The Secret Fiend tbsh-4

by Shane Peacock

  She swings south of the Royal Observatory in huge tree-lined Greenwich Park and approaches Blackheath. Sherlock can feel blisters on his toes, but Louise doesn’t seem to be suffering at all. Her head is up now, in this much safer area, her nose pointing toward her destination. Holmes senses that they are nearing it.

  Blackheath Village is a gorgeous little spot with its own shops and businesses, a kind of haven just outside of London. John Stuart Mill lives here … the great man, not the dog. Birds are singing, people are strolling about on the little streets, governesses push prams, well-dressed children dutifully by their sides. It is like a painting from a storybook that starts and ends very well.

  Louise turns down a smaller road off the main street. She looks just as out of place as her pursuer. Though the houses are a good size here, they aren’t enormous, not like those in Mayfair or Belgravia. But there is a lovely homespun feel to them. They are relatively new, with cream or white stucco exteriors, large latticed windows, and fake thatched roofs. Louise stops at one. It has beautiful pink blossoms just beginning on the small apple trees on the front lawn, which is surrounded by a white picket fence. Holmes sees a long low building at the rear, attached to the house. Louise hesitates then swings the gate open. It creaks. She moves slowly up the walkway. A figure appears at the front window, and then comes to the door and opens it. The boy is careful to stay well down the street, out of sight. Whoever has come to the door is greeting Louise happily, as if she is an old friend. It is a man. Sherlock steps into the street to see who it is. Robert Hide.

  DEAD END

  Sherlock Holmes is not used to running out of ideas. But here he is, across the street from Robert Hide’s surprisingly idyllic home far from the troubles of downtown London, and he does not know what to do. If he had more time, he would retreat now, go back to the apothecary shop, maybe consult Sigerson Bell, gather his thoughts, and concoct a scheme. That would be the prudent – the scientific – way to proceed. But he doesn’t have any time. The sun is beginning to set and the village, equipped with just a few gas lamps, is growing darker. Before noon tomorrow, he must know the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. His only clue is in the person of Louise Stevenson, and she is in that house across the street consulting one of London’s most powerful reformers. It would, perhaps, be best if he waited for her to come out. But he doesn’t know if he can afford to even pause. A few more minutes pass, and she is still inside. He begins to think that it may be better to confront them together, anyway. If they are guilty of something, he might spook them, put them off their guard. Make people ill at ease and you can extract things from them all that much easier. He wishes he had his horsewhip. He recalls Hide’s thick chest and arms, the fact that at twenty-two, he is in the prime of his life.

  The boy takes a deep breath and gets up from behind the post in the little driveway down the street. He strides over to Hide’s house, swings open the creaking white gate, and is about to pound on the door when he realizes he can hear voices inside.

  He puts his ear to the door, but he can’t make out what is being said. Then he hears two words very clearly.

  “Sherlock Holmes.”

  There is silence. He raises his fist to bang on the door, but suddenly, it opens. Robert Hide is standing there, his expression as serene as ever, a smile growing on his face, a truly handsome and charismatic man. He is wearing a mousy gray dressing gown, red Persian slippers, and holds a black pipe in his hand. Behind him, Louise Stevenson appears in the front hallway just beyond the vestibule, her bonnet still on. She puts her hand to her mouth in shock.

  “You followed me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Won’t you come in?” asks Hide politely.

  Should I? “Yes … yes, I will.” He marches into the house. A rich, red Indian rug stretches along the hall floor. The walls are gleaming mahogany. A huge grandfather clock stands nearby, ticking quietly. He can see another room to his right, filled with paintings.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demands Sherlock.

  “Won’t you come into the morning room and sit down?” inquires Hide with a smile. “We can best chat in there. I believe we have met, have we not?”

  He remembers me? He met me once, for a brief moment.

  “I make it my business to remember faces. I believe you are skilled in that sort of thing as well, Master Holmes?”

  “I … yes … I have been taught to be observant…. I don’t need to sit down. I am fine right here. I would like an explanation.”

