The Secret Fiend

brown horses, big black-and-white signs, the gray, shoeless children, the red and purple dresses and flowery hats, the pale faces, all as clear as day. But as he gets to The Strand and then moves toward Trafalgar Square, it seems as though the crowd is thicker than usual. There is a commotion up ahead. Past Northumberland House, he sees that people are rushing into the square from the streets. That is certainly abnormal at this hour.

Sherlock crosses the street and peers over the heads of the crowd, the top hats and bonnets, and sees why.

Robert Hide. He is standing on another crude stage near the north end of the square, in front of the stately National Art Gallery. It is Thursday, just three days since his exciting appearance here with John Bright. Two Reform League demonstrations in one week? Sherlock has never heard of such a thing. Perhaps Hide has organized this on his own.

The boy makes his way through the crowd to get near the front. He passes all sorts – working class, middle class, and aristocrats. Then he spots her. Irene. She is at the front, wearing another of those loose artistic dresses, orange this time, watching Hide with a look of admiration. In a sea of people in varying headgear, she alone is hatless. Her golden hair, hanging loose, glows in the sun.

Hide is pacing, the way a pugilist does before he enters the prize ring, as if holding something in. Sherlock notices Alfred Munby, dark and muscular in his green-and-black suit, heading toward the stage, but he is intercepted by a Reform League man who motions to him to stay off the podium. He glares up at Hide. But the young orator doesn’t notice. He is glancing down into the front of the crowd now, regarding his admirers. His expression changes from a frown to a glorious smile. Several of his fans reach up to him. He bends and moves along, touching hands … one of them is Irene’s.

Hide straightens and faces his audience. His brown eyes are glowing.

“My fellow Englishmen!” A big cheer rises, louder than any he received before. He is indeed a growing star. “I will take up little of your time this afternoon, but I thought it necessary in these extraordinary days – nay, in this extraordinary week – to speak with you once more.” He thrusts his arms into the air. “Because we have a new man now fully at work at Number Ten Downing Street!”

Some cheer and others groan.

“Mr. Disraeli is a leader unlike any other. He is brilliant and open-minded, a seeker of consensus. Some say though … that he is erratic and unpredictable! An opportunist!” Hide frowns and holds his hands in fists.

“Here! Here!” shout some.

“I do not! He is my leader as he is all of yours, and I bow to his guidance.” He places his hand over his heart. “But … he takes office at a time when trouble continues to dog our nation, when trouble seems to be growing. The markets are poor, the trade unions are restless, and the need for further reform is absolutely necessary.” Hide begins to pace again. “Can he take us further? Change our nation, douse the flame of discontent rather than throw coal upon it by turning his back on us?” As Hide reaches the end of the sentence he is shouting and the crowd is cheering. He pauses. Silence descends. Irene stares up.

“I believe he can. But I believe that it is up to us, to you and you and you and you,” he points at individuals in the crowd, “… and to me … to push him. We must remind him every day that England is not the way it should be – yet. We must all vote, ALL of us; we must have a secret ballot; we must pay our tradesman more; we must tax our wealthy citizens more, those who have so much!”

A cheer goes up through part of the crowd. Others look around nervously.

“But be not afraid, London, even in these fearful times, this fearful week. Chaos …” he pauses and laughs, “as this heinous Spring Heeled Jack fellow is telling us … is NOT here. Chaos shall never come to London or to our government as long as I, for one, have a BREATH TO BREATHE!” He punches the air with one of his big fists and everyone cheers. The sound fills the square and spills into the rest of the city. He lets it continue, posing for a moment, his handsome face upturned, holding that fist in the air, his bicep bulging under his neat, pin-striped suit, his slim waist evident as his coat pulls open. Sherlock sees Irene staring up at him, her mouth open.

On he goes, calling for change, but standing behind the government and the “good sense of sober people.” He ends with a flourish. “Chaos comes only when fear consumes us, when fear runs loose in our streets, when fear trembles the tower at Westminster and freezes Big Ben, when you, the people, allow fear into your veins! We shall not … we shall not … FEAR! We fear … nothing!”

For an instant Sherlock thinks he sees Beatrice, moving through the crowd near the front, and disappearing behind the stage. But that is impossible – he has just seen her south of London Bridge. To get here, she would have had to double back. Am I thinking about her too much? Am I becoming attracted to her?

The applause continues for many minutes after Hide finishes. He leaps from the stage and the crowd folds around him. Some embrace him, others shake his hand. Sherlock stands watching, noticing