the legendary Napoleon, should be here now, calming things. Or should he? Or should he? Sherlock remembers that when the Iron Duke was prime minister, he always opposed reform, and even had unbreakable bars installed on his windows to protect him from the mobs who sought changes. Sherlock remembers that when the Iron Duke was prime minister, he always opposed reform, and even had unbreakable bars installed on his windows to protect him from the mobs who sought changes.

The boy walks along Knightsbridge on the south side of Hyde Park and turns down Brompton Road. No worries here many wealthy folks, the poor who supply them and work for them, and a few vendors who pursue them, make up a flow of pedestrians on the wide foot pavements not a place for an attack.

He pa.s.ses a little store named Harrods, selling groceries and other goods and spots Queens Gardens. All the streets going off from Brompton Road have been wide ones, lined with big, elegant homes. Queens Gardens is narrow. His fears return. Should I go down here? Can Malefactor really live here? Should I go down here? Can Malefactor really live here? It seems preposterous. It seems preposterous.

He turns around and walks back up Brompton Road, then crosses it through the gleaming carriages and well-groomed horses, to Lancelot Place on the other side, and begins to pace, trying not to look conspicuous, unsure what to do. A few gentlemen stare as he goes by, but he keeps his eyes down.

Coming here is against his best instincts. He doesn't have many facts, just a story that a boy told him, a boy whose ident.i.ty and past is not certain. And finding Malefactor here the gang leader who he thought lived on the streets and who he knows sleeps there at times is growing increasingly improbable as he sees more and more impressive homes. But Sherlock has to save himself and Beatrice. Irene may not be who he thought she was, but he doubts she would purposely harm him. He has to take a chance. He lets his horsewhip drop down in his sleeve, the handle falling into the palm of his left hand, then saunters down Brompton Road again and enters Queens Gardens.

The street actually widens as he walks, opening up into a beautiful avenue lined with big trees. The houses are not quite as large as those in most of Knightsbridge, but they are certainly respectable. And there, right at the end, almost tucked away in the trees ... is a modest white one, just as Utterson said. There are a few people walking along the foot pavement in this cul-de-sac. He acts as though he has a reason to be there. It is in your walk. It is in your walk. He remembers his mother's advice about acting. He remembers his mother's advice about acting. Take on a character. Take on a character.

Sherlock approaches the house at a brisk pace, a hand in his pocket as if he is a messenger boy with a note to deliver. But the home looks empty. All the shutters, even those on the door, all as white as the stone exterior, are closed. Sherlock certainly can't knock at the entrance. He is at the end of the street, right in front of the house. He glances around. No one is looking his way. He can only hope that a resident isn't peering out a window at him. He slips up close to the building and darts into a tall row of shrubs and gets himself behind them, completely obscured from view.

He waits a long while. A nearby church bell chimes two separate times. He slouches down onto the cold ground.

At least two hours later, the shutters begin opening so quietly that Sherlock, almost asleep despite the cool day, barely hears them. Then, the front door opens. He peeks carefully around the shrubbery. A man, medium height and well-dressed in a dark suit with black bowler hat and white cravat, is coming out. He locks the door, tries it, locks it a second time, and tries it again. He turns and eyes the street, glances both ways, up and down. He surveys the front of the house. Sherlock ducks low. Then the man heads out along the street, whistling, poking his cane into the foot pavement with each sprightly step. He wears thick gla.s.ses and has a big black beard.

Holmes considers entering the house. But that quickly seems like a disastrous idea. If this really is Malefactor's home, Sherlock can't be caught in there. But who was that man? Is he an a.s.sociate? A relative? Is Malefactor's father still alive? Is he an a.s.sociate? A relative? Is Malefactor's father still alive?

There is only one option that makes sense: follow him.

Sherlock checks that no one is looking his way and leaves the shrubbery as quickly as he can. He's on the foot pavement in a flash and heading down the street. In the distance, he sees the man turn right, onto Brompton Road, heading for the center of London, back the way Sherlock came.

But at the bottom of Const.i.tution Hill, by Buckingham Palace, he doesn't head for Birdcage Walk and Westminster Bridge. Instead, he strolls on the tree-lined pedestrian avenue on the north side of St. James's Park and moves toward the bustle of the city via Trafalgar Square. Sherlock wonders if he is a businessman of some sort. If so, what business would a co-resident of Malefactor's conduct?

There aren't as many newspapers on Sat.u.r.days but the square is just as busy, since foreigners and folks from the country with a little money come to the city to see the sights when the week is over.