  “Master ’olmes, you must leave and go –”

  “Nonsense, Miss Stevenson. Master Holmes is welcome to stay.”

  Sherlock regards him. He is difficult to read. All the boy can see is an attractive, dark-haired young man with an honest smile, betraying – nothing.

  “You were asking the meaning of this? I believe that was the way you put it?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “To be honest, I am not exactly sure what you mean by that. But please explain and I shall answer you as best I can.”

  “This young woman was attacked by the Spring Heeled Jack while in the company of one of my dear friends, Miss Beatrice Leckie. Though I would prefer to stay out of such things, I have become deeply involved in the pursuit of the fiend. The original attack does not make sense. Miss Stevenson has some explaining to do. I followed her here. Why, sir, is this working-class girl from Limehouse, who has had this unique experience, coming to you in Blackheath Village directly after I questioned her on the subject – directly after she tried to evade my inquiries and looked frightened by them? Why did she fly to you?”

  “Well, I know she was the unfortunate victim of that despicable villain’s first assault. Though I have not had the good fortune of meeting Miss Leckie, Miss Stevenson, who –”

  “I need a direct answer, sir. A family was brutally murdered by the Jack just last night, you must know that. This is not just some passing concern!”

  “Yes, Master Holmes, I am well aware of that.” His voice almost breaks. “In fact, the Treasure family was known to me. They attended my rallies … spoke to me. They, like Miss Stevenson, shared my political views…. You seem surprised about Louise, Master Holmes, but she is not what she seems.” He smiles at Sherlock. “She has given a good deal of thought to what she thinks her country should be and do. I would be proud to have her as a fellow voter.”

  Sherlock regards Louise, who stares back at him defiantly. Any trace of a poor innocent girl has vanished from her face.

  “With all due respect, Miss Stevenson can’t even read.”

  “And neither, in essence, can many of our Members of Parliament. They cannot read the writing on the wall. Miss Stevenson, on the other hand, understands what must be done in England. When there are many millions like her, things shall change. Forever. Had the Treasure family not been forced to live in such squalor, perhaps they would not have become this maniac’s victims. Miss Stevenson is fighting for the likes of them.”

  “I have known Mr. ’ide for a long –”

  Hide raises his hand to her. It is the first time Sherlock has seen him look even the tiniest bit perturbed.

  “I shall explain, Miss Stevenson, if I might? I will answer his question, directly.”

  “Yes, Robert, of course.”

  “I had seen this lovely young lady many times at my meetings –”

  “With Beatrice?” asks Sherlock.

  “I believe I mentioned that I am not acquainted with Miss Leckie.”

  “Beatrice is a fine soul,” interjects Louise, “finer than any of us. She is above politics, just an honest child … who cares for you, Master Holmes … though I’m not sure why.” She gives him another look. Sherlock has noticed that her accent seems much improved.

  Who is she? Who is this young woman? “As I was saying,” continues Hide, “Miss Stevenson came to me at the meeting in Trafalgar Square, after she was attacked, and asked me to help her. She was traumatized by the
assault, and at her wits’ end. I am afraid that all I could offer was comfort.”

  “Not like you, Sherlock Holmes,” spits Louise, “who thought the assault a farce!”

  “I have my methods, Miss Stevenson, and they pointed to such a conclusion.”

  “You cared about as much for me and what happened to me as you likely do about the poor of this country, the working people, and women! Half of this nation is starving or ill-fed or dying of heartbreak! When they lose their jobs, jobs the upper classes give and take on whims, they lose their lives and their families! The government sits by idly and lets it happen! Most people in this country still do not even have the right to vote – to change things! Women, if we were given power, would turn this nation upside down!”

  Hide smiles. “Miss Stevenson, though I quite agree with you, this may not be the time for such a political discussion. I am sure that Master Holmes is not without feelings for the poor. I understand that you, sir, have experienced difficulties in your own life.”

  “Yes … I have.”

  “Prejudice and poverty sometimes go hand in hand. I am dedicating my life to eradicating both.” He motions for Sherlock to enter the morning room and calls for a servant to bring tea.

