The Secret Fiend (9 page)

“Is there someone like this whom you expect to encounter shortly?”

“No sir.”

“I, of course, am a blithering idiot and believe you without question.”

“But sir –”

“You must seize him by the unmentionables.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“His meat and vegetables, his cricket equipment, his private machinery!”

“Sir?”

“Seize them!”

The old man leaps at Sherlock, hand out like a claw, his face as red as a rose. Holmes turns and runs from the room.

“My boy! Come back! I intended to inflict no pain upon your actual person!”

Sherlock returns very slowly, peeking his head around the corner first, measuring the distance between himself and his excitable instructor, before he re-enters the lab.

“Take a deep breath, sir.”

“Yes, my boy, I shall.”

“Now, tell me exactly what to do. Just tell me.”

Bell gathers himself.

“Murderous sorts are usually not cautious sorts. He is apt to make the first move, which is likely to be in the
nature of a pounce or a charge. You must let your opponent come at you.”

“I must?”

“Yes. Wait until you see the whites of his eyes, as it were!” Bell’s eyes flash. “Come at me!” he screams.

“If I do so, sir, you must promise to not actually complete the maneuver.”

Bell looks disappointed. “There is wisdom in what you say. I shall try. Come at me!”

Sherlock sighs and rushes at the old man who stands still until the boy is almost upon him, then he leaps to the side like a kangaroo and utters a shriek likely heard nowhere west of the jungles of Siam.

“KEE-AAHH!!!”

As he does, he brings the heel of his boot down like a sledge hammer toward Sherlock’s leg, stopping less than an inch from shattering his target. Both combatants stand stock still, the boy aghast, the apothecary resisting temptation.

“Had I followed through with this blow, I would have crushed your patella bone, known to the masses as the kneecap … or snapped either the fibula or tibia, give or take a bone.”

“I am thankful that you did not.”

“Your enemy is now a one-legged man and in a rather extraordinary amount of pain. You have him at your command.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Then!” shouts Bell. “You are on him!” With that, Bell
leaps upon Sherlock and slams him to the lab floor. “And you seize him by the –”

“Sir!”

The apothecary springs to his feet.

“Quite, my boy, quite. But you asked me what to do when someone is attempting to murder you. I have little time for murder, especially of you. Not my cup of tea! I live it out when asked about such a maneuver!”

It is almost as if Sigerson Trismegistus Bell once had to fight like that too.

“So I should –”

“The point is,” continues Bell, leaning against the lab table now, “you must deliver a crushing blow that puts you to the advantage, then, rather than continuing to fight at a distance, you must take him to the ground … and fight dirty. Get your hands on him … and do him evil. And do it in a forthright manner, wherever you strike! I am sorry to have to speak this way, but you asked me about fighting a devil and I told you. THAT is how you do it.”

Sherlock keeps Beatrice and Louise in sight, about one hundred feet in front. They are bait that he does not want to lose. As he watches his friend up ahead, he thinks about how she reacted to his plan last night. It wasn’t what he expected. She seemed reluctant to be part of it at first.

“But you want to do this alone?” she had said.

“Yes. I have my reasons.”

“Why, Sherlock? Shouldn’t we bring the police, or at least Master Lestrade?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have a feeling that this will be a personal encounter, anyway … a fight between me and someone I know.”

“You do?”

“When it is over, you won’t be bothered by the so-called Spring Heeled Jack anymore, I assure you.”

“But this will be very dangerous. I saw ’im clearly – ’is face, ’is strength when ’e carried Louise – I know what ’e is capable of. You must bring ’elp!”

“I shall have three advantages. First, I have been taught self-defense of a most effective and violent kind. Second, I will bring a weapon with me. And third, he shall not expect to be attacked. I will have the drop on him, as it were.”

“I still think –”

“Not another word. Bring Louise, take the same route home you took on the night you were attacked, arriving at Westminster at half past eight.”

