But at that instant, Sherlock notices a ripple in the crowd. Someone is plowing his way through, shouting at the others and pushing them aside. In a flash, he is at the center of the circle too. He stands between the brute who knocked the woman to the ground and the lady, facing the rough. The crowd gasps and goes silent. It is Robert Hide. He turns to the lady, offers her his hand and helps her to her feet, then nods to three people in the mob and instructs them to return her to her carriage.
Fascinated, Sherlock rushes through the crowd toward the front. He notices John Bright approaching, passes John Bedford Leno, the most important Reform League leader in the nation, rumored to have had a meeting with the Fenians, during which they asked him to help start a Civil War. He claims he wasn’t tempted, but many wonder if he’s loyal, if he keeps secrets. Sherlock brushes by two men – one well-dressed, his facial hair smoothly groomed and as black as coal, the other a little older, the beard turning white and spreading onto his chest like Father Christmas’s – Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx, notorious German authors who live here now and predict the working class will soon rule the world. Bright is pushing toward the front of the crowd, looking concerned.
“London! Listen to me!” shouts Robert Hide. “This is not the way. This is NOT the way!” There are shouts of disapproval but he spins around, glares back at the loudmouths, and silences them. One of his looks is for Alfred Munby. “Change MUST come! But change will come through debate and democracy!” Only a few groans are heard. “Fear is ruling our streets now! Fear! But our government has been put on notice! It WILL change! Keep the pressure on the parliamentarians!” A huge cheer goes up. “If they do not respond … they know the consequences!” An enormous cry of approval cascades over Trafalgar Square.
But as it does, the Force enters the area on horseback. And their steeds are not at a trot; they are galloping. Screams are heard from the back rows and people begin to scatter. Sherlock takes to his heels. He heads for higher ground, toward the National Art Gallery. The mob flees. People run into each other, shouting, pursued by police and horses, Bobbies club protestors with truncheons. Several men knock over a wagon and light it on fire. The flames catch in the wind and shoot high into the air, climbing up the Nelson Monument. Union men try to fight back. Policemen and protestors grapple on the ground. More fires are lit. Chaos descends on the square in the center of London.
As Sherlock looks back, he spots Malefactor in the midst of the mob, walking through it with Grimsby and Crew, calm as the Lake District. He is grinning. His eyes meet Sherlock’s and he stops. His smile widens and he points at Holmes and beckons him to come toward him. His look is demonic.
Sherlock turns and runs again. As he approaches the Gallery’s stone stairway, he sees Irene standing way up at the top, today dressed more like an actress than the respectable young girl he used to know. Her dress is a loud purple and hugs her frame. It shows her slender wrists and forearms, exposed even on this cool day. Just a light red shawl is thrown over her shoulders and she has put a touch of rouge on her cheeks. But he feels sorry for her – she looks terrified. He rushes up the stairs to her.
“Sherlock, what is happening?”
“You must get out of here!”
“Was that Mr. Hide? Was he speaking?”
“He was trying to subdue them.”
“Is that Malefactor?”
“You must get out of here. Now!”
He takes her hand and ushers her to a place beside the Gallery’s tall front doors, behind the pillars, away from the crowd. Within minutes, down below, the police begin to gain control of things. The crowd is being dispersed. Several wagons from the London Fire Brigade have arrived and are putting out the flames. Malefactor stands in the center of the square, Grimsby and Crew on either side, staring up the steps toward Sherlock and Irene.
Holmes returns the look. He waits a little longer for the area to clear more and then descends the steps with Irene, stomping directly toward his enemy. Church bells are tolling in the distance. The police, noticing the eccentrically dressed boy’s companion, allow them to enter the square. Malefactor begins to look uneasy.
Sherlock drags Irene right up to him and the two boys confront each other, almost surrounded by the police. Grimsby and Crew close ranks and stand closer to their boss.
“I know ALL about you!”
“Keep your voice down, Jew-boy,” says Malefactor, through his clenched teeth.
“Hear this. And you hear it too, Miss Doyle.” He steps right up to Malefactor. “You are a two-faced fake. You tell made-up stories about your past to Irene. Even your life here on the streets is a lie.”
Malefactor glances toward Irene and back at Sherlock.
“Last night, I followed you through the streets to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I was with the boy your little thugs hanged upside down from the lamppost.”
“I have no idea what you –”
“And I saw you all in that semi-circle … while one of your number dressed up as the Spring Heeled Jack!”
“I –”
“I am guessing it was this over-sized pig, Crew – the one with the beautiful black hair.”
The big lad is impassive, but Grimsby steps forward, his fists balled. Malefactor instantly places his cane across the smaller boy’s throat, holding him back. He glances up at a nearing Bobbie on horseback.
“You are mistaken.”
“About Crew? Or all of it? I know one of you dressed up as the Jack. Don’t deny it.”
“Is that true, Malefactor?” asks Irene.
“Irene, you know Holmes doesn’t like me. We have discussed this before.”
“Is it true? Do NOT lie to me.”
“Only partially.”
“A family was murdered last night, an entire family!” cries Irene. “Three little girls!” She steps closer to Sherlock.