  Sherlock glances around the room before he sits on a plush black chair with green stripes. Hide sits across from him, while Louise stands behind, looking sullen.

  “Mr. Hide, I must say that your home surprises me. I had heard rumors that you came from more humble beginnings.”

  He chuckles. “Yes, I have heard that said. It must originate from the fact that I speak in the workhouses and soup kitchens, spend most of my time in the East End and Clerkenwell, and try to stand up for those who have little. My family is an old Blackheath one, sir, wealthy, yes. My parents died just a few years ago on an Atlantic crossing to America. I am their only child. They left me this.” He glances around the room.

  “I am sorry for the loss of your family.”

  “I thank you for that. My parents were forward-thinking sorts; knew John Stuart Mill and John Bright. Father was a scientist and an inventor. He patented many cures and elixirs, and the profits from such discoveries made us quite comfortable. I was selfish as a youth though, more intrigued by athletics than helping others; was a champion broad jumper at Eton, you know. But their deaths changed me. I wanted to do something that would make them proud. I am attempting to do what I can now, with the talents I have for speaking and political thought, to change our society for the better. As a youth I had wanted to be a scientist, like father, but I am not endowed with his type of brain. Perhaps that is for the better; though I do dabble in the world of chemistry and the like. I have my own laboratory, out back. I gather you are of a scientific turn as well. Would you like to see it?”

  How does he know so much about me? Has Louise been feeding him information: If so, why?

  Hide gets up and motions for Sherlock to follow him. They pass through a large library. The boy notices Marx’s and Engels’ names on several spines. The lab door is locked. In fact, it has three or four latches on it. The young man takes several keys out of his pocket. It takes a while, but he gets the locks open. They enter the lab. Sherlock realizes this is the extension at the back of the house. He can see now, that it is almost like a greenhouse: the expansive ceiling is completely made of glass. The room is huge, and many hundreds of test tubes and torts sit on a series of black-topped tables, making Bell’s laboratory look modest, indeed. It smells of chemicals, though one odor predominates. Sulfur. Sherlock also hears things bubbling and boiling, then notices glass smashed and lying on the floor.

  “Oh!” says Hide, looking guilty. “I asked them to clean that up.”

  There is a knock on the door, but not at the front of the house. It is coming from a small entrance at the rear of the lab.

  “Excuse me,” says Hide. “There is a gentleman who visits from time to time who, for some reason, likes to use the back door.”

  Sherlock waits as Hide walks away between the messy tables. The rear door is also locked in several places. This is a very secretive man. Finally, Hide gets the door open and speaks to the visitor in hushed tones. Sherlock moves to one side to see better. The man is holding two vials in each hand. He’s elderly, eccentrically dressed in a gold cape and wearing a pink skullcap in which something bulges. Stethoscope. This strange man is an apothecary. He gives the vials to Hide, who pays him.

  “Thank you, Simian.”

  The man leaves by the same door, Hide locks every latch again, then unlocks a glass cabinet, puts the vials inside and locks it again. He smiles at Sherlock.

  “Shall we return to our chairs? It must be getting late …” He hesitates, pulls his pocket watch out of his dressing gown, and looks at it. “… I have to tell you that I have not been entirely honest with you … and I am afraid I may have to tell you the true reason for Miss Stevenson’s visit tonight. I wish I did not.”

  A grim expression has come across Hide’s face. Sherlock feels a jolt of fear pass through his system. Have I seen something I should not have seen? Is he going to hold me here? Or worse? He yearns again for his horsewhip.

  “Robert,” says Louise anxiously as they return, “I must be going. Can you … can you give me –”

  “Of course, Miss Stevenson – I was just telling Master Holmes that I must explain the exact reason for your coming.”

  Louise sighs. “Couldn’t we just do it in the back room?”

  “That wouldn’t be polite, not with a guest here, especially a suspicious one.” He grins at Sherlock and then shouts for his manservant, asking for a piece of family stationery. When it arrives he walks to a nearby desk and sits down, dipping a pen in an inkwell. The boy spots a stack of papers at his elbow.

