The Secret Fiend tbsh-4

by Shane Peacock

  He slips down a familiar little artery, his eyes alert. He has to be vigilant: the only light here comes from the main street’s glow and a few little gas lamps behind windows. He gets down the first street, shoots along another and then turns onto his own.

  His heart sinks when he sees the hatter’s shop. Up above, in their little flat, he spots a dim light. Someone has lodgings in their old home. He knows it isn’t his father. The boy has made enquiries and was told that Wilberforce Holmes is still living near the Crystal Palace in rooms provided for him by that entertainment complex’s owners. It is for the best. Still, Sherlock wishes he could talk to him. He wants to hear his voice and pick his brilliant mind like in the old days. But he can’t. Instead, he sends him letters, visits the Crystal Palace and watches him at a distance, sadly working with his white doves. Sherlock understands that he must stay away from his father, knows that his very presence would remind Wilber not just of his beautiful wife Rose, but of how his son, this son, Sherlock Holmes, caused her death.

  There is a noise above. And this time, it’s close.

  Sherlock looks up. A human bat appears on the edge of the rooftop, right above the window in his old family flat. There is no doubt this time. The figure jumps, swooping down out of the black sky, knocking the boy over, thundering him to the ground. He smacks his head on the cobblestones.

  Everything goes blurry. He tries to look up at it. Is this the fiend’s face? In the fog, it appears incensed – complexion flushed, red eyes angry, spittle on its lips, blue flames coming from its mouth as it speaks in a deep, evil voice. Devil ears rise up in its hair, wings spread out from its body, and claws sprout from its hands. It wears a suit of some sort, striped black and green.

  “Beware Sherlock Holmes! I bring chaos to London! Warn them!”

  Is that what it is saying? He isn’t sure. His vision is fading, growing dark. It stands over him, leans down, and rakes his face. He can feel the blood on his cheeks trickling toward his ears and neck. But he can’t move. It is about to kill him and he is helpless, slipping into unconsciousness.

  But then it rises. Before he blacks out, Sherlock can see its blurred image as if in a dream: it is wearing big, black boots with enormous heels. It stands grinning down at him for a moment, then springs halfway up the wall of the building, climbs to the rooftop and vanishes.

  The boy lies immobile for a moment. But he’s roused by a voice. Someone is calling him again.

  “Sherlock?”

  This voice is lovely.

  “Sherlock!” He sees her porcelain white face, kind black eyes, black hair falling in ringlets down onto his chest as she leans over him, her face within inches of his. She smells of soap. Beatrice.

  “You’ve been attacked! You’re bleeding!”

  “I am fine. It was nothing.”

  “But you’re ’urt!”

  “It was just a thug. He’s gone.”

  “These streets are so ’orrible! Let’s get you inside.”

  She puts his arm over her shoulder and helps him past the bow windows, toward the big wooden door of the shop. Groggy, Sherlock recognizes the old, familiar counter, the many hats – mostly black, some brown – hanging from hooks and on display. He remembers the smell of the mercury, the beaver and rabbit fur, and silk. He had worked here one summer or two, Beatrice often following him around, asking him questions, complementing every clever thing he said.

  She takes him through to the back, to their home. It is warm inside, a fire burns on the hearth. There is no one else around – her father must be out. She guides him to a settee with a torn cover, pulls a blanket over him, then brings him a cup of tea that she’s made for his arrival. In seconds, she is back with a warm cloth.

  Though he takes the tea, he soon pulls off the blanket and sits up.

  “I’m all right.”

  “But you aren’t.”

  He puts his hands up to stop her from cleaning his cuts.

  “Put your ’ands down, Sherlock ’olmes!”

  He does so, immediately. She smiles at him.

  “Now, sit still and we will clean you up.”

  She takes his strong chin in one hand and gently caresses the scrapes on his face. Miraculously, it doesn’t hurt: the touch of a girl on his wounds is soothing. In minutes, he is put to rights.

