The Secret Fiend (8 page)

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.

There is a noise above. And this time, it’s close.

Sherlock looks up. A human bat appears on the edge of the rooftop, right above the window in his old family flat. There is no doubt this time. The figure jumps, swooping down out of the black sky, knocking the boy over, thundering him to the ground. He smacks his head on the cobblestones.

Everything goes blurry. He tries to look up at it.
Is this the fiend’s face?
In the fog, it appears incensed – complexion flushed, red eyes angry, spittle on its lips, blue flames coming
from its mouth as it speaks in a deep, evil voice. Devil ears rise up in its hair, wings spread out from its body, and claws sprout from its hands. It wears a suit of some sort, striped black and green.

“Beware Sherlock Holmes! I bring chaos to London! Warn them!”

Is that what it is saying?
He isn’t sure. His vision is fading, growing dark. It stands over him, leans down, and rakes his face. He can feel the blood on his cheeks trickling toward his ears and neck. But he can’t move. It is about to kill him and he is helpless, slipping into unconsciousness.

But then it rises. Before he blacks out, Sherlock can see its blurred image as if in a dream: it is wearing big, black boots with enormous heels. It stands grinning down at him for a moment, then springs halfway up the wall of the building, climbs to the rooftop and vanishes.

The boy lies immobile for a moment. But he’s roused by a voice. Someone is calling him again.

“Sherlock?”

This voice is lovely.

“Sherlock!” He sees her porcelain white face, kind black eyes, black hair falling in ringlets down onto his chest as she leans over him, her face within inches of his. She smells of soap.
Beatrice.

“You’ve been attacked! You’re bleeding!”

“I am fine. It was nothing.”

“But you’re ’urt!”

“It was just a thug. He’s gone.”

“These streets are so ’orrible! Let’s get you inside.”

She puts his arm over her shoulder and helps him past the bow windows, toward the big wooden door of the shop. Groggy, Sherlock recognizes the old, familiar counter, the many hats – mostly black, some brown – hanging from hooks and on display. He remembers the smell of the mercury, the beaver and rabbit fur, and silk. He had worked here one summer or two, Beatrice often following him around, asking him questions, complementing every clever thing he said.

She takes him through to the back, to their home. It is warm inside, a fire burns on the hearth. There is no one else around – her father must be out. She guides him to a settee with a torn cover, pulls a blanket over him, then brings him a cup of tea that she’s made for his arrival. In seconds, she is back with a warm cloth.

Though he takes the tea, he soon pulls off the blanket and sits up.

“I’m all right.”

“But you aren’t.”

He puts his hands up to stop her from cleaning his cuts.

“Put your ’ands down, Sherlock ’olmes!”

He does so, immediately. She smiles at him.

“Now, sit still and we will clean you up.”

She takes his strong chin in one hand and gently caresses the scrapes on his face. Miraculously, it doesn’t hurt: the touch of a girl on his wounds is soothing. In minutes, he is put to rights.

“I came here to help you, not the other way around,” says Sherlock. “I am not mortally wounded, you know. Let’s talk about your troubles.”

“Are you up to it, Sherlock? We could talk another night.”

“Beatrice, I am fine! It was just a little knock on the head from falling and some scratches.”

“It is curious,” she says, looking at him.

“What?”

“That this rough didn’t rob you. ’e didn’t, did ’e?”

Sherlock feels in his pockets, finds his two shillings.

“’e didn’t take your coat, your boots, your shirt, anything.”

It is curious.

“’e just attacked you.”

“He was simply a young tough out for a little pleasure. There are those in this city who find it in violence.”

“He was young? Did you see ’im clearly?”

“Uh … no, I just assumed that. My error. I didn’t see him at all. He attacked me from behind.”

“You couldn’t give a description to the police?”

“No, there’s no need to.”

“I’m surprised at you, Sherlock. Shouldn’t they be told? If there is someone beating up people for pleasure, shouldn’t the Force be informed?”

“There are many attacks like this every day, you know. I think your experience was more important.”

She blushes.

“It is so kind of you to ’elp.”

They settle in to talk. Sherlock gets her to go over the events of two nights past and listens as politely as he can, making it seem as though he is deeply interested. He acts the
part of a concerned friend. His mother aspired to singing on the stage, a dream prevented by her class – but she had the talent of an actor in her veins. She often spoke to her son of how thespians exploit those skills.
It is all in your head. Find the core of the emotion you want to portray and embody it. You must become the person you want to be.
Beatrice feels his gaze on her, looking directly into her eyes, apparently fascinated. And to some extent, he actually is; and not solely because of her beauty. Something attacked him tonight. It was likely just a thug. Half-conscious, his head already filled with fevered ideas after his run through the dark alleys of Southwark, he likely imagined the assailant bore the face of the Jack. But he isn’t entirely sure. And though he doubts there is anything to Beatrice’s story – there are no conclusive facts – there are nagging concerns, feelings he can’t entirely discard; it irritates him to be unable to dispense with them.

Then, something dawns on him. As he keeps his best fascinated gaze fixed on Beatrice … her words fade into the background.

What did that thug say? He kept repeating it. “Chaos.” And what did Malefactor say to me? “I enjoy chaos. If chaos doesn’t come to London, I will bring it.”

Still looking intently at Beatrice, he tries to recall everything he can about the figure that attacked him. It was a good size … in fact, about Crew’s size. He thinks of the shape of the big henchman’s face and it matches; of his singular strength, his athletic ability. He thinks of Crew’s high-pitched voice and recalls that this fiend was trying to lower his own. It had dark hair … and Malefactor’s lieutenant has just dyed
his black! And on top of everything, this assailant knew his name, knew where he was going, knew how to follow a victim, and knew the streets. The Irregulars have many tricks up their sleeves. This isn’t a normal criminal act – it bears all the marks of a big brain behind the scenes. Sherlock remembers Malefactor’s promise to kill him. Frighten him first, then murder him. Why did this “Spring Heeled Jack” attack Beatrice Leckie of all people … a friend of his?
He may have his answer.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

“Why … yes, Beatrice, of course.”

“What were my last three words?”

“Uh … I can’t quite –”

She giggles. “It’s all right, Master ’olmes. I know young men ’ave much on their minds. Perhaps I am giving you ideas?”

“You are.”

“I am?”

“Beatrice, I might know the identity of your Spring Heeled Jack.”

“You might?” she looks genuinely surprised.

“And I may know how to catch him, too.”

BAT TRAP

S
herlock returns to the hatter’s shop the very next night. This time he crosses at Westminster Bridge and has everything perfectly timed. When he reaches Whitehall, he sees Beatrice and Louise out in front of him, coming into view exactly on schedule. Beatrice has a pocket watch and he has asked her to get there at precisely half past eight. Big Ben is silent on the Parliament Buildings in front of them. The boy feels for the horsewhip tucked up his sleeve. The girls are to walk slowly and make themselves conspicuous, as he is doing too. His heart is thumping. Crew is large and skilled, capable of murder. But he must trust the arts that Bell has taught him. That morning, before school, after explaining that a cat had scratched his face the previous night, he had asked for more fighting instruction, but of a particular kind.

“You want what, my boy?”

“I want to know how I would fight someone who
doesn’t play by any rules, a sticky-wicket sort, someone who wants to kill me.”