The Secret Fiend (20 page)

But at that moment, he is distracted by the sound of drums and bagpipes. It grows louder. The square has been filling up, now it stirs. Rising, the boy sees a mob coming down The Strand, led by men carrying clubs and axes, some holding placards high in the air. “FAIRNESS NOW!” “DOWN WITH THE RICH!” “IRISH SOLIDARITY! MUNBY FOR PM!” And one reads … “THE JACK IS RIGHT!” They are singing a union song. Sherlock can’t believe how big and disorganized the mob is – this appears to be a spontaneous demonstration. The parade flows from The Strand and across the street into Trafalgar Square, ignoring traffic and bringing it to a halt. As a gentleman in a black top hat passes the demonstrators, a tough-looking protestor shoves him and knocks him to the ground. When two Bobbies approach, they are surrounded and have to fight their way out, running toward nearby White Hall and
Scotland Yard. Gentlemen and ladies – anyone dressed in clothing that looks better than working class – scramble from the square.

“The Jack is a Irishman, I wagers,” Sherlock hears a dirty-faced man say. “Me member of Parliament even thinks it is. Said as much. They should round up them Paddies, and beat ’em until one confesses. The Jack wears green on ’is black suit, don’t ’e?”

The crowd forms a big circle, and some of the working-class men begin to speak in its center, screaming profane words and abuse directed at the government and the Irish. Some make nasty racial comments about Disraeli. They are calling for violence, for an overthrow of the class system. Sherlock spies Alfred Munby in the mob, trying to blend in and look inconspicuous.

Holmes, wearing his shabby clothes, isn’t bothered by anyone. He stands and watches in disbelief. The crowd continues to grow. A lady in a pink hat with flowers and a long pink coat passes in a beautiful barouche carriage, open to the crisp March air. Several men run after her, knock her coachman from his perch and pull her from her seat. She screams as they carry her toward the mob. In a moment she is at its center, alone and weeping. Another man advances and knocks her to the ground.

But at that instant, Sherlock notices a ripple in the crowd. Someone is plowing his way through, shouting at the others and pushing them aside. In a flash, he is at the center of the circle too. He stands between the brute who knocked the woman to the ground and the lady, facing the
rough. The crowd gasps and goes silent. It is Robert Hide. He turns to the lady, offers her his hand and helps her to her feet, then nods to three people in the mob and instructs them to return her to her carriage.

Fascinated, Sherlock rushes through the crowd toward the front. He notices John Bright approaching, passes John Bedford Leno, the most important Reform League leader in the nation, rumored to have had a meeting with the Fenians, during which they asked him to help start a Civil War. He claims he wasn’t tempted, but many wonder if he’s loyal, if he keeps secrets. Sherlock brushes by two men – one well-dressed, his facial hair smoothly groomed and as black as coal, the other a little older, the beard turning white and spreading onto his chest like Father Christmas’s – Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx, notorious German authors who live here now and predict the working class will soon rule the world. Bright is pushing toward the front of the crowd, looking concerned.

“London! Listen to me!” shouts Robert Hide. “This is not the way. This is NOT the way!” There are shouts of disapproval but he spins around, glares back at the loudmouths, and silences them. One of his looks is for Alfred Munby. “Change MUST come! But change will come through debate and democracy!” Only a few groans are heard. “Fear is ruling our streets now!
Fear!
But our government has been put on notice! It WILL change! Keep the pressure on the parliamentarians!” A huge cheer goes up. “If they do not respond … they
know
the consequences!” An enormous cry of approval cascades over Trafalgar Square.

But as it does, the Force enters the area on horseback. And their steeds are not at a trot; they are galloping. Screams are heard from the back rows and people begin to scatter. Sherlock takes to his heels. He heads for higher ground, toward the National Art Gallery. The mob flees. People run into each other, shouting, pursued by police and horses, Bobbies club protestors with truncheons. Several men knock over a wagon and light it on fire. The flames catch in the wind and shoot high into the air, climbing up the Nelson Monument. Union men try to fight back. Policemen and protestors grapple on the ground. More fires are lit. Chaos descends on the square in the center of London.

