The Secret Fiend
( The Boy Sherlock Holmes - 4 )
Shane Peacock
It is 1868, the week that Benjamin Disraeli becomes Prime Minister of the Empire. Sherlock's beautiful but poor admirer, Beatrice, the hatter's daughter, appears at the door late at night. She is terrified, claiming that she and her friend have just been attacked by the Spring Heeled Jack on Westminster Bridge and the fiend has made off with her friend. At first Sherlock thinks Beatrice simply wants his attention, and he is reluctant to go back to detective work. He also believes that the Jack everyone fears is a fictional figure. But soon he is suspicious of various individuals, several of them close friends.
Set at a time when many in England were in a state of fear because a Jew was running the country, Shane Peacock presents a compelling story filled with an atmosphere of paranoia and secrets and surprises played out on late-night London streets. Sherlock gets drawn deeper and deeper into the pursuit of the Spring Heeled Jack, whose attacks grow in number until it seems that there are Jacks everywhere.
The Secret Fiend is the fourth book in Shane Peacock's award-winning Boy Sherlock Holmes series, combining brilliant storytelling with fascinating historical detail and a mystery worthy of one of the greatest sleuths in English literature.
To Sammy,
the amazing Boy Peacock.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Of the many books I read while writing this novel, several stood out: Liza Picard’s Victorian London 1840-1870: The Life of a City, was a constant companion, not only for this case but for work on the entire Boy Sherlock series; Ben Weinreb and Christopher Hibbert’s The London Encyclopaedia continued to be an immense aid as well; both Stanley Weintraub and Robert Blake’s biographies of Disraeli were essential; as was Philip Callow’s telling of the life of Robert Louis Stevenson. RLS, the great man himself, his insight into the human soul, and his marvelous novels, were a powerful inspiration. Lee Jackson, one of our great historians, whose Dictionary of London website (www.victorianlondon.org) was so useful to me and many other researchers, personally gave of his time during the late stages of the creation of Fiend, with invaluable information. I cannot omit the contribution of my father, Jackson Peacock, history teacher and brilliant thinker, who imbued me with a love of the past and has always been available for important discussions on pertinent historical matters. Thanks also to Kathryn Cole, my perfect editor. And to my family again, without whom I could not write a word. Finally, and most importantly this time, to Kathy Lowinger, who is saying “au revoir,” but not farewell, and whom I will greatly miss, as will the whole publishing world.
PREFACE
It appeared out of nowhere, leaping from a bank of the River Thames onto Westminster Bridge one dark, London night like a man endowed by the devil with superhuman powers. Two servant girls, walking arm in arm and frightened by the late hour, barely turned before it was on them. It gave a shriek and then did its deed, ripping one from the other and making off with her across the cobblestones, reaching the other side of the wide bridge in just a few bounds. There, it sprung up onto the balustrade, the limp girl in its arms, and jumped out into the night, its wings fluttering in the cold air as though it were a human bat escaped from the underworld. They struck the freezing water with a crash and the night was silent again, interrupted only by the frightened sobs of the other girl prostrate on the stones. Then she rose and ran as hard as she could, northward, toward Denmark Street.
All the demoniacal force of the man masked behind that listless manner burst out in a paroxysm of energy.”
– Dr. Watson in The Adventure of the Second Stain
ENTER TERRIFIED
There have been many late knocks on the old apothecary’s door. Some even come, like this one, well past midnight. But this is a knock unlike any other. It is accompanied by a scream.
It is the last day of February 1868, a month after Sherlock Holmes’ fourteenth birthday. The Prime Minister of England has just resigned and his right-hand man, the remarkable Jew-turned-Anglican, Benjamin Disraeli, is taking his place. The empire stands on the brink of an historic moment, but some are ill at ease. There are whispers in the streets and taverns, and in the mansions of Mayfair and Belgravia, that the brilliant, black-haired Hebrew with the romantic background and flirtatious manners – he of foreign race – cannot be good for England. It is almost as if a Negro had become president of the United States. Amidst all of this, the country is nearing a turning point: the lower classes are rising, gaining power, demanding more; financial markets are unstable; Irish terrorists, seeking independence from the empire, are bringing their violence to the world’s greatest city. What will the future hold? Many fear that chaos is about to descend.