“And I, Miss Doyle, had nothing to do with it, on my honor.”
“Your honor!”
“Close your mouth, Holmes, or you will regret it!”
“What do you mean by that?” asks Irene.
“I mean, simply, Miss Doyle, that he is in error. And were he to pursue a case against me, he would have occasion to regret it because the police would discover my innocence. Yes, we dressed up Crew as the Jack. But we were just having fun. I contributed to the Spring Heeled scare because I am an anarchist … that is my political philosophy. There are many interesting folks, Radicals, with similar ideas. We had NOTHING to do with the murders. You know, Miss Doyle, that I would not do that … that I would not harm little girls.”
“I believe you.”
“And I do not.”
“You are welcome then, Master Holmes, to examine the costume we used. You are welcome to take it, and us, to Scotland Yard, and discover if anything at the crime scene matches anything to do with us. I make that offer knowing well the implicit danger into which it puts me and my faithful company.”
Lestrade might laugh me out of the building.
Irene smiles and looks to Sherlock. “Satisfied? I understand that Malefactor is not perfect, and he and I disagree about many things. But I think, Master Holmes, that he has proven something to you just now.”
Sherlock is glaring at his rival. “You cannot deny that you promised to kill me.”
“I can. That is a fantasy; your problem, not mine. You have a fevered imagination. You do not like what I do or my philosophy, so you make it much worse, and invent horrible things that are not true. The world is a difficult place and I participate as best I can, but I am not a savage.”
“Have you ever been to Queens Gardens?”
Malefactor’s face turns white. He becomes mute.
“Sir?” asks Grimsby.
“Stand here now,” continues Sherlock, “and tell Miss Doyle to her face that everything you told her about your past is true.”
“COME!” screams Malefactor, seizing both his lieutenants by their coats and pushing them away. “We must be off! On the double!”
“Malefactor?” asks Irene. “What does this mean? Answer him.”
But the criminal has shoved the other two thugs hard, sent them sprawling away, and turned away himself. As he starts to run, they run with him. When he gets to the far end of the square, he looks back and catches Sherlock’s eye. It is an expression that would freeze the devil.
“I don’t know who to believe anymore,” says Irene, looking stunned. “You or him or my father, or … anyone, even Robert Hide. I think … I just need to believe in myself.”
Sherlock must reach out to her. Now is the time – she seems ready to reject Malefactor. But as he steps toward her, he sees someone scurrying across the square close by, whose very presence stops him.
“Beatrice?”
At first, the hatter’s daughter acts as if she doesn’t hear him, but she then comes to a halt.
“Sherlock ’olmes?”
“Who is that?” asks Irene.
“A friend of mine.”
“A friend? She’s pretty.”
“I … I hadn’t noticed.”
Beatrice looks at Irene and her attractive dress and then glances down at her own, tattered and stained. She fixes her hair, falling out as it is from her brown bonnet. “I … I must be going,” she says, and darts away. Sherlock wonders if she was here when the riot happened. He hopes she was spared it.
“So must I,” says Irene, and stomps away.
He is left alone in Trafalgar Square. He wants to run after them, but doesn’t know which one to pursue. He wishes he could be in two places at once.
He tells himself to stop thinking about them. Irene has changed; and Beatrice is protected now. Suddenly, there is no reason to think about the Spring Heeled Jack anymore either – Malefactor is a liar, but Sherlock doesn’t believe he is lying about the murders. He would never offer to go to the police with his Jack’s costume if he were guilty of that gruesome crime. It doesn’t make sense. These latest attacks don’t seem like his enemy’s style anyway. Not clever enough.
I have no stake in this anymore. Best to let the authorities deal with it. But London is nearly in flames. Can I just sit by and watch?
“Sherlock?”
He has been standing alone in the center of the square for much longer than he realizes – the fires smoldering around him, the crowd gone, just a few policemen left, Irene and Beatrice long vanished. He didn’t notice the figure approaching him … but then, this person is good at sneaking up on people.
“Master Lestrade … you startled me.”
“I was just coming to Denmark Street to see you.”
“I believe our score is two to one on startling one another of late. That’s in my favor.”
The young detective-in-training suppresses a smile. He doesn’t appear to be in a mood to laugh. In fact, he looks terrible. And Sherlock has the sense that it isn’t entirely about the riot.
“Coming to see me? Well, I just happened to meet Miss Leckie – much more interesting for you to speak with her. She went that way.” He points south. “You could probably catch up to –”
“No, I want to see you.” The look on his face grows darker. It scares Sherlock.
“About what?”
“About this.” He takes a piece of paper from his pocket. “I went with my father to the crime scene. It was horrible. There was so much blood. I … I saw a tiny photograph of the three little girls … in their hovel. It was lying on the dirt floor near the straw that they use to sleep on. The frame was smashed and it was covered with blood.” He looks down at the paper again. “I … I don’t know how I was able to find this when my father couldn’t. I was outside, between the house and the marsh. It was crumpled up, as if it had fallen out of someone’s pocket.”
“What is it?”
“I didn’t show it to my father. I promise.”
