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
It 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 buildi
ng. 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.”
“I … I am ready to fight evil, to collar the villains who have attacked Miss Leckie. I am as serene as the Lake District.”
“Are you?”
“Look to yourself, Sherlock Holmes. I have been trained by the best.”
The boy wants to say that is what worries him, but he bites his tongue.
“Your tardiness may have destroyed our opportunity. I will hurry to Queens Gardens. Hopefully, Malefactor has not left yet, and I will not be observed. That would be catastrophic. Wait here and stay out of sight. If all goes well, I will pick you up on the way by.”
Sherlock turns to whisk along Knightsbridge Road, but stops in his tracks.
“Behind the arch! Now!”
“But why? … I don’t see –”
Sherlock snatches Lestrade by the collar and pulls him behind the hulking stone arch.
“He’s coming!”
“I can’t see –”
“He is in disguise, wearing a bowler, glasses, and black beard. I shall tell you when it is time to move.”
Sherlock waits a good minute before he peeks out from behind the gray stones. Sure enough, Malefactor has passed by and is heading down Constitution Hill, exactly like he did this afternoon. The sun is beginning to set.
“We shall keep a good distance. I am guessing he will take the same route.”
And so he does. Sherlock stays well back, much farther than when he followed his rival earlier in the day, so concerned is he about Lestrade’s abilities. The older boy continues to be nervous, holding one arm carefully over the pocket containing the pistol, eyes riveted ahead, obviously in pursuit of someone. Sherlock has to keep reminding him to look nonchalant.
Malefactor begins to discard his disguise once he gets to the other side of Trafalgar Square and into the smaller streets, just as he did before. Lestrade is amazed. But Sherlock makes sure that his detective friend doesn’t get too close a look. In fact, once they have reached Lincoln’s Inn Field, he won’t let the other boy enter the park or stand anywhere near the wrought-iron fence. He wants him somewhere on the far side of the street that surrounds the rectangular field.
The College of Surgeons is at the south end of the park, a big gray building with six Corinthian columns at its regal entrance and a black fence surrounding it. Sherlock knows this place well because Sigerson Bell always talks about it – its basement contains an amazing collection of scientific artifacts and bizarre oddities. The boy has sat in the park many times and stared at the building, imagining its innards. He’s also noticed two things about its exterior: there is a tight walkway between it and another building, about as wide as a man’s shoulders, and a gas lamp almost directly in front on the street. This will be a perfect place for Lestrade to wait, hidden and out of the way, and yet able to see the park. Sherlock is guessing that Malefactor will send his Spring Heeled Jack south of the river tonight, since many attacks have occurred there in working-class areas, and that is where Beatrice lives. The best way to get out of the Lincoln’s Inn Field area and go southward would be to leave the park by the entrance directly in front of the College.
It is a residential area, and only a few people are about at this darkening hour. Sherlock deposits his complaining partner in the walkway by the College, just out of view, telling him to remain silent and still. Lestrade is only to move when Sherlock appears and gives him a signal. Even then, he is to follow behind.
The Irregulars are convening at the opposite side of the field, under a cluster of big trees that provide cover. Sherlock doesn’t dare get close. Instead, he takes a long route around the park and stops at the north-east corner, well out of sight and a good fifty feet away. Still, he is able to look through the bars of the black iron fence and at least make out the outlines of the Irregulars in the growing darkness.
Two gang members are posted as lookouts in the park at a distance from each other and eight more are gathered in a circle around someone. The one in the middle is not Malefactor. Sherlock can see the boss’s tall top hat in the ring of boys looking on. There are eleven visible gang members in the eerie light. There should be twelve Irregulars plus Malefactor, for a total of thirteen. Where are the other two? This makes Holmes nervous. He glances around; he looks back. The shadowy boys are making their circle tighter, closing ranks, so it is difficult to see exactly what the one in the middle is doing. But Sherlock can see that he is tall … and that he appears to be pulling on something that looks like black wings.
Time to leave and rush back to Lestrade – they are about to unleash the Jack!