Sherlock spots Dupin selling his publications. "A Double Jack Attack!" he cries. The boy left the apothecary's shop before their papers arrived. He wishes he could read that story. Two more attacks? Where? When? Was anyone hurt? Two more attacks? Where? When? Was anyone hurt? But he can't pause here. He must stay on the trail. But he can't pause here. He must stay on the trail.

Once they get past the square, the bearded man's pace picks up. They enter The Strand, lined with hotels and famous West End theaters. He pa.s.ses The Adelphi, where comedy rules, then Exeter Hall, one of the great political gathering places in the Empire. Though a stranger looking at its small entrance between two Corinthian pillars would never suspect as much, John Bright has many times riveted audiences within its walls, and may soon need to again. As the bearded man pa.s.ses the magnificent Lyceum Theatre, that seems to glow even when unlit, he looks behind him. Sherlock has kept well back, hidden in the crowd. Why is the fellow looking back? Why is the fellow looking back? He is also pulling an empty sack of some sort from a pocket. He darts up the street, crosses it quickly almost into an oncoming horse and disappears into a lane going east. This part of London is full of such lanes and alleys, running like spiderwebs from the more familiar thoroughfares. Sherlock loses sight of the man and frantically tries to cross the street. But it takes a while, and when he gets to the lane's entrance there is no sign of the gentleman. Then, far ahead, he spots him coming out of an alley ... wearing a different coat! Sherlock runs to get closer and as he nears, notices that the man looks slimmer ... and that the coat is a worn tailcoat. The sack is bulging. He is also pulling an empty sack of some sort from a pocket. He darts up the street, crosses it quickly almost into an oncoming horse and disappears into a lane going east. This part of London is full of such lanes and alleys, running like spiderwebs from the more familiar thoroughfares. Sherlock loses sight of the man and frantically tries to cross the street. But it takes a while, and when he gets to the lane's entrance there is no sign of the gentleman. Then, far ahead, he spots him coming out of an alley ... wearing a different coat! Sherlock runs to get closer and as he nears, notices that the man looks slimmer ... and that the coat is a worn tailcoat. The sack is bulging.

The man stops for an instant and leans over and puts his hand to his face as if rubbing his eyes. When he raises his head, Sherlock can just see the side of his face well enough to tell that he has removed his gla.s.ses. They come to Drury Lane and cross it near the theater. The man slips down another alley. When he emerges this time ... he is beardless! That's when Sherlock recognizes his walking stick.

Malefactor!

It seems that the young mastermind indeed lives in Knightsbridge, probably alone, funded by the huge take from his thriving criminal business. He disguises himself until he nears his gang. As always with this rascal, he has created a brilliant situation: he is permanently in hiding in a very unlikely place; he doesn't run the risks that his followers do, stays healthy and warm and always elusive. If that boy can manage all this at such a young age, what will he accomplish when he becomes an adult?

In minutes, Malefactor, still hatless, is at Lincoln's Inn Fields. It is the largest park in the city and a daily haunt for his Irregulars, a perfect place for them to be inconspicuous. Sherlock stops a distance away, sees Malefactor enter the park and head toward the far end, to a well-treed area. Grimsby appears and tosses him his top hat.

An idea comes to Sherlock. I must get closer. I must get closer. Turning on his heels, he runs back through the crowds, down Drury Lane, along The Strand and into Trafalgar Square. Turning on his heels, he runs back through the crowds, down Drury Lane, along The Strand and into Trafalgar Square.

"Mr. Dupin!" he cries.

The old newsboy looks up at him from his kiosk and smiles.

"Funny, Master 'olmes, how this 'ere Spring 'eeled Jack situation come up right after you talks to me about 'im."

"I have a request."

"More information?"

"No, your clothes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I want your hat and your coat."

"Naturally. I suppose you won't be telling me why?"

"No, sir."

"Just your average request, asking for the coat off a man's back."

"And your hat."

"Of course, me 'at too."

"I'll ... I'll give you a sixpence."

"No, you won't. If it were anyone but you, 'olmes, I'd say no, but I'm inclined to comply. Especially if you "

"Explain all about it when it's over?"

"You've got it, mate."

"Done. Here's my coat." Sherlock removes his old frock coat in a flash. "Sorry, I don't have a hat."

The poor cripple, well-muscled through the chest and arms from years of propelling his cart, deftly pulls off his coat and hands over his hat. Getting Sherlock's frock coat on is a more difficult task. It is so tight that it looks like a straightjacket.

"I can't look like this long, 'olmes, it will affect me reputation."

"I'll be back in a bit."

