The Secret Fiend (22 page)

“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?

She swings south of the Royal Observatory in huge tree-lined Greenwich Park and approaches Blackheath. Sherlock can feel blisters on his toes, but Louise doesn’t seem to be suffering at all. Her head is up now, in this much safer area, her nose pointing toward her destination. Holmes senses that they are nearing it.

Blackheath Village is a gorgeous little spot with its own shops and businesses, a kind of haven just outside of London. John Stuart Mill lives here … the great man, not the dog. Birds are singing, people are strolling about on the little streets, governesses push prams, well-dressed children dutifully by their sides. It is like a painting from a storybook that starts and ends very well.

Louise turns down a smaller road off the main street.
She looks just as out of place as her pursuer. Though the houses are a good size here, they aren’t enormous, not like those in Mayfair or Belgravia. But there is a lovely homespun feel to them. They are relatively new, with cream or white stucco exteriors, large latticed windows, and fake thatched roofs. Louise stops at one. It has beautiful pink blossoms just beginning on the small apple trees on the front lawn, which is surrounded by a white picket fence. Holmes sees a long low building at the rear, attached to the house. Louise hesitates then swings the gate open. It creaks. She moves slowly up the walkway. A figure appears at the front window, and then comes to the door and opens it. The boy is careful to stay well down the street, out of sight. Whoever has come to the door is greeting Louise happily, as if she is an old friend. It is a man. Sherlock steps into the street to see who it is.
Robert Hide.