  “I came here to help you, not the other way around,” says Sherlock. “I am not mortally wounded, you know. Let’s talk about your troubles.”

  “Are you up to it, Sherlock? We could talk another night.”

  “Beatrice, I am fine! It was just a little knock on the head from falling and some scratches.”

  “It is curious,” she says, looking at him.

  “What?”

  “That this rough didn’t rob you. ’e didn’t, did ’e?”

  Sherlock feels in his pockets, finds his two shillings.

  “’e didn’t take your coat, your boots, your shirt, anything.”

  It is curious.

  “’e just attacked you.”

  “He was simply a young tough out for a little pleasure. There are those in this city who find it in violence.”

  “He was young? Did you see ’im clearly?”

  “Uh … no, I just assumed that. My error. I didn’t see him at all. He attacked me from behind.”

  “You couldn’t give a description to the police?”

  “No, there’s no need to.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Sherlock. Shouldn’t they be told? If there is someone beating up people for pleasure, shouldn’t the Force be informed?”

  “There are many attacks like this every day, you know. I think your experience was more important.”

  She blushes.

  “It is so kind of you to ’elp.”

  They settle in to talk. Sherlock gets her to go over the events of two nights past and listens as politely as he can, making it seem as though he is deeply interested. He acts the part of a concerned friend. His mother aspired to singing on the stage, a dream prevented by her class – but she had the talent of an actor in her veins. She often spoke to her son of how thespians exploit those skills. It is all in your head. Find the core of the emotion you want to portray and embody it. You must become the person you want to be. Beatrice feels his gaze on her, looking directly into her eyes, apparently fascinated. And to some extent, he actually is; and not solely because of her beauty. Something attacked him tonight. It was likely just a thug. Half-conscious, his head already filled with fevered ideas after his run through the dark alleys of Southwark, he likely imagined the assailant bore the face of the Jack. But he isn’t entirely sure. And though he doubts there is anything to Beatrice’s story – there are no conclusive facts – there are nagging concerns, feelings he can’t entirely discard; it irritates him to be unable to dispense with them.

  Then, something dawns on him. As he keeps his best fascinated gaze fixed on Beatrice … her words fade into the background.

  What did that thug say? He kept repeating it. “Chaos.” And what did Malefactor say to me? “I enjoy chaos. If chaos doesn’t come to London, I will bring it.”

  Still looking intently at Beatrice, he tries to recall everything he can about the figure that attacked him. It was a good size … in fact, about Crew’s size. He thinks of the shape of the big henchman’s face and it matches; of his singular strength, his athletic ability. He thinks of Crew’s high-pitched voice and recalls that this fiend was trying to lower his own. It had dark hair … and Malefactor’s lieutenant has just dyed his black! And on top of everything, this assailant knew his name, knew where he was going, knew how to follow a victim, and knew the streets. The Irregulars have many tricks up their sleeves. This isn’t a normal criminal act – it bears all the marks of a big brain behind the scenes. Sherlock remembers Malefactor’s promise to kill him. Frighten him first, then murder him. Why did this “Spring Heeled Jack” attack Beatrice Leckie of all people … a friend of his? He may have his answer.

  “Sherlock, are you listeni
ng to me?”

  “Why … yes, Beatrice, of course.”

  “What were my last three words?”

  “Uh … I can’t quite –”

  She giggles. “It’s all right, Master ’olmes. I know young men ’ave much on their minds. Perhaps I am giving you ideas?”

  “You are.”

  “I am?”

  “Beatrice, I might know the identity of your Spring Heeled Jack.”

  “You might?” she looks genuinely surprised.

  “And I may know how to catch him, too.”

