“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.
“Yes, I do.”
“May I examine the note with it?”
“No, you may not.”
Holmes stops. “Why not?”
“Because I do not trust you. You shall steal the note and make a run for it.”
“Then allow me a moment with the glass, examining the note whilst you hold it in your forever trustworthy hands.”
They are at St. James’s Park. Lestrade walks over to a bench, Sherlock following, sits down, pulls out the glass, hands it over, and holds up the red-stained note. After Holmes’s momentary examination, they are on their way again. Neither boy says anything for awhile. Lestrade smiles.
“Nothing I didn’t notice?”
“Nothing. I must apologize.”
Three remnants of horse hairs on the note; blood a strange color, not clotting in the usual way.
Just past Hyde Park Corner, seemingly out of the blue, Sherlock asks a question. “Did you find this note on a roadway?”
“No, it was out in the marsh. I told you that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure.”
“Do horses frequent the marsh?”
“Horses? What an absurd question. A horse would get stuck and have to be shot out there. Only an imbecile would take one to the marsh.”
“Not something you would do, then?”
“Watch your mouth, Holmes…. What are you driving at? Did you find some evidence on the note?”
“Not a thing. My head is empty. I cannot wait to unmask Malefactor.”
But when they get to Queens Gardens, the shutters are neither open nor closed. There are no shutters at all!
“Sherlock … are you sure this is the place?”
They notice a well-dressed man coming out the front door.
“Excuse me, sir,” says Lestrade, “is the gentleman who lives here at home?”
“No one lives here, my good fellow. Not anymore.”
“But –”
“I am the house agent.” The man offers a winning smile. “And this magnificent residence is for sale. For sale, I say, not to be let. Most houses in this neighborhood are leased, you know. Not this noble abode.” He motions to it with an extravagant hand gesture. “Are your parents interested in a new home?”
Lestrade looks indignant.
“Messrs. Henry & Edward, Auctioneers and Agents, at your service.” His smile somehow broadens. “In the bow windows of our establishment on Lanyon Street, you shall soon read of this mansion’s charms: gas laid on, carriage drive, four bedrooms, drawing rooms, library, servants’ quarters below the –”
“We do not want to purchase,” interjects Sherlock. “We know the owner.”
The house agent looks Holmes up and down. His smile dissolves and is replaced by a sneer. At first it seems as though he won’t deign to answer, but finally he speaks, addressing Lestrade.
“Actually, I barely made his acquaintance. A youngish man with an enormous, black beard, almost too large for his age?”
“That’s him,” says Sherlock. “We are here to see him on important business.”
“Then, you must seek him elsewhere. We received a note about an hour ago, telling us to meet him here. It was the most extraordinary thing. The note asked if we would pay him exactly half of what this house is worth and that we could keep the profit when we sold it. I was to bring him bank notes and come instantly. We, of course, were happy to oblige. When I arrived, he had three wagons on the street and they were already loaded with furniture and other household effects. The house is quite bare inside. I saw him only briefly. He had to sign a contract, which he was reluctant to do, but finally relented. He left about twenty minutes ago.”
“What name did he use?” asks Holmes.
“Use?”
“I have known him for many years, but not his last name. I am curious.”
“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I know that either. His signature is difficult to read. He was in a hurry, and I didn’t ask questions. Why should I? He gave us the deed, my friends.” Another smile. “There was the same scrawl there. I suppose there’s no harm in you looking. It’s right here.”
The house agent pulls the contract out of his pocket. Sherlock examines the name.
It is indeed impossible to decipher. But he can tell it isn’t Malefactor, at least not exactly. It has the same number of syllables, starts with an M … but ends with a Y.
“I hate to interrupt,” says Master Lestrade. When Sherlock turns to him, he sees that the other boy is angry. “We must be on our way.” A dozen steps down the street toward Brompton Road, Lestrade explodes at Holmes.