London is in a deep freeze tonight, but the tall, thin boy is warm and fast asleep in his wardrobe in the laboratory. The knock, though enacted by a slight arm and delicate fist, thunders through the shop. Sherlock gets to his feet in a flash. He pulls his trousers on under his oversized nightshirt, seizes his horsewhip, and rushes across the hard floor of the lab, sure that Sigerson Bell will be down the spiral staircase and by his side before he reaches the door. But there is no sound from the upper floor. In seconds, the boy stands poised at the entrance with his weapon, balanced on his feet, remembering Bell’s instructions. He raises the whip to strike.
“Who is there?”
“Let me in, Sherlock!”
It is a girl’s voice, but not one he knows. Darting to the latticed bow windows, he peeks outside. A young woman stands cowering there, looking behind her every few seconds, like a cornered fox at the end of the hunt. The boy can’t make out her face through the thick glass and darkness, but it appears pale under a red bonnet and her coal-black hair. She seems to be alone.
Sherlock unbolts the entrance with a snap and the girl falls into the shop, gripping his bare feet with her frigid hands, as if she will never let go. She kicks violently at the door, slamming it shut on her second try. Sherlock locks it, bends down, takes her head in his hands, and lifts her face toward him.
“Beatrice?”
“Sherlock! Save me! It took ’er. A fiend from ’ell!”
Her voice is so charged with emotion that it still doesn’t seem like hers. “Lock the door!”
“It’s done. Calm yourself.”
Beatrice Leckie, the plain-dressed hatter’s daughter with the sparkling black eyes and porcelain skin, who has always seemed so interested in everything Sherlock does, is shaking like a leaf.
“Calm yourself,” he repeats.
Sigerson Bell still hasn’t stirred. It seems incredible. How can he sleep through this? But none of the old man’s trombone-like snores are rattling the shop: all remains quiet upstairs.
Sherlock lifts Beatrice to her feet. She feels delicate in his embrace and folds herself into him, clinging like a child might grip its father. He is surprised at how wonderful this feels. In fact, he has to remind himself to set aside the warm feelings invading his senses – they are far too emotional. She has had some terrible experience. He must help her. She may be hysterical, but he cannot be. He has learned to remove feelings from his decision-making: feelings are always illogical. But it is difficult to still them at this moment. Beatrice Leckie is not without attractions. He hadn’t noticed it when they were younger, but it’s become evident lately. She isn’t a stunning young lady like Irene Doyle, that blonde, brown-eyed, unpredictable dynamo who can draw one’s attention across any crowded room. Beatrice is different. You have to look to really see her. And these past few months, much to his surprise, he has indeed been looking.
Control yourself. Help her.
He half-carries Beatrice into the lab and sets her into Bell’s big basket chair just insid
e the door, then turns to boil some water with a Bunsen lamp and tort.
“Take deep breaths. No one will harm you here. I shall make us some tea. Then we will speak logically.”
She nods her head. A very slight smile creeps across her lips as he turns away. Her big dark eyes glow as they follow him. He works at his task and in minutes has two flasks of hot black tea in hand.
“Try this.”
Her fingers touch his and he nearly spills their drinks.
“Tell me what happened, calmly.”
She reaches out and grips his hand in both of hers. They are warmer now, and soft too. He thinks he should pull back his hand, but doesn’t.
“We were late getting ’ome – very late. It was shocking – ’ow late we were out.”
Beatrice and Sherlock have known each other almost since they were born. She lives in her father’s shop, directly below where the Holmes used to keep their little flat. But when Sherlock’s mother was murdered and he came to live with Sigerson Bell, they were apart for an entire summer, the longest separation of their lives. When they met again at school, she seemed different – much more grown up, her figure filling out. She told Sherlock that he seemed different too, that he was taller and more worldly. After that, she started regarding him in a way that unsettled him.
