The Secret Fiend

interrupted.

“Sherlock.”

A lovely voice.

Beatrice Leckie and her friend Louise appear in the crowd of faces coming toward him, having just crossed the bridge from the city, heading south. She has obviously taken this route to her father’s shop in order to intercept him, either rushing here at the end of a short day, or during a late tea time.

“Miss Leckie.”

She catches the less-than-enthusiastic tone in his voice. “Sherlock,” she says, “I did not volunteer information about you to the press.”

“But you did not keep quiet when asked, either.”

“No.” Her head lowers. Then she looks at him, her eyes large. “I am glad to have met up with you today.”

There is something about her that prevents Sherlock from being angry with her. “And I, you,” he says. He turns to her companion. “Good day, Miss Louise.”

“Good day, sir.” Louise actually curtsies. As the boy looks at her, it occurs to him that he knows nothing of this new friend of Beatrice’s, not even her last name. Who is this person with my schoolmate? She was the victim the first time, not Beatrice. Perhaps she was the only target. Sherlock has never considered what her game might be in all the goings-on about the Spring –

He stops his thoughts.

“It is a fine day, ladies.” And it is: cold but clear, with spring in the air. “I am afraid that I am in a rush. I am needed at the shop.” If he’d had a hat, he would have tipped it. He starts on his way, but Beatrice reaches out and actually takes him by the arm, gripping him firmly, as if to hold him there. Pedestrians move past, taking notice of the bold young lady, standing so close to the young man that her chest almost touches his.

“I want you to find him.”

“I have no idea to whom you are referring.” He begins to pull away. He just has to make it to London Bridge without hearing that name, just six hundred and seventy eight steps and –

“The Spring ’eeled Jack.”

His shoulders slouch. And what happens next doesn’t help the situation. Beatrice slides her hand down to his hand and holds it tightly. Louise blushes, smiles, and speaks in a soft voice. “We is in danger, Master ’olmes.” Her tone appears calculated to sound weak and vulnerable.

“Nonsense.”

“I ’ope you are correct,” says Beatrice, squeezing his hand as he tries to get it loose, “but Master Lestrade, who ’as been spending time comforting me, says that the police are absolutely certain John Silver acted only last night.”

“That was not your fault, Master ’olmes,” adds Louise, “thinkin’ that you ’ad nabbed the real ’un. I am sure that Master Lestrade could ’ave done no better ’imself.”

Sherlock feels the color rising to his face.

“And I know ’e couldn’t ’ave!” declares Beatrice, still holding Sherlock’s hand tightly.

“This is a police matter.”

Beatrice turns those big, pleading eyes on him again. “It is clear that the villain who attacked us in Westminster was the one who assaulted those ladies in Knightsbridge, isn’t it? ’e is lunatic, a murderous one, and ’e knows who we are, how we come ’ome at night, perhaps even where we live.”

“Then you must be careful, take a different route, go with a gentleman, and come home earlier, as you are doing now.”

“I’m so afraid, Master ’olmes,” says Louise and a tear plops onto her cheek.

It is as if they are working together.

“There is no evidence that this fiend will strike at you again. There are four million people in London, so probability suggests that you are quite safe.”

“But ’e was reported near our shop past midnight last night,” says Beatrice.

“He was? By whom?”

“It was a couple of lads, out carousing.”

Sherlock smiles. “Hardly reliable.”

“Master Lestrade says they are. ’e came at dawn this morning to the shop, and interviewed them – roused them up from their beds. ’e tells me ’e believes them.”

“And that he must protect you?”

“Yes. ’e ’as convinced his father to post a man out on Borough High Street nearby, and ’e promises to stop in every night, too.”

“He would.”

“Pardon me?”

“How nice of him.”

“I wish it was you … protecting me. I know the police will do what they can to catch this villain, and that they have been embarrassed into action, but I also know that the inspector thinks it is no more than someone pulling pranks, that the fiend isn’t really dangerous. Master Lestrade told me as much. But I’ve seen the Jack – ’e will murder someone … maybe us!”

“Come now Beatrice. As I said, there is little evidence that –”

“There’s something in the afternoon papers today,” says Louise, “about it appearing again, somewhere else, last night. We ’eard the newsboys shouting out something ’bout it trying to attack some ladies again. It was in Brixton, wasn’t it Bea? That’s so close to us!”

“I know that Inspector Lestrade thinks you are out of the way now,” says Beatrice, “because of what ’e said about you in the papers. But if you were to become involved in this, I think it would change everything. I think ’e would turn London upside down to find the Spring ’eeled Jack. I know ’ow ’e despises you and what you’ve done. You’ve made ’im look a fool … Master Lestrade ’as told me too.”

It almost makes Sherlock feel proud.

“London should be on fire with fear! Your involvement would ensure it!”

The boy is surprised at the expression in Beatrice Leckie’s face. It is lit up, her eyes actually angry. But she looks guilty the moment the words are out of her mouth. “I grow a little ’ysterical. I am sorry. But I’m … terrified.”

Louise puts her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

“That is natural, Miss Leckie,” says Sherlock. “You and your friend were assaulted. No wonder you are fearful. But … you have Master Lestrade. He will look after you.”

And with that, Sherlock loosens her hand and walks away, up toward London Bridge.

“You don’t need to find him all by yourself, Master ’olmes! Just let Lestrade know that you are interested! That would be enough!” shouts Beatrice.

“The inspector thinks ’e’s shamed you!” adds Louise, “that you don’t ’ave the courage to ’elp anymore!”

Holmes is trying not to listen, waving his hand as he moves away. There are many crimes in London, he tells himself. I cannot solve them all. I cannot be swayed by emotions. And I am still just a boy. I was fortunate before – all of this is beyond me. I should only act if I have no options.

He walks slowly home, telling himself that the vow he made to investigate the Spring Heeled Jack if he heard or contemplated the villain’s name before he reached London Bridge was just a child’s game and that Beatrice and Louise’s fears are unfounded – they are safe. He reaches Fleet Street where the newspapers are published. He likes the atmosphere here. There is always a bustle: the omnibuses and hansom cabs clattering, the newsboys shouting.

“Leaping Jack loose again!” one calls. Sherlock sees a few pedestrians take papers from this particularly loud little vendor, flipping coins his way, hungrily reading the front page. But most people are simply rushing along as if they have important places to go. He smells the constantly lingering aroma of burning coal, the refuse, the perspiration, the perfume. There is no fog late this afternoon, and he can see all the colors of London: the black and