Sherlock rushes off. The big brown coat, thick and woolen to protect against the wind, smells of tobacco, but with its collar up and the soft felt cap pulled down over his eyes, Holmes is unrecognizable. He is back at Lincoln's Inn Fields in minutes. He slows his breathing and walks past the Irregulars several times. They are on the other side of the black wrought-iron gate that surrounds the park. Sherlock screws up his mouth, his only visible part, to complete the disguise.

Despite several pa.s.ses he can't hear much of what they are saying. They keep their voices muted. But on his final pa.s.s, worried that he has left Dupin too long with his thin, tight coat, he hears five words from Grimsby, just as Malefactor takes his leave from the gang.

"Dusk tonight, then? Right 'ere."

It is enough.

HUNTING THE JACK.

It is now well into the afternoon and Sherlock hasn't done a single one of his ch.o.r.es at the shop, and yet he still has something to accomplish before he goes home. He races to Trafalgar Square, exchanges clothes with Dupin, asks him for a piece of paper, writes a note, folds it, addresses it to G. Lestrade, and rushes off to Scotland Yard. Careful not to be seen by the senior inspector, he leaves the message with the desk sergeant and sprints back to Denmark Street.

He is certain that Malefactor is heading home. But catching him in his residence does nothing, for he isn't, on the surface, guilty of anything. He, or one of his followers, must actually be caught as the Spring Heeled Jack.

Sherlock has a plan.

He is certain that the shutters on the white house at Queens Gardens stay closed whenever Malefactor is at home and are open when he is out. He wants the young boss to be with his followers when one of them, likely Crew, turns into the Jack Sherlock must be sure that his prime target goes to work this evening. All he has to do is get to Queens Gardens tonight and see if the shutters are closed, indicating that Malefactor is at home. He will follow him when he emerges, young Lestrade (armed with a revolver) by his side. They will watch the Jack come to life, and then, if they are smart about things, watch it attack someone. They should be able to take Malefactor and his villains at gunpoint before they really hurt anyone. He can give the credit to Master Lestrade, supply him with information about the other crimes the Irregulars have committed, and see if Scotland Yard can find a way to send the gang and their leader to jail and throw away the key.

At the apothecary's, Sherlock reads the newspaper reports of the Spring Heeled Jack's latest exploits. Though the article is on the front page and features a large, black headline, there is little in last night's appearances two of them, in opposite ends of the city, about an hour apart that tells him much. The fiend got away easily each time and the descriptions of him, given by the working-cla.s.s women whom he attacked, were sensational and difficult to accept as the truth blue flames coming from his mouth, red eyes and devil-ears, and two wildly different descriptions of a bizarre, angry face, hissing the word chaos chaos! The only information of note comes from the second attack. During it, the villain seemed intent upon truly hurting its victim, beginning to physically a.s.sault the unconscious girl. Fortunately, it was interrupted by two burly tradesmen who happened to be walking by after a late night at a public house. It seems as though the Spring Heeled Jack is turning more violent, and that if he can get at someone and not be interrupted ... murder may, indeed, be the result.

Sherlock gives himself a good head start, leaving almost two hours before dusk. He tells Bell that he is planning to meet Beatrice in Southwark, which the old man approves of, given the increasing aggressiveness of the Jack. It doesn't take the boy long to get to Knightsbridge it is almost directly east of where he lives. Not confident in Master Lestrade's ability as a snoop, he has asked the boy to meet him at the Wellington Arch and keep out of sight. It is perfect because there is a tiny police station built right into the arch, which a single constable occupies, and where the inspector's son can hide. Sherlock will then go to Queens Gardens, trail Malefactor, and pick up Lestrade on the way back, hopefully as their suspect walks to Lincoln's Inn Fields.

But when Sherlock arrives, young Lestrade isn't there. An hour later, he still hasn't come and Holmes turns restless. Did someone intercept my note at Scotland Yard? Perhaps Master Lestrade doesn't want to work with me, or couldn't obtain a revolver. Did someone intercept my note at Scotland Yard? Perhaps Master Lestrade doesn't want to work with me, or couldn't obtain a revolver. He keeps circling the roundabout where the arch sits, staying out of the constable's sight. He keeps circling the roundabout where the arch sits, staying out of the constable's sight. Should I do this on my own? Should I go to Queens Gardens now? Should I do this on my own? Should I go to Queens Gardens now? All he has is his horsewhip, a poor weapon against a gathering of Irregulars. But he will have make do. It is time to move. He will go alone, whether ill-advised or not. All he has is his horsewhip, a poor weapon against a gathering of Irregulars. But he will have make do. It is time to move. He will go alone, whether ill-advised or not.