“We spoke of imbeciles a short time ago. That was an imbecile’s errand! You are wasting your time and mine! I hope your next idea, if you have any others, is a better one. Twenty-four hours! No …” he pulls out his pocket watch, “less than twenty-three!”
He walks briskly away, leaving Sherlock standing on Brompton Road. The boy has a decision to make. Malefactor has gone underground, the horse hair and unusual blood on the note are nothing but strange facts … and time has already begun to run out.
Shall I go home and prepare to leave? Or try my one last idea? Louise.
When Sherlock went to visit Beatrice shortly after the first attack, she had spoken a little about her life over the last few months, as she explained how she and Louise ended up on Westminster Bridge late at night, set upon by the Spring Heeled Jack. She had talked about her new employment, though she didn’t reveal that she sought the job because her father had fallen on hard times. Now, when Sherlock thinks of it, the frequent absence of Mr. Leckie from Southwark should have spoken volumes about their situation. Her father, not well to begin with, was obviously seeking other work, probably something menial and even more dangerous to his health. Part of the reason this hadn’t occurred to Sherlock was that Beatrice had spoken so cheerfully of her work, as if it were enjoyable, and a new challenge. She told him where she and Louise were employed and even described the house – on a grand street in Kensington, just west of Knightsbridge.
Sherlock makes up his mind. He will try this one last thing. If it leads nowhere, he will be gone by the morning. He runs all the way to Kensington and finds the mansion, its appearance just as Beatrice said. He paces back and forth in front of it several times, trying to look inconspicuous, but the only employees he sees are footmen, who twice answer the door. That won’t do. He cannot ask them about another servant, cannot take the risk of being suspected of something. He must speak to someone more lowly, and female. After a half-dozen more passes, the last few drawing looks from passersby, he spots a girl in a servant’s black dress and white apron and bonnet, not much older than Beatrice, rushing out from the rear below-ground door of the house to the street, snapping a couple of coins into her little purse. Sherlock stands up straight and tries to add a few years to his age. He will lower his voice a little too. A scullery maid, like Beatrice, at the bottom of the pecking order. About seventeen years old. She’s on an errand. One button purposely undone at the top of her dress, pinching her cheeks to make them rosy; likes the opposite sex a little more than she should.
“Excuse me?”
At first, she looks apprehensive.
“What do you want?”
“Louise Stevenson.”
“Oh you does, does you?” She smiles.
“Just –”
“You a bit young for ’er, ain’t you?”
“I am just a friend … though I could be more.”
“Yes, I�
��m sure you could, you young rascal.”
“I would like to bring her a flower … to her home. I have a song to sing for her too.”
“Well, to it then, lad. Why is you standing ’ere? Or should you like to sing for me?”
“But I don’t know where she lives. We’ve just met.”
She looks suspicious. “And ’ow does I know you ain’t some fiend? Maybe you is the Spring ’eeled Jack! Attacked ’er, ’e did, you know. Made her famous. ’e only attacks the ladies, us poor ones, they says. I ’ear ’e is kinda ’andsome … ’andsome and dangerous.” She giggles.
“I am not the Spring Heeled Jack, my lady. I have no secrets, other than my affection for Miss Stevenson, which I would like to make known to her.”
“Well, ain’t you the talker. Tell me somethin’ about ’er that makes me believe you ain’t just wantin’ to ’urt ’er. ’Cause you know, if you is unsuited for ’er, I is available. I likes that talk ’o yours, all proper and refined-like. Very nice. Out with it! What do you knows of ’er?”
“She is a close friend of Beatrice Leckie, who is employed here as well, and lives in the Mint area in Southwark, daughter of a hatter.”
“You sure you wouldn’t prefer me, ’andsome?”
“If it weren’t for Miss Stevenson, I would.”