  BAT TRAP

  Sherlock returns to the hatter’s shop the very next night. This time he crosses at Westminster Bridge and has everything perfectly timed. When he reaches Whitehall, he sees Beatrice and Louise out in front of him, coming into view exactly on schedule. Beatrice has a pocket watch and he has asked her to get there at precisely half past eight. Big Ben is silent on the Parliament Buildings in front of them. The boy feels for the horsewhip tucked up his sleeve. The girls are to walk slowly and make themselves conspicuous, as he is doing too. His heart is thumping. Crew is large and skilled, capable of murder. But he must trust the arts that Bell has taught him. That morning, before school, after explaining that a cat had scratched his face the previous night, he had asked for more fighting instruction, but of a particular kind.

  “You want what, my boy?”

  “I want to know how I would fight someone who doesn’t play by any rules, a sticky-wicket sort, someone who wants to kill me.”

  “Is there someone like this whom you expect to encounter shortly?”

  “No sir.”

  “I, of course, am a blithering idiot and believe you without question.”

  “But sir –”

  “You must seize him by the unmentionables.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “His meat and vegetables, his cricket equipment, his private machinery!”

  “Sir?”

  “Seize them!”

  The old man leaps at Sherlock, hand out like a claw, his face as red as a rose. Holmes turns and runs from the room.

  “My boy! Come back! I intended to inflict no pain upon your actual person!”

  Sherlock returns very slowly, peeking his head around the corner first, measuring the distance between himself and his excitable instructor, before he re-enters the lab.

  “Take a deep breath, sir.”

  “Yes, my boy, I shall.”

  “Now, tell me exactly what to do. Just tell me.”

  Bell gathers himself.

  “Murderous sorts are usually not cautious sorts. He is apt to make the first move, which is likely to be in the nature of a pounce or a charge. You must let your opponent come at you.”

  “I must?”

  “Yes. Wait until you see the whites of his eyes, as it were!” Bell’s eyes flash. “Come at me!” he screams.

  “If I do so, sir, you must promise to not actually complete the maneuver.”

  Bell looks disappointed. “There is wisdom in what you say. I shall try. Come at me!”

  Sherlock sighs and rushes at the old man who stands still until the boy is almost upon him, then he leaps to the side like a kangaroo and utters a shriek likely heard nowhere west of the jungles of Siam.

  “KEE-AAHH!!!”

  As he does, he brings the heel of his boot down like a sledge hammer toward Sherlock’s leg, stopping less than an inch from shattering his target. Both combatants stand stock still, the boy aghast, the apothecary resisting temptation.

  “Had I followed through with this blow, I would have crushed your patella bone, known to the masses as the kneecap … or snapped either the fibula or tibia, give or take a bone.”

  “I am thankful that you did not.”

  “Your enemy is now a one-legged man and in a rather extraordinary amount of pain. You have him at your command.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Then!” shouts Bell. “You are on him!” With that, Bell leaps upon Sherlock and slams him to the lab floor. “And you seize him by the –”

  “Sir!”

  The apothecary springs to his feet.

  “Quite, my boy, quite. But you asked me what to do when someone is attempting to murder you. I have little time for murder, especially of you. Not my cup of tea! I live it out when asked about such a maneuver!”

  It is almost as if Sigerson Trismegistus Bell once had to fight like that too.

  “So I should –”

  “The point is,” continues Bell, leaning against the lab table now, “you must deliver a crushing blow that puts you to the advantage, then, rather than continuing to fight at a distance, you must take him to the ground … and fight dirty. Get your hands on him … and do him evil. And do it in a forthright manner, wherever you strike! I am sorry to have to speak this way, but you asked me about fighting a devil and I told you. THAT is how you do it.”

  Sherlock keeps Beatrice and Louise in sight, about one hundred feet in front. They are bait that he does not want to lose. As he watches his friend up ahead, he thinks about how she reacted to his plan last night. It wasn’t what he expected. She seemed reluctant to be part of it at first.

  “But you want to do this alone?” she had said.

  “Yes. I have my reasons.”

  “Why, Sherlock? Shouldn’t we bring the police, or at least Master Lestrade?”