As Sherlock looks back, he spots Malefactor in the midst of the mob, walking through it with Grimsby and Crew, calm as the Lake District. He is grinning. His eyes meet Sherlock’s and he stops. His smile widens and he points at Holmes and beckons him to come toward him. His look is demonic.

Sherlock turns and runs again. As he approaches the Gallery’s stone stairway, he sees Irene standing way up at the top, today dressed more like an actress than the respectable young girl he used to know. Her dress is a loud purple and hugs her frame. It shows her slender wrists and forearms, exposed even on this cool day. Just a light red shawl is thrown over her shoulders and she has put a touch of rouge on her cheeks. But he feels sorry for her – she looks terrified. He rushes up the stairs to her.

“Sherlock, what is happening?”

“You must get out of here!”

“Was that Mr. Hide? Was he speaking?”

“He was trying to subdue them.”

“Is that Malefactor?”

“You must get out of here.
Now!
”

He takes her hand and ushers her to a place beside the Gallery’s tall front doors, behind the pillars, away from the crowd. Within minutes, down below, the police begin to gain control of things. The crowd is being dispersed. Several wagons from the London Fire Brigade have arrived and are putting out the flames. Malefactor stands in the center of the square, Grimsby and Crew on either side, staring up the steps toward Sherlock and Irene.

Holmes returns the look. He waits a little longer for the area to clear more and then descends the steps with Irene, stomping directly toward his enemy. Church bells are tolling in the distance. The police, noticing the eccentrically dressed boy’s companion, allow them to enter the square. Malefactor begins to look uneasy.

Sherlock drags Irene right up to him and the two boys confront each other, almost surrounded by the police. Grimsby and Crew close ranks and stand closer to their boss.

“I know ALL about you!”

“Keep your voice down, Jew-boy,” says Malefactor, through his clenched teeth.

“Hear this. And you hear it too, Miss Doyle.” He steps right up to Malefactor. “You are a two-faced fake. You tell made-up stories about your past to Irene. Even your life here on the streets is a lie.”

Malefactor glances toward Irene and back at Sherlock.

“Last night, I followed you through the streets to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I was with the boy your little thugs hanged upside down from the lamppost.”

“I have no idea what you –”

“And I saw you all in that semi-circle … while one of your number dressed up as the Spring Heeled Jack!”

“I –”

“I am guessing it was this over-sized pig, Crew – the one with the beautiful black hair.”

The big lad is impassive, but Grimsby steps forward, his fists balled. Malefactor instantly places his cane across the smaller boy’s throat, holding him back. He glances up at a nearing Bobbie on horseback.

“You are mistaken.”

“About Crew? Or all of it? I
know
one of you dressed up as the Jack. Don’t deny it.”

“Is that true, Malefactor?” asks Irene.

“Irene, you know Holmes doesn’t like me. We have discussed this before.”

“Is it true? Do NOT lie to me.”

“Only partially.”

“A family was murdered last night, an entire family!” cries Irene. “Three little girls!” She steps closer to Sherlock.

“And I, Miss Doyle, had nothing to do with it, on my honor.”

“Your honor!”

“Close your mouth, Holmes, or you will regret it!”

“What do you mean by that?” asks Irene.

“I mean, simply, Miss Doyle, that he is in error. And were he to pursue a case against me, he would have occasion to regret it because the police would discover my innocence. Yes, we dressed up Crew as the Jack. But we were just having fun. I contributed to the Spring Heeled scare because I am an anarchist … that is my political philosophy. There are many interesting folks, Radicals, with similar ideas. We had NOTHING to do with the murders. You know, Miss Doyle, that I would not do that … that I would not harm little girls.”

“I believe you.”

“And I do
not
.”

“You are welcome then, Master Holmes, to examine the costume we used. You are welcome to take it, and us, to Scotland Yard, and discover if anything at the crime scene matches anything to do with us. I make that offer knowing well the implicit danger into which it puts me and my faithful company.”

Lestrade might laugh me out of the building.