About a month ago, Beatrice suddenly left school. Holmes didn’t know why.
“I ’ave a job now, Sherlock, working as a scullery maid for a family in a good part of town,” she tells him. “My friend and I – she is a maid in the kitchen and doesn’t live in, either – we were asked to stay late because of a dinner they are ’aving tomorrow. We were so scared, Sherlock. It was just the two of us out alone. But I wanted to get ’ome, to ’elp Poppa. ’e must be so worried.”
Beatrice’s mother had died of tuberculosis a couple of years ago and her father soldiered on, doing everything, insisting that his only child continue as long as possible at school. Beatrice and Sherlock have an understanding of each other’s pain.
“We walked very brisk-like, ’olding on to each other. We kept to the right thoroughfares, and no one bothered us … until we got to Westminster Bridge.”
She begins to cry. Sherlock pulls his hand away.
“I should ’ave gone to the police, but I thought they might not believe –”
“Now, Beatrice. You mustn’t weep. Tell me what happened.”
“It was the Spring ’eeled Jack!”
The boy can’t resist a smile. What is she playing at?
“Beatrice, listen to me. You were seeing things. The late night will do that to you. The Spring Heeled Jack is a fictional character, a Penny Dreadful shocker. You know that. The night was playing upon your imagination.”
“Then where is Louise?”
“Louise?”
“My friend! She’s gone!”
“I don’t –”
“She was with me, Sherlock. I wasn’t dreaming that. ’e took her! She’s gone!”
She is sobbing now. Sherlock doesn’t have an answer for such reactions from girls – never has had – not even from Beatrice. He can’t answer the question either, something that always makes him uncomfortable. She must be making this up. Perhaps he will call her bluff.
“Shall we go out and investigate?”
“Could we? Bring a blade, or a pistol, if Mr. Bell keeps one. And you must take my ’and.”
Not an entirely surprising response. I’ll play along, thinks Sherlock. Perhaps there will be something of interest in it.
“No need for firearms. I shall bring this whip and we will be vigilant.”
“Thank you.” Beatrice beams and looks into his eyes as she takes his hand again. “Hurry.”
“First,” exclaims Sherlock, blushing and releasing himself as he rises to his feet, “I must tell the master.”
He leads her across the lab and sets her on a tall, three-legged stool near the foot of the stairs, so she will be nearer him as he goes up to see his employer. She gives a start when she notices the skeletons hanging from nails on the walls between the teetering stacks of books and the pickled human and animal organs stored in the glassed cupboards. He retrieves his shoes, worn frock coat, and yellowing shirt from his wardrobe, ducks behind the examining table and puts them on. Beatrice turns her back. No need for his ragged necktie tonight, though he wishes he could observe himself in the mirror. But that would be too vain and unmanly in front of Beatrice. He tries to fix his hair as best he can.
“I shall be right back.”
Sherlock rarely enters Bell’s upstairs domain, and he wouldn’t tonight either – he can accompany Beatrice himself – but the apothecary’s silence disturbs him. Has his ancient friend expired?
Sherlock tries to keep the wooden steps of the spiral staircase from creaking as he ascends. He isn’t sure why – he certainly isn’t worried about waking the old man. It is as if he suspects something of Bell, and wants to surprise him. And why wouldn’t he? The apothecary can be deceptive – he has been known to crouch at the top of these stairs and listen in silence to Sherlock’s movements on the ground floor. The boy likes Sigerson Bell, in fact, might even admit that he almost loves him, but his master seems to have secrets too: there is always something that Holmes can’t quite –
There is a sudden noise downstairs, a creaking sound like the front door opening.
Sherlock hasn’t even gotten his head above the upper floor, hasn’t yet observed the glorious mess that is Bell’s bedroom and sitting room.