He holds the paper so Sherlock can read it. It is splattered with scarlet. Though it is difficult to tell, the note looks as though it is written in the same hand used on the villain’s other two messages – the one left on Louise Stevenson and the one on Beatrice’s door.
The boy reads it.
SHERLOCK HOLMES ON OUR SIDE.
THE FLIGHT OF LOUISE STEVENSON
“I can’t keep this from my father for long. It is my duty to show him.”
“Thank you. But you don’t think that –”
“I will give you twenty-four hours to either leave London for good … or help me catch the fiend who murdered that family.”
“I –”
“If I am empty handed at the end of that time, I will make up a story that I went back to the crime scene and found it then. When I show it to Father, he will pursue you until he catches you. And he will. I must soon reveal this, Master Holmes. This fiend is a savage killer. I cannot withhold evidence. I cannot play with people’s lives.”
“Surely, you don’t truly suspect me. That’s absurd!”
“Is it?”
“You know me.”
“Do I? Do I really, Sherlock? Think about it. Even if we were close friends, what would I know about you that matters? My father often talks about people being shocked when a neighbor commits a crime. He seemed like such a nice man … they always say that.”
“But –”
“What is going on in my mind right now, for example?”
Sherlock examines him, but Lestrade cuts him off.
“Don’t try, Holmes. I know you are a self-described genius of observation, you have parlor tricks that help you tell others all about themselves, their heritage, their home, whether they are left-handed or right … that they live in Hounslow. But you cannot tell me what I feel. You cannot tell me if, deep down, I am actually a terrible person or a saint, what I harbor deep in my soul.”
Sherlock can’t disagree.
“I do not know that you are not helping this fiend, that you are not in fact, the Spring Heeled Jack himself. You play with fire, Holmes, you love exploring criminality … perhaps it has excited you too much? They say that villains, in the end, are more interesting than rest of us. Perhaps you’ve given in to the thrill of –”
“No, Lestrade. No, it doesn’t excite me. It never will.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. But … I will trust you to the degree that I will give you a chance to prove otherwise. Most in my position wouldn’t even do that. I may be making a terrible mistake. I will give you twenty-four hours. That’s all I can allow. Tomorrow, Monday, at noon, I shall go to my father with this note.”
He is holding it up, extending it toward Sherlock, who reaches for it so he can examine it more closely. Lestrade snaps it away and puts it into his pocket.
“When you have something, anything, let me know immediately.”
He walks away, across the smoldering square toward Scotland Yard.
Sherlock’s mind is racing. Twenty-four hours. His entire way of life could soon be over. He knows nothing about the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. Finding him in a day seems impossible. Perhaps, given the odds, it would be smart to spend his time readying himself to depart, packing up, speaking to Sigerson Bell, going south to the Crystal Palace to talk to his father. Saying goodbye to Irene … and Beatrice.
When he thinks of Miss Leckie, he is reminded of Louise Stevenson, and that gives him a tiny spark of energy, turns his mind back to the crimes. She is more than she seems … as most women are. Sherlock wonders. Should I make enquiries about her? He can’t give up. He thinks of his mother. He can’t give up on her and on what he believes he must do with his life.
There is more than Louise to investigate, he tells himself, trying to gather more energy. I must look at that note, examine it carefully. What about Malefactor? Could he be forced to help?
“Lestrade!”
The other boy hears the shout at the far end of Trafalgar Square. He waits as Sherlock runs up to him.
“Care for a stroll?”
Yesterday, Sherlock hadn’t told Lestrade exactly where Malefactor lived. He merely mentione
d that he resided in Knightsbridge and then asked him to wait for him at the Wellington Arch.
“You have twenty-four hours. You should be –”
“Malefactor lives in a large white house in Queens Gardens in Knightsbridge. He knows as much about the criminal underworld as anyone in the city. Though I am now certain he or one of his colleagues is not the Spring Heeled Jack we seek, I am guessing he would have a great deal to contribute concerning the possible identity of the villain. He may not know exactly who he is, but he likely has an idea, and if he doesn’t, he knows people who will put us on the right track.”
“But why would he tell us anything?”
“Because I will knock on his door, his secret hiding place, with the son of the senior police inspector of Scotland Yard by my side. What secrets are inside those doors? We can threaten to reveal all about him, and not just to the police, but to his evil little cohorts, who appear to know nothing of his double life.”
“Blackmail?”
“Blackmail.”
Sherlock figures that he was in the square for more than an hour after the riot, and that it will take them more than half an hour to get to Queens Gardens. He is guessing that his sudden revelation spooked Malefactor, that he rushed home to get ready to leave … or that he is staying away from home, planning to sneak in late at night and prepare his departure. He and Lestrade shall either catch him at home or force the door … and wait for him inside. Holmes shall rip that beard from his face!
“Master Lestrade,” says Sherlock after they have been walking in silence for a few moments, “I see you have that magnifying glass with you.”
The other boy’s face colors a little. He not only took to carrying a glass because he had seen Sherlock using one a few months ago, but Holmes has the infuriating habit of knowing when it is on his person, by identifying the bulge in his coat pocket. Today he had pushed it farther down and thought he had disguised its presence.
The Secret Fiend Page 14