Irene smiles and looks to Sherlock. “Satisfied? I understand that Malefactor is not perfect, and he and I disagree about many things. But I think, Master Holmes, that he has proven something to you just now.”

Sherlock is glaring at his rival. “You cannot deny that you promised to kill me.”

“I can. That is a fantasy; your problem, not mine. You have a fevered imagination. You do not like what I do or my philosophy, so you make it much worse, and invent horrible
things that are not true. The world is a difficult place and I participate as best I can, but I am not a savage.”

“Have you ever been to Queens Gardens?”

Malefactor’s face turns white. He becomes mute.

“Sir?” asks Grimsby.

“Stand here now,” continues Sherlock, “and tell Miss Doyle to her face that everything you told her about your past is true.”

“COME!” screams Malefactor, seizing both his lieutenants by their coats and pushing them away. “We must be off! On the double!”

“Malefactor?” asks Irene. “What does this mean? Answer him.”

But the criminal has shoved the other two thugs hard, sent them sprawling away, and turned away himself. As he starts to run, they run with him. When he gets to the far end of the square, he looks back and catches Sherlock’s eye. It is an expression that would freeze the devil.

“I don’t know who to believe anymore,” says Irene, looking stunned. “You or him or my father, or … anyone, even Robert Hide. I think … I just need to believe in myself.”

Sherlock must reach out to her. Now is the time – she seems ready to reject Malefactor. But as he steps toward her, he sees someone scurrying across the square close by, whose very presence stops him.

“Beatrice?”

At first, the hatter’s daughter acts as if she doesn’t hear him, but she then comes to a halt.

“Sherlock ’olmes?”

“Who is that?” asks Irene.

“A friend of mine.”

“A friend? She’s pretty.”

“I … I hadn’t noticed.”

Beatrice looks at Irene and her attractive dress and then glances down at her own, tattered and stained. She fixes her hair, falling out as it is from her brown bonnet. “I … I must be going,” she says, and darts away. Sherlock wonders if she was here when the riot happened. He hopes she was spared it.

“So must I,” says Irene, and stomps away.

He is left alone in Trafalgar Square. He wants to run after them, but doesn’t know which one to pursue. He wishes he could be in two places at once.

He tells himself to stop thinking about them. Irene has changed; and Beatrice is protected now. Suddenly, there is no reason to think about the Spring Heeled Jack anymore either – Malefactor is a liar, but Sherlock doesn’t believe he is lying about the murders. He would never offer to go to the police with his Jack’s costume if he were guilty of that gruesome crime. It doesn’t make sense. These latest attacks don’t seem like his enemy’s style anyway. Not clever enough.

I have no stake in this anymore. Best to let the authorities deal with it. But London is nearly in flames. Can I just sit by and watch?

“Sherlock?”

He has been standing alone in the center of the square for much longer than he realizes – the fires smoldering around him, the crowd gone, just a few policemen left, Irene and Beatrice long vanished. He didn’t notice the figure approaching him … but then, this person is good at sneaking up on people.

“Master Lestrade … you startled me.”

“I was just coming to Denmark Street to see you.”

“I believe our score is two to one on startling one another of late. That’s in my favor.”

The young detective-in-training suppresses a smile. He doesn’t appear to be in a mood to laugh. In fact, he looks terrible. And Sherlock has the sense that it isn’t entirely about the riot.

“Coming to see me? Well, I just happened to meet Miss Leckie – much more interesting for you to speak with her. She went that way.” He points south. “You could probably catch up to –”

“No, I want to see you.” The look on his face grows darker. It scares Sherlock.

“About what?”

“About this.” He takes a piece of paper from his pocket. “I went with my father to the crime scene. It was horrible. There was so much blood. I … I saw a tiny photograph of the three little girls … in their hovel. It was lying on the dirt floor near the straw that they use to sleep on. The frame was smashed and it was covered with blood.” He looks down at the paper again. “I … I don’t know how
I was able to find this when my father couldn’t. I was outside, between the house and the marsh. It was crumpled up, as if it had fallen out of someone’s pocket.”