“Oh! You is such a talker!” She slaps him lightly on the shoulder. “Miss Stevenson lives in Limehouse, though I tell you, I’ve been there once or twice and it ain’t very nice in those parts. I’m ’appy I live in with the lady and gentleman ’ere. The Stevensons is awfully poor. Her father worked in a ’orse glue factory in Rotherhithe direct across the river, but the Duke who owned it, ’e closed it down because, they said, ’e didn’t like the color of the glue. ’er father ’ad inhaled the chemicals in there for many a year. ’is lungs don’t work right now. ’e can’t get work no longer.”
“What is the address, if you please?”
“On Samoa Street, off Narrow Road, right near the river. It ain’t much of a street. Just ask anyone who lives there for the family.”
It takes Sherlock more than an hour to get to Limehouse. As he walks at a brisk pace, he continues to consider what he knows about the case. He has very little, almost nothing. Then a thought occurs to him. He has seen all three notes. The handwriting! That’s at least something. It was the same on every one. If I could find the hand that wrote it, and look up that arm to the face … I would have my solution. It’s an intriguing idea, but virtually impossible to follow through on.
Limehouse is east of Stepney, past the area where little Paul Doyle used to live in the workhouse. Many of its streets are populated with the desperately poor, with seafaring men and their families, living many people to a room. Samoa Street is no exception. The buildings are jammed together. Sherlock keeps alert, his wits about him, remembering his Bellitsu defenses. Once he gets to Narrow Road, he asks a child, running about in bare feet in the March weather, where he might find the Stevensons. He is directed to their rough little home, the ground floor of a slim, brick building.
The man who answers the door is coughing into a cloth. There are red splats on it. He is obviously Mr. Stevenson, probably in his forties, though he looks closer to seventy. The boy spots Louise sitting at a little table in the only room that is evident, conversing with her haggard-looking mother and six other children. There is a fireplace and five beds crammed against the walls. Everyone stops talking the instant he appears, though he hears a little of what is being said, and thinks Louise mentions Alfred Munby. She stands up with a start when she sees Sherlock Holmes, shoving her chair back. Before her father can question the visitor, she has wrapped a ragged shawl around her shoulders, come forward, and ushered Sherlock out the door and into the street.
“Master ’olmes, what a surprise.” She is trying to sound pleased, but rushing him down the road away from the house, as if they are meant to walk out together.
“Miss Stevenson, shouldn’t I meet your family? Or are you ashamed of me?”
“Now, Master ’olmes, what a thing to say, I –”
“Then, why didn’t you offer proper introductions? Why are we talking in the street? Is that the correct manner in which to treat a caller?”
“It’s because … because of the Spring ’eeled Jack.”
“Yes?”
“I … uh … knows you are ’ere to ask about it, I’m sure. I don’t want to concern them about such things. They is very fragile.”
“Well, you are correct. That is why I have come to see you.”
“Does that mean you is going to look into things? That is wonderful, Master ’olmes! Beatrice will be pleased. She thinks so ’ighly of you, sir. Talks of you non-stop, says you could find this fiend. Do you have any clues?”
“Yes. I have one.”
“And can you tell a lard-headed girl like me ’bout it?”
“Yes, I can. In fact, I must. You, Miss Stevenson, are my clue.”
She turns white. “I beg your pardons, Master ’olmes?”
“Why did the Jack attack you?”
“Well, sir, you asked me that before, I’m sure you did, and I ’ave no answer. ’ow could I?”
“Who are you, Louise?”
“Who am I?” She blanches again. “What a question. Well, sure, I am Louise Stevenson, a poor girl, a friend of Beatrice Leckie’s, and an unfortunate victim of the Jack.”
“Hardly a victim, you didn’t suffer a scratch, and he had a good deal of time to do you harm. Who do you know whom the Jack might know? I overheard you mention Alfred Munby. Don’t deny it.”
Louise swallows. “I don’t know ’im, ’onest. I am sure I knows no one. I … I must be going.”
