The Secret Fiend (21 page)

“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 mentioned 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.

“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.