Sherlock moves slowly at first, trying not to make a sound, but when he is farther away, runs, ignoring the looks he gets from three gentlemen who walk past. He is glancing around, wary of a sudden attack by the two absent Irregulars. His breathing is getting heavier, sounding awfully loud in the quiet park area, but not so loud that as he turns the corner and heads up the street toward the College of Surgeons, he doesn’t hear the sound of a few voices … and someone moaning.
He looks up and sees something hanging from the lamppost in front of the College, a dark lump in the circle of soft light.
“They put him up there so fast I couldn’t even help him. There was two of them, two lads.”
“You saw it?”
“Is he dead?”
“Not by the way he’s moanin’.”
Master Lestrade is hanging from the lamppost, upside down like a bat, tied to it by his long woolen comforter, watched by two respectable-looking men and a couple, the woman averting her eyes.
Sherlock sprints to the post and shinnies up.
“What are you doing lad? That’s not how we should proceed. I’ll call the police.”
“Someone should look into this.”
Sherlock doesn’t want that. It will end his investigation, to say nothing of the deep embarrassment and harm it will cause young Lestrade’s career in the Force. In a minute, Holmes has unknotted the comforter and allowed Lestrade to slide down the post. The older boy crumples on the foot pavement, still groaning. Sherlock undoes the other end of the comforter from his feet and slaps him across the face.
“Get up!”
“I think you should let him be, lad.”
“Police!”
Sherlock pulls Lestrade up onto his pins. The young detective’s eyes are opening and becoming clear.
“Master Holmes! They attacked me so fast I didn’t get to pull out my –” He reaches for his revolver. “It’s gone!”
Sherlock’s heart sinks. They’ve armed the Irregulars with a police revolver. But that is the least of his concerns now.
“Can you run?”
Though Lestrade has taken a blow to the head, Sherlock knows that, despite his inadequacies, the other boy has a deep inner resolve.
“I am as fit as a fiddle!” he says, swiping his bowler hat off the ground and clapping it onto his head. He follows when Holmes starts to run, away from the park and through the narrow roads toward the river.
“Lads! Come back!” one of the spectators calls.
Both boys have the same idea. Go south. Seek Beatrice. She is in trouble.
They get across Blackfriars Bridge in no time, running with everything they have. Once into Southwark, they turn east and head through the smaller lanes, Sherlock leading them along shortcuts. He has no fear tonight – together, these two can fend for themselves – though he wonders what they will do if th
ey encounter the Spring Heeled Jack near the hatter’s shop. Now they have only the horsewhip and their bare hands. Their enemies have the gun, but that doesn’t matter now. They must arrive before the fiend can.
Halfway between Blackfriars Road and Sherlock’s old neighborhood, just past the Barclay and Perkins Brewery, out of breath, they stop momentarily where the London Bridge and Charing Cross Railway Line runs above a street. The boys bend over, hands on their knees, chests heaving. There’s no one on the street but Sherlock Holmes and Master G. Lestrade.
Or so they think.
Holmes is the first to hear the noise – a heavy breathing and low growl above them. He looks up to see a man dressed as a bat, scurrying along the tracks, its wings fluttering in the air. At least he thinks it is man. In some ways, it’s more like an animal.
“Oh!” exclaims Lestrade.
It sees them. For an instant it pauses on the edge of the bridge, looking down, ready to jump. It lets out a full-throated growl. They can see its face, fairly bursting with anger. Its black hair is matted and greasy, something like horns stick out from its scalp, red eyes bulge, a vein stands out on its forehead, and while it perches rather like a vulture, it lets out a cry. “Chaos!” it shrieks, and a blue flame comes from its mouth. It wears huge black boots.
Is this the REAL Jack? Can it be Crew? thinks Sherlock. Fear surges through his veins. He feels sick to his stomach. Were it to attack him now, he wouldn’t be able to move. But it jumps from the tracks onto a nearby building, a long dangerous leap of nearly ten feet, and vanishes into the night.
For a few moments there is silence.
“What, in the name of God, was that?” Lestrade’s voice is quavering.
The Secret Fiend Page 12