  “As I said, Master Holmes, I would prefer that you did not know this. No one is aware that I do such things and it is best that way. I am writing a note so Miss Stevenson can take it to my bank and withdraw ten pounds in order to support her family for the next month. That is why she is here … if you must know. I trust you don’t object?”

  But Sherlock Holmes isn’t thinking about the generosity of Robert Hide, nor does he feel any shame. Something else is suddenly riveting his attention. Handwriting! He is remembering that the Jack’s handwriting was the same on every note he left behind.

  If I can find the hand that wrote those notes, and look up that arm to the face … I will have my solution! They weren’t written by Louise Stevenson, but here is this well-muscled, dark-haired young man to whom she has just secretly flown, who wants to change England by any means, who speaks of chaos to the masses, who was a champion leaper at Eton, who has made a study of me, who has the smell of sulfur lingering in his lab, whose house is locked at both ends as if he were keeping enormous secrets … and he’s writing a note!

  Sherlock springs to his feet.

  Hide regards him. “Master Holmes?”

  “A … a cramp in my foot. I’m often bothered by them. I just need to stretch it out.”

  He walks toward Hide. Perhaps I won’t be able to see what he is writing on the note; perhaps it will look too nosey. He eyes the huge stack of papers on the desk instead. Robert Hide notices, scoops them up, and jams them into a deep drawer.

  “I am sorry for the mess, Master Holmes. I tend to write everything down, and then I am left with these piles of rubbish. At every political meeting we have, I insist that we keep notes, minutes, and thorough schedules.” He chuckles.

  Sherlock smiles back at him. I have to see what he is writing. He approaches the desk, glancing from Hide’s face, down his arm toward his writing hand. Hide adjusts his position on the chair, almost as if to block Sherlock’s view. But Holmes is quick. He pivots and looks over his shoulder.

  Robert Hide’s handwriting! He imagines rushing to Lestrade, laying it all before him, sending the Force off to Blackheath Village.

  TWENTY POUNDS TO THE BEARER OF THIS NOTE.

  His heart sinks. The handwriting is noth
ing like the Spring Heeled Jack’s.

  “Did you not believe me, Master Holmes?” asks Hide genially.

  “You, uh … you made it out for twenty pounds, not ten.”

  “Yes, I wish you hadn’t seen that either. Mr. Stevenson is truly in need these days.”

  Louise embraces Hide and thanks him. In moments, she is gone. Hide keeps Sherlock engaged for a long time after she leaves, talking about how he has helped to improve her speech, increasing her vocabulary, reminding her not to drop her Hs. He wants her to have more in life. He goes on and on, obviously wanting Louise to have a head start on the boy, so she won’t worry about being pursued. But Sherlock has no interest in chasing her. He is feeling terrible. He suspected as good a man as England has, peering over his shoulder when he was secretly giving this poor girl and her family more than she had asked for.

  “You are indeed a suspicious young man, Holmes.”

  “Sometimes, too much so.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. From what I hear of you, I understand you are a brilliant sort, a future detective.”

  “I doubt that, sir. I may be leaving London soon, to start a new life.”

  “What a shame. I could use someone with your wits. I’m sure I need not tell you that every day many children starve in this city. And yet, there is enough wealth in England for all of us to share. The problem is not scarcity, it is greed. I asked Miss Stevenson a good deal about you when she first mentioned you, and I was impressed by what she said. Should you ever want to work with me, I would be glad to employ you.”

  Sherlock Holmes leaves Blackheath downcast. Because of his success with the Whitechapel murder, the Brixton gang, and the Rathbone kidnapping, he had come to think highly of himself, as if he could solve any crime put before him. But good fortune had obviously been with him. It is indeed ridiculous to think that a boy his age could do what Scotland Yard could not. There had been times when he had thought that before, but now his inadequacy is really sinking in. He is at a dead end. He has absolutely no idea who the Spring Heeled Jack is, not a clue.