The Secret Fiend (17 page)

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 glasses 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 associate? 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 Constitution 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 Saturdays 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?
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 passes 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 passes 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?
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 glasses. 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.
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 passes he can’t hear much of what they are saying. They keep their voices muted. But on his final pass, 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

I
t is now well into the afternoon and Sherlock hasn’t done a single one of his chores 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-class 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
! The only information of note comes from the second attack. During it, the villain seemed intent upon truly hurting its victim, beginning to physically assault 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.
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?
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.

Just as he is leaving, he hears a voice.

“Sherlock!”

Master Lestrade is puffing as he runs through strolling tourists toward the arch. He is wearing his checked brown suit and bowler hat, a thick woolen comforter thrown around his neck against the cool March evening. Something bulges in his pocket.

“My apologies.”

“That may not do. He may be gone.”

“My father didn’t leave the office until very late. I couldn’t take the pistol until he left the building. I have it here. I stole it from his desk.”

He offers an uneasy smile and then begins to pull it from his pocket. Sherlock grips his hand.

“Not here!”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

Holmes doesn’t like what he sees: Lestrade is sweating, and he speaks in quick bursts. That’s not simply because he has been running. He is nervous. The attempt to pull a police revolver from his pocket in plain view at busy Hyde Park Corner announces that loud and clear. Sherlock needs a competent ally tonight. Otherwise, he might very well end up dead.

“Calm yourself.”