Holmes grabs her by the arm. He raises his voice. “If you know anything about this that you haven’t told me or the police, you had best tell me now! Do you know the evil that was done last night? Have you read the newspapers?” Sherlock pulls The News of the World from his pocket and wields it, almost as if he is about to hit her with it. A burly sailor, grimy from head to foot and smelling of ale, passes by.
“Is you all right, miss?” He glares at Sherlock.
“I am fine, sir, thank you. This gentleman meant nothing by it. ’e is about to escort me ’ome and be on ’is way.”
The sailor walks slowly away, looking back at Holmes
“You are ’urting me, Sherlock.” Her voice sounds different. There is an edge in it, a hint of anger, almost as if she is threatening him with the sailor, or something else, if he doesn’t let go.
He releases her arm.
“I ask you again. Have you read the newspapers? Do you know what he did?”
“I can’t read, Master ’olmes.”
An hour later, Sherlock Holmes is still on Samoa Street. After escorting Louise back to her home, he had walked up the road away from the river and found an indented doorway in an abandoned stone building with boards over its windows. He sat down in it, out of the way, looking like a beggar, his eyes cast down the street toward the Stevenson home. He had seen fear in Louise’s face when he questioned her, especially when he asked if she knew anyone who had anything to do with these crimes. He thinks she has secrets and has made a calculation. He predicts that in a short while she will be leaving her house. Where she goes will tell him a good deal about the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. He remembers Alfred Munby’s dark face at the riot in Trafalgar Square.
Louise Stevenson is guilty of something. Exactly what, he isn’t sure. But he does know this – she could not have written those notes. She cannot read.
Just a short while later, he sees her emerge. She has put on her coat, tied her bonnet down tightly, and after glancing up and down the street, heads south, toward the river. Sherlock follows. Miss Stevenson will be moving on foot – she doesn’t have money for a cab. Not that cabs are often seen in this part of Limehouse, anyway.
At first, he thinks she is going somewhere back in central London. She scurries down to Narrow Street, passes by
the Jolly Hangman Tavern, and heads west along the Thames. He follows her for a long time. They pass sailors, dock workers, wharves, ships under construction, and rope factories. Just beyond the London Docks, she pauses at the Thames Tunnel, the dark subterranean passage under the river, as if debating whether or not to enter it alone. After a while, she moves on, until she comes to London Bridge. Once over it, he expects her to make for the hatter’s shop, but she doesn’t. She turns east and hurries down river toward Rotherhithe.
This was where Sherlock helped capture the notorious Brixton Gang last year. Though he is proud of what he did, he has no stomach for returning today. It is an industrial wasteland, full of docks and crime. But he can’t let Louise out of his sight. He is amazed that she would come here.
She keeps her head down and ignores the catcalls from roughs who see her. Sherlock prays he doesn’t have to intercede. But she actually barks back at some of the men who taunt her from the doors of taverns and factories, despite their size and violent attitude. Sherlock can barely keep up with her. He continues to expect her to stop, but on and on she goes, past the Whiting Asphalte Works, the warehouse where Sherlock found the gang, down past the Limehouse Reach, and out of Rotherhithe by King’s Yard (where the Royal Navy’s ships are built), then veers slightly away from the Thames and into Deptford. By the time they get there, they have been walking for more than an hour and she is still maintaining her aggressive pace. Louise Stevenson certainly isn’t what she seems. Under that humble exterior there is obviously an extraordinary toughness, and under that dress a pair of unusually strong legs. What is she up to?
They have come so far that they are now in London’s suburbs. Greenwich appears. This is a much nicer area, hilly and beautiful with bigger homes and many parks. To the north is Greenwich Hospital, the former site of a country palace where kings used to ride to the hounds, where Sir Walter Raleigh famously laid down his cape over a muddy puddle to keep Queen Elizabeth’s shoes from being soiled. The dirt is black and rich, the coming spring evident in the open green areas and sprouting trees. It actually seems warmer here, as if God heats it especially for its residents. What business does Louise Stevenson have here?
The Secret Fiend tbsh-4 Page 15
