The Secret Fiend

become evident lately. She isn’t a stunning young lady like Irene Doyle, that blonde, brown-eyed, unpredictable dynamo who can draw one’s attention across any crowded room. Beatrice is different. You have to look to really see her. And these past few months, much to his surprise, he has indeed been looking.

Control yourself. Help her.

He half-carries Beatrice into the lab and sets her into Bell’s big basket chair just inside the door, then turns to boil some water with a Bunsen lamp and tort.

“Take deep breaths. No one will harm you here. I shall make us some tea. Then we will speak logically.”

She nods her head. A very slight smile creeps across her lips as he turns away. Her big dark eyes glow as they follow him. He works at his task and in minutes has two flasks of hot black tea in hand.

“Try this.”

Her fingers touch his and he nearly spills their drinks.

“Tell me what happened, calmly.”

She reaches out and grips his hand in both of hers. They are warmer now, and soft too. He thinks he should pull back his hand, but doesn’t.

“We were late getting ’ome – very late. It was shocking – ’ow late we were out.”

Beatrice and Sherlock have known each other almost since they were born. She lives in her father’s shop, directly below where the Holmes used to keep their little flat. But when Sherlock’s mother was murdered and he came to live with Sigerson Bell, they were apart for an entire summer, the longest separation of their lives. When they met again at school, she seemed different – much more grown up, her figure filling out. She told Sherlock that he seemed different too, that he was taller and more worldly. After that, she started regarding him in a way that unsettled him.

About a month ago, Beatrice suddenly left school. Holmes didn’t know why.

“I ’ave a job now, Sherlock, working as a scullery maid for a family in a good part of town,” she tells him. “My friend and I – she is a maid in the kitchen and doesn’t live in, either – we were asked to stay late because of a dinner they are ’aving tomorrow. We were so scared, Sherlock. It was just the two of us out alone. But I wanted to get ’ome, to ’elp Poppa. ’e must be so worried.”

Beatrice’s mother had died of tuberculosis a couple of years ago and her father soldiered on, doing everything, insisting that his only child continue as long as possible at school. Beatrice and Sherlock have an understanding of each other’s pain.

“We walked very brisk-like, ’olding on to each other. We kept to the right thoroughfares, and no one bothered us … until we got to Westminster Bridge.”

She begins to cry. Sherlock pulls his hand away.

“I should ’ave gone to the police, but I thought they might not believe –”

“Now, Beatrice. You mustn’t weep. Tell me what happened.”

“It was the Spring ’eeled Jack!”

The boy can’t resist a smile. What is she playing at?

“Beatrice, listen to me. You were seeing things. The late night will do that to you. The Spring Heeled Jack is a fictional character, a Penny Dreadful shocker. You know that. The night was playing upon your imagination.”

“Then where is Louise?”

“Louise?”

“My friend! She’s gone!”

“I don’t –”

“She was with me, Sherlock. I wasn’t dreaming that. ’e took her! She’s gone!”

She is sobbing now. Sherlock doesn’t have an answer for such reactions from girls – never has had – not even from Beatrice. He can’t answer the question either, something that always makes him uncomfortable. She must be making this up. Perhaps he will call her bluff.

“Shall we go out and investigate?”

“Could we? Bring a blade, or a pistol, if Mr. Bell keeps one. And you must take my ’and.”

Not an entirely surprising response. I’ll play along, thinks Sherlock. Perhaps there will be something of interest in it.

“No need for firearms. I shall bring this whip and we will be vigilant.”

“Thank you.” Beatrice beams and looks into his eyes as she takes his hand again. “Hurry.”

“First,” exclaims Sherlock, blushing and releasing himself as he rises to his feet, “I must tell the master.”

He leads her across the lab and sets her on a tall, three-legged stool near the foot of the stairs, so she will be nearer him as he goes up to see his employer. She gives a start when she notices the skeletons hanging from nails on the walls between the teetering stacks of books and the pickled human and animal organs stored in the glassed cupboards. He retrieves his shoes, worn frock coat, and yellowing shirt from his wardrobe, ducks behind the examining table and puts them on. Beatrice turns her back. No need for his ragged necktie tonight, though he wishes he could observe himself in the mirror. But that would be too vain and unmanly in front of Beatrice. He tries to fix his hair as best he can.

“I shall be right back.”

Sherlock rarely enters Bell’s upstairs domain, and he wouldn’t tonight either – he can accompany Beatrice himself – but the apothecary’s silence disturbs him. Has his ancient friend expired?

Sherlock tries to keep the wooden steps of the spiral staircase from creaking as he ascends. He isn’t sure why – he certainly isn’t worried about waking the old man. It is as if he suspects something of Bell, and wants to surprise him. And why wouldn’t he? The apothecary can be deceptive – he has been known to crouch at the top of these stairs and listen in silence to Sherlock’s movements on the ground floor. The boy likes Sigerson Bell, in fact, might even admit that he almost loves him, but his master seems to have secrets too: there is always something that Holmes can’t quite –

There is a sudden noise downstairs, a creaking sound like the front door opening.

Sherlock hasn’t even gotten his head above the upper floor, hasn’t yet observed the glorious mess that is Bell’s bedroom and sitting room.

He freezes.

“Sherlock?” he hears Beatrice say under her breath. She sounds terrified.

Holmes retreats carefully. He doesn’t turn around, just backs downward, retracing his steps.

My horsewhip … it’s on the laboratory table.

“Keep quiet,” he whispers, but his heart is pounding. What if this is more than a story? What if someone, somehow like the vaunted Spring Heeled Jack of Penny Dreadful legend, has followed her here? Perhaps he murdered her friend. Dismembered her body … cut her in pieces. And now he has come for Beatrice.

Sherlock reaches the laboratory in a crouch, crawls silently toward his friend, pulls her down to the floor and reaches up to the table. At first he can’t locate the whip, but he searches around and then feels its hard, leather surface. He grips it like one might hold the reins of a thoroughbred before it is released at the Derby.

“Use your wrists, my boy!” screams Bell every time they practice … usually prior to the destruction of some portion of the laboratory.

Sherlock holds the whip aloft, slightly behind his shoulder to gather maximum force, and cocks his wrist. He silently moves into the front room. Whoever is at the outside door has no difficulty getting in. In fact, he (or it) seems to have a key! Sherlock can see the intruder’s silhouette as it enters.

The boy leaps and snaps the whip, but whatever is before him is as quick as a panther. It vanishes momentarily, then is suddenly behind him, gripping his neck in a death hold. His spine is about to be snapped.

“My boy?”

“Mr. Bell?” answers Sherlock hoarsely.

The apothecary releases his apprentice, who drops to the floor, afraid that he is going to cough up the lining of his throat.

“My apologies.”

“Quite all right.”

The boy has indeed been growing lately and when he rises, his eyes are almost even with his bent-over master’s. The old peepers betray a distinct look of guilt.