  “That won’t be necessary. I have a feeling that this will be a personal encounter, anyway … a fight between me and someone I know.”

  “You do?”

  “When it is over, you won’t be bothered by the so-called Spring Heeled Jack anymore, I assure you.”

  “But this will be very dangerous. I saw ’im clearly – ’is face, ’is strength when ’e carried Louise – I know what ’e is capable of. You must bring ’elp!”

  “I shall have three advantages. First, I have been taught self-defense of a most effective and violent kind. Second, I will bring a weapon with me. And third, he shall not expect to be attacked. I will have the drop on him, as it were.”

  “I still think –”

  “Not another word. Bring Louise, take the same route home you took on the night you were attacked, arriving at Westminster at half past eight.”

  She didn’t seem afraid, not in the least. That surprised him too. Her objections were solely to his being alone, for his safety. She is a brave and remarkable girl, who indeed cares for him.

  He is alert as he approaches the bridge, eyeing the balustrades, the tops of the buildings beyond, the shadows. He keeps rotating his gaze, left hand firmly on the horsewhip. Crew knows how to strike without warning.

  There are a few dim lights in the House of Commons – as always, a sort of golden glow surrounds it. He wonders if Mr. Disraeli is in there somewhere, trying to keep England strong and safe.

  It may be his imagination, but everyone he passes tonight seems to be on edge. There is tension in London. It isn’t surprising. The newspapers have been carrying many lead stories about the potential for revolution on the streets of England – some adding that “the Jew” is not the right man for the job at this time in history. And today, right on the front page of The Times, no less, was another unsettling article that will have caught many eyes.

  A faithful reader of the Daily Telegraph and any sensation paper he can find, Sherlock would not even have seen it had Dupin not drawn his attention its way.

  “Sherlock ’olmes!” cried the old vendor, as the boy made his way through Trafalgar Square to school that morning. “There is something in The Times that I knows you will be wanting to see.” He snapped open the paper and poked a finger at a headline.

  DISTURBING ATTACK AT WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

  A frightening incident, drawn to this reporter’s attention by an anonymous source, seems to have taken place on Westminster Bridge in the early morning of February 29. Two young ladies, names withheld to protect their reputations, are said to have been attacked by a fiend dressed as the Spring Heeled Jack. Thou
gh when first questioned about this, Scotland Yard denied it as “nonsense,” another source momentarily gave it credence, and upon further enquiries, The Yard admitted that a complaint had indeed been made, but for “good reason” had not been taken seriously. The original report characterized the attack as a violent one, in which one young lady was temporarily absconded with, and languished, for a short while, near death. Now, this morning, comes several citizens’ reports, communicated directly to the office of The Times, of a second attack in a Clerkenwell alley in the early hours, where a similar fiend menaced a young woman. At press time, the Force had not commented.

  On his way home from school, Sherlock had waited outside Scotland Yard until young Lestrade came out the door. The boy followed him for at least a hundred yards. When the older lad paused, waiting for a chance to dart across the street between noisy omnibuses and hansom cabs, Sherlock had spoken softly into his ear.

  “Read The Times today?”

  Lestrade had bolted forward in front of a big coach, whose coachman shouted at him. “Do you WANT to be trampled, you idiot!”

  Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as Lestrade jumped back to the foot pavement and gathered himself.

  “That’s twice I’ve spooked you lately!”

  “I am in no mood for jokes.”

  “I am sure. Were you the police source?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “But they weren’t yesterday.”

  “Hobbs, that fool reporter, devious man – you have his acquaintance, I believe – sought me out and asked me about the incident as if he already had the facts.”

  “Which he did, such as they are.”

  “So it seems. I didn’t think to deny it until it was out of my mouth.”

  “One must always be dispassionate in police affairs, not let one’s desires, shall we say, one’s affections, alter one’s –”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “Pursue cases because they are right to pursue, my friend, not because you care for anyone involved.”