He freezes.
“Sherlock?” he hears Beatrice say under her breath. She sounds terrified.
Holmes retreats carefully. He doesn’t turn around, just backs downward, retracing his steps.
My horsewhip … it’s on the laboratory table.
“Keep quiet,” he whispers, but his heart is pounding. What if this is more than a story? What if someone, somehow like the vaunted Spring Heeled Jack of Penny Dreadful legend, has followed her here? Perhaps he murdered her friend. Dismembered her body … cut her in pieces. And now he has come for Beatrice.
Sherlock reaches the laboratory in a crouch, crawls silently toward his friend, pulls her down to the floor and reaches up to the table. At first he can’t locate the whip, but he searches around and then feels its hard, leather surface. He grips it like one might hold the reins of a thoroughbred before it is released at the Derby.
“Use your wrists, my boy!” screams Bell every time they practice … usually prior to the destruction of some portion of the laboratory.
Sherlock holds the whip aloft, slightly behind his shoulder to gather maximum force, and cocks his wrist. He silently moves into the front room. Whoever is at the outside door has no difficulty getting in. In fact, he (or it) seems to have a key! Sherlock can see the intruder’s silhouette as it enters.
The boy leaps and snaps the whip, but whatever is before him is as quick as a panther. It vanishes momentarily, then is suddenly behind him, gripping his neck in a death hold. His spine is about to be snapped.
“My boy?”
“Mr. Bell?” answers Sherlock hoarsely.
The apothecary releases his apprentice, who drops to the floor, afraid that he is going to cough up the lining of his throat.
“My apologies.”
“Quite all right.”
The boy has indeed been growing lately and when he rises, his eyes are almost even with his bent-over master’s. The old peepers betray a distinct look of guilt.
“Where … where were you, sir? It is well past midnight.”
“Past two o’clock, I’m afraid.”
“And?”
“And what? Oh. My whereabouts. Yes, well … out for a constitutional … quite … a constitutional. Taking some air!”
“At this hour, sir?”
“Could not sleep.”
“I didn’t hear you go by.”
“Precisely. You never know what I might get up to, my boy.”
It is a sentence meant to end the conversation
. There is a tone of irritation in the old man’s voice, which tells Sherlock that further questions are not welcome. Sigerson Bell is rarely cross with his charge and never cold. But the boy feels a breeze in these words. His master is trying to back him off. It is almost difficult to believe.
What is this about?
Bell moves toward the laboratory, then stops dead still, like a bloodhound that has sensed its quarry.
“We have a visitor? At this hour?”
Though Bell has yet to see Beatrice, he is somehow aware of her presence in the next room. As he floats through the lab door toward her, Sherlock notices that he is carrying something under one arm – it looks like clothing, though it is shiny, like a costume. It is green and black. The sight of it shocks him. He is thinking about the Spring Heeled Jack.
The old man is soon standing in front of Beatrice.
“My dear, you are trembling. Let me take your pulse and hear your tale. What brings you here at this hour? Are you an acquaintance of Master Holmes?”
He presses two fingers to the jugular vein on her neck.
“Yes.”
“And can you not visit him at more respectable hours?”
“It isn’t as you think.”
“I think nothing. I merely listen. You are nearing fifteen years of age, the daughter of a hatter, resident of Southwark but employed as a scullery maid in a wealthy part of town, beautiful and normally of good health, as fond of this boy as I … and deeply troubled by something that occurred within this past half hour.”
“I was walking home with my friend Louise, when I saw –”
“She saw nothing.” Holmes has entered the lab, his eyes still glancing down at the clothes under Bell’s arm. He can see now that the old man is holding a bottle with black liquid in it too, and a large mask that could fit entirely over someone’s face.
“She saw nothing? Nothing has increased the palpitations of her heart, dilated her pupils, and caused her to perspire on a February evening? I must meet this nothing. It is as extraordinary as Mr. Disraeli.”
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