People aren’t what they seem, not even friends. Everyone is a potential suspect at all times. Trust no one. That is the only wise thing that Malefactor has ever said. But … Sigerson Bell, dressed up as a fiend? It doesn’t make any sense. After all, the villain had black hair, wasn’t old…. But didn’t the apothecary have a jar of black liquid in his hand tonight, and a full-faced mask? He might have performed some magic, transformed himself … or put someone else up to it. He thinks again of the blue flames coming from the Jack’s mouth. Sherlock chides himself. What I am considering is ridiculous.
Then again, nothing about this incident makes sense. And girls never do, especially the ones who attract you. First there was Irene Doyle, now Beatrice Leckie.
Women!
He feels in his pocket for the villain’s note. It isn’t there.
SECRETS
Sherlock doesn’t hear Sigerson Bell leave the shop later that morning. Bell is gone before the sun is up – before the boy awakes – and doesn’t return until late at night. Holmes decides to keep a close watch over him the next day. It is a Sunday, the lad’s day off, but he rouses at the same time as the old man, jumping up from his narrow bed in the wardrobe the instant he hears feet descending the spiral staircase. His master nearly falls down the remaining steps when he spots him. The apothecary adores his young charge, but has resigned himself to the fact that rising early is not one of the boy’s strong points. He is a good lad, a hard worker … once he gets going.
They lock eyes and stare at each other for a long time, neither saying a word. Suspicion hangs thick in the air.
“My boy!”
“Yes, sir?”
“What is the occasion? You are out of bed prior to my descent!”
“I thought I’d turn over a new leaf. I plan to rise early from this day forward.”
“And pigs shall fly from the rear ends of donkeys,” says Bell under his breath.
“What was that, sir?”
“Not a thing, my boy, not a thing, just an expression of admiration. I embrace this initiative on your part. Shall you be fixing my breakfast as well?”
That is indeed his plan.
Everything seems to be almost normal with Sigerson Bell this morning. That is, as normal as things usually are around the shop.
As the curve-backed old man does his morning calisthenics of jumping jacks and running on the spot and hanging upside down from the rafters to send as much blood as possible to his brain and twisting himself into extraordinary poses that he holds for extended periods, Sherlock works away at the morning’s repast: headcheese and prawns, to be washed down with buttermilk. The boy glances at the apothecary as he toils, thinking about what he knows of him. He is surprised to realize that when he actually considers it, the answer is nothing. Sigerson Bell is very good at learning about others, but rarely speaks intimately of himself. Where did he come from? Who were his parents? Was he ever married? Who is this man with whom I have so thoroughly thrown in my lot? Bell won’t be attending church this morning; he never does, nor does he insist that the boy attend either … what kind of Englishman does that?
Their Sunday paper, The News of the World, will come later in the day, so they have no choice but to converse as they begin to consume their little feast. Bell, as usual, plows into it like a starving man, eating with his mouth wide open and head down. Sherlock regards him. After a while, the old man looks up, gobs of headcheese evident between his teeth.
“Is there something on your mind, Master Holmes?”
“I was just thinking.”
“You were? Of what?”
“Of you.”
Sigerson Bell swallows awkwardly, then retrieves a stained blanket that rests on a nearby stool and wipes his face.
“How very kind of you. I am well, thank you.” He sounds disconcerted.
“I wasn’t enquiring after your health, sir. I was just thinking –”
“You mentioned that.”
“– that you have never told me anything of your past.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Bell resumes eating. Sherlock keeps staring. Finally, the old man sighs and looks back.
“I am not given to airing my autobiography. I think it best for others to know little of me. I function better as a question mark. I believe I treat you well, and that your knowing intimacies of my past will do nothing to enrich our relationship or our conversation. In fact, it may hinder them.”
“But you know a good deal of me.”
“I deduced much of it. And you volunteered the rest.”
“You sound like an acquaintance of mine.”
“Who is that?”
“One Malefactor.”
“Ah, yes, the boy who operates the street gang. Thank you for casting me in such lovely company.”
“Only in what you just said, sir, only in that. Malefactor also cautions others to hide their pasts.”
“Well, in that, and in that alone, he has a point; though such secrecy is not for everyone. Some are given to displaying their lives, every intimate detail of them, for others to paw through. And yet, no one can ever reveal all about himself. Everyone has secrets.”
“Would you object to telling me something about your past, sir, just something, it need not be intimate.”
“Anything?”
“Yes.”
A disturbed look crosses his face. “I had a wife … and she was a witch.”
Sherlock can’t believe how bitter the old man sounds. He has never heard him like this.
“Sir, might I be so bold as to suggest that that is rather unkind, and perhaps beneath you. No matter how difficult she might have been to live with, I do not think you should call her names.”
“But she was a witch.”
“Sir, I must repeat that –”
“She was an actual witch.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She was skilled in the ways of witchcraft. That doesn’t mean evil. She was a God-fearing lady.”
“But you said it in such an angry manner, Mr. Bell, that I thought –”
“She died when we were young.” Tears come to his eyes. “She was just twenty-four, my boy, the most beautiful witch in the world. It was so unfair.”