She didn’t seem afraid, not in the least. That surprised him too. Her objections were solely to his being alone, for his safety. She is a brave and remarkable girl, who indeed cares for him.

He is alert as he approaches the bridge, eyeing the balustrades, the tops of the buildings beyond, the shadows.
He keeps rotating his gaze, left hand firmly on the horsewhip. Crew knows how to strike without warning.

There are a few dim lights in the House of Commons – as always, a sort of golden glow surrounds it. He wonders if Mr. Disraeli is in there somewhere, trying to keep England strong and safe.

It may be his imagination, but everyone he passes tonight seems to be on edge. There is tension in London. It isn’t surprising. The newspapers have been carrying many lead stories about the potential for revolution on the streets of England – some adding that “the Jew” is not the right man for the job at this time in history. And today, right on the front page of
The Times
, no less, was another unsettling article that will have caught many eyes.

A faithful reader of the
Daily Telegraph
and any sensation paper he can find, Sherlock would not even have seen it had Dupin not drawn his attention its way.

“Sherlock ’olmes!” cried the old vendor, as the boy made his way through Trafalgar Square to school that morning. “There is something in
The Times
that I knows you will be wanting to see.” He snapped open the paper and poked a finger at a headline.

On his way home from school, Sherlock had waited outside Scotland Yard until young Lestrade came out the door. The boy followed him for at least a hundred yards. When the older lad paused, waiting for a chance to dart across the street between noisy omnibuses and hansom cabs, Sherlock had spoken softly into his ear.

“Read
The Times
today?”

Lestrade had bolted forward in front of a big coach, whose coachman shouted at him. “Do you WANT to be trampled, you idiot!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as Lestrade jumped back to the foot pavement and gathered himself.

“That’s twice I’ve spooked you lately!”

“I am in no mood for jokes.”

“I am sure. Were you the police source?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“But they weren’t yesterday.”

“Hobbs, that fool reporter, devious man – you have his acquaintance, I believe – sought me out and asked me about the incident as if he already had the facts.”

“Which he did, such as they are.”

“So it seems. I didn’t think to deny it until it was out of my mouth.”

“One must always be dispassionate in police affairs, not let one’s desires, shall we say, one’s affections, alter one’s –”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Pursue cases because they are right to pursue, my friend, not because you care for anyone involved.”

Lestrade sighs. “You are right. But I believe her story. It is worth pursuing.”

“It must have been her who told
The Times
. She had to be the original source.”

“No, she wasn’t. I asked her myself, this forenoon.”

“How is your father?”

“Livid.”

“And how are you?”

Sherlock can’t help liking the other boy, blundering youth that he is, but earnest and honest.

“I have been better.”

“Keep your chin up. A solution may be at hand.”

Sherlock is all the way across Westminster Bridge now. This is going to be a longer trip than the one he made last night. Beatrice and Louise can’t take the narrow lanes and alleyways because that would truly make them vulnerable – too obvious a prey at which Crew could strike. No, the girls have been instructed to stick to the wider, brighter thoroughfares until just the right moment. Only then will Sherlock’s plan put them into a situation so perfectly tempting that the villain will not be able to resist. And when he strikes, so will Sherlock Holmes.

As they leave the bridge, the wharfs, and flour mills visible on the south side of the river below, they enter Lambeth, east of Southwark. This is a mixed neighborhood filled with factories, theaters, slums, poor residences, and a few not so poor. Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop of Canterbury lords it over the state religion is nearby, but so are hard-living tradesmen, dock workers, and Astley’s Theatre. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the girls.

It takes them about half an hour to make their way along Westminster Road past the Female Orphan Asylum, through St. George’s Circus, and up Borough High Street.
Never once do they veer off the main roads, and there is no sign of the fiend. The girls keep to themselves in these areas and move quickly. As they approach Mint Street, they turn into Sherlock’s old haunts, down a narrow lane.