The Secret Fiend (16 page)

Sherlock knows of the school. He tells Bell he is going out, tucks his horsewhip up his left sleeve, and makes for Lambeth as quickly as he can, sticking to the midst of the crowds and away from entrances to alleyways, constantly on the alert for Malefactor and the Irregulars. He reaches the Hermiston school safely, notices that the door isn’t locked, and lets himself in. It is quiet inside the cool stone building, but from downstairs he can hear someone sweeping up on the first floor.

The former criminal has not lost his street-wise alertness, for by the time Sherlock Holmes enters the classroom, he has turned and is examining his visitor.

“Utterson?”

“Who asks?”

He is as eccentric as Irene said: as thin as a willow branch, dressed in a green jacket that looks like it is made of velvet, with light brown hair, so long that it almost touches his shoulders, flowing out from under a red and yellow skull cap. There is something of the artist, or at least Bohemian, in his appearance.
Sixteen years old, raised in Dublin, Ireland, sharp as a fox, a holder of secrets.
Sherlock presses his left arm to his side, making certain that his weapon is there.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“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 assume 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
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
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 Saturday, 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 balustrade 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 God 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 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, accomplishing many things in just a few bounds. His opponent, Sherlock must admit, is a genius.

He passes Westminster Abbey and moves up Birdcage Walk past the big green expanse of St. James’s Park, the queen’s massive 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?
He crosses in front of the palace, serene and majestic as usual, and goes up Constitution Hill toward Knightsbridge Road.
Can Malefactor really live in this wealthy neighborhood?
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?
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?
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 passes 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?
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 identity 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.
He remembers his mother’s advice about acting.
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.