“I am sorry.”
“You see what comes of speaking of intimate details! I told you before that I believe in the alchemical concept of optimism. I prefer to live in the present, neither looking backward, nor ahead. Enough!”
And that is all Sherlock can draw from Sigerson Bell that day.
But there is much that seems suspicious in the old man’s actions. And Bell likely thinks the same of the boy. All day they play a sort of cat-and-mouse game, speaking less frequently than usual, constantly glancing at each other and quickly looking away, neither leaving the shop for a moment, despite the sunny late-winter day outside, both puttering away at seemingly unimportant duties – Sherlock cleaning up in places that appeared already quite tidy, the apothecary mixing solutions and mixing them again. For awhile, Bell turns to his skeletons, taking them down from their nails, gripping them in his arms and manipulating their bones, practicing his new art of skeletal adjustment, which he plans to use on unsuspecting patients with spinal ailments in the near future. He has come to the conclusion that had someone done something similar for him, he would not be as bent over as he is today.
Though Sherlock wants to keep his eye on Bell, he can’t stand being cooped up forever. So, just after supper, he goes out for a walk. On his way, he spots Dupin, the legless newsboy, strapped to his wheeled platform, rolling along with his folding kiosk and leftover papers, as he leaves Trafalgar Square. The sight of him gives Sherlock an idea.
“Mr. Dupin!”
The ageless newsboy pulls over near the gray exterior of Northumberland House, out of the way of pedestrians. Sherlock approaches, and smiles down at him.
“Ah, Master ’olmes. What adventures is you in pursuit of these days?”
“These days, I am me
rely a student and an employee of Sigerson Bell.”
“And a fine thing it is to be gainfully employed, even by that strange ’un. None of your snoopin’ into criminal affairs anymore?”
“I am still a boy, Dupin, and I still have a great deal to learn. Best leave adult concerns to adults.”
“And by the look in yer eye, guvna, you have something more you’d like to learn at this very moment.”
“Do you recall the Spring Heeled Jack? Not from the Penny Dreadfuls. Wasn’t there a real one at one time?”
“Indeed there was. Why do you ask?”
“I … am simply curious. Do you have any accounts of him in your notes?”
Dupin is not just a newspaper vendor but an expert in everything to do with the news. Among his few possessions is an extraordinary catalogue of almost every important event from the last few decades. It is referenced and cross-referenced. But his pages are only slightly better informed than his remarkable, retentive brain.
“That was long ago, you know, when I was a lad.”
“Were you selling papers then?”
“I was. It was my first year, the second season of our Victoria’s reign.”
“Can you tell me anything more?”
Dupin regards him with a smile. “Why?”
Sherlock can do nothing but smile back. He fingers a shilling in his pocket. It is all he owns. Would Dupin give him the information for cash?
“Put your money away, Master ’olmes, but promise me this: if anything comes of whatever you is after, let me know the details.”
“I fear, Mr. Dupin, that if anything does come of it, you will soon know as much as I.”
Dupin grins. “Let me see.” He slings his kiosk off his back, finds a wooden box and eases it down onto the hard foot pavement as if it contains the crown jewels. He begins flicking through its contents: uniform, neatly cut pieces of paper filled with information.
“1838 … A … H … S … Sp … Spring ’eeled Jack. ’ere it is.”
He pulls a small sheet out of the box. “First struck late in that year. Both in London and in the vicinity, face like the devil, claws on ’is ’ands, red eyes, blue flames from his mouth –” Dupin can’t help but laugh. “There were many reports that year and next and into the ’40s, many imitators it seems, then reports fall off.”
“What did he wear?”
“Wear?” Dupin gives him a questioning look, then peruses the account again. “A costume … ’ad wings, dressed somewhat like a bat, black and green.”
Sherlock swallows.
“Did they arrest anyone?”
Dupin reads again. “It seems … they brought in one man, respectable sort, but never prosecuted. ’pparently it weren’t ’im. No one else was ever accused.”
“Do they say how old the Jack was?”
“I recall that meself. I recall too, that it was almost exclusively women that ’e attacked, or just frightened usually, never badly ’urt any of ’em, though there were folks imitating ’im in other places that killed their victims. ’e was supposed to be, ’ccording to these ladies ’e scared, a man of nearly forty.”
Sherlock walks back to the shop deep in thought. It wore a black and green costume. And it struck about thirty years ago. He doesn’t know Sigerson Bell’s age, but is guessing he is about seventy. This apothecary, with the chemical magic at hand to turn his eyes red and his breath blue … who hides his past, was nearly forty in 1838.
When Holmes returns, the sun has long since set, but Bell is still wrestling with his skeletons. In fact, as the boy enters, he is attempting to adjust a neck bone … and snaps the skull clean off the body. He utters a little curse under his breath.
“Oh, rat flatulence!” He turns to Sherlock. “I have had enough of this, and I am taking to my bed.”
“But it is still early, sir.”
“And I am fatigued. Is that all right with you, Sir Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”
The old man looks guilty. “Quite all right, my boy. That was my frustration speaking.”
But Sherlock isn’t sure he believes it. Once Bell is upstairs and apparently in bed, the boy makes noises downstairs, as if he is still working. At the appropriate time, he blows out the candles, turns off their gas lamp, undresses and gets under the blankets in his wardrobe. But he doesn’t sleep. He listens. He hears a few horses and carriages go by outside, a few shouts in the street, but nothing from the floor above.
About four hours later, the pitch-black stillness of the shop is broken by a noise overhead.
Sigerson Bell is on his feet. Sherlock listens for the sound of his chamber pot being slid out from under his bed, for the familiar noise of pee spurting in irregular squirts into that vessel. But there’s nothing of that sort. Instead, the boy hears the old man putting on his clothes! Moments later, he is coming down the stairs! Sherlock hears him putter through the lab, knock into something and still it. Then, there’s a low voice.
“Dog flatulence!”
Silence.
The footsteps move again, through the lab, into the front room. The outside door squeaks open and closes.
MORE SECRETS
Sherlock has his trousers, waistcoat, and frock coat on in seconds. He only glances into his little mirror, pats his hair into place in a rush. He gets out the door and spies the old man way down Crown Street, heading toward the river. Bell wisely avoids the dangerous Seven Dials and keeps going straight south to The Strand. Sherlock has to stay on his toes because the old man looks back several times, as if concerned that he is being followed. He has something tucked under an arm.
At The Strand, so unlike itself now because it is nearly deserted, the boy follows Bell as he heads east toward the Old City. They pass St. Paul’s Cathedral, bare-foot waifs lying on its steps. Only the odd hansom cab passes, that signature London sound of clopping hooves now a lonely noise. It is still too early even for the working class to be starting out, and not a single milkwoman is yet in sight. Sherlock keeps his eyes open for shadows lurking down the alleyways. Malefactor and his gang could beat you, strip you, and clean out your pockets in a flash, unobserved at this hour. Respectable, sober folks know to keep from the streets in the early morning. Sherlock once had a sort of admiration for Malefactor, but now despises him. He would just as soon have him arrested as speak to him.
Up ahead, Bell seems to have no worries. He scoots along, bent over, never looking side to side, just occasionally behind. He is fearless, thinks Sherlock. But anyone as skilled in the arts of self-defense as he, is frightened of no man. In fact, the boy pities any thug who might try to accost him.
They pass south of Cheapside and the old man swings down to Thames Street next to the river. Sherlock can smell it. The Tower of London looms up ahead, looking ominous against the black sky. The boy’s breath is evident in the cold night.
Bell stops suddenly, pulls the costume and mask out from under his arm as if readying it to put on, then scurries into one of those impossibly narrow streets in this ancient part of the city. Everything here is cramped, made for smaller people of a bygone era.
By the time Sherlock turns into the street, Bell has vanished. He must have entered one of the buildings. The boy begins examining them. They are block-like and jammed together, made of dark granite, gone black from centuries of grime and decades of soot. A few have business names on plaques, a barrister here, an exporter there. But one sign stops him in his tracks. It is unlike any other. There are no words, just a symbol containing a compass and a square joined together, with the large letter G in between. The door looks very heavy, curiously bolted from the outside. Is it locked from the inside as well? If so, what a strange entrance.And he thinks it especially so when he sees a dim light through the cracks – someone is in there! Somehow, that person can lock and unlock the outside bolt from the inside. The door also features remarkable decorations, carved right into it – a whole series of pyramids each with a single eye peering out. Should he enter
? Sherlock carefully draws the bolt, then reaches out and grips the handle. Suddenly, the door swings open and just as suddenly, he is on the ground. Someone has taken his legs out from under him with a deft move of a foot and an expert push from a forearm. His assailant stands over him.
“My boy?”
His master is astride him … frantically throwing off a black and green costume.
“Mr. Bell?”
“What, in the name of Hermes, are you doing here?”
“One might well ask the same question of you, sir.”
The old man offers a hand and raises him to his feet.
“Yes, well, one might indeed, I suppose.” Bell glances back at his costume, now lying in the entrance behind him, and tries to kick it through the doorway. “You are such a curious lad. Let us step away down the street here and I shall explain.”
He is trying to get me away from the building. Sherlock looks above the doorway to the roof, searching for a clue to its identity. He sees nothing that helps, but then notices the costume, still lying on the threshold, not quite all the way through the door.
“By all means,” says the boy. As the old man relaxes in response, turning his back to pick up the costume to throw it indoors, Sherlock makes a quick move, darts past Bell, and seizes the material. In an instant he is standing out in the street, several yards from the apothecary, examining it. It is mostly black, with stripes of green, but not really stripes – they are symbols of some sort, moons and suns, and more compasses and squares, more of those pyramids with eyes. Then he spots some lettering, written in a sort of Elizabethan calligraphy – The Hermetic Order of the Sacred Dawn.
The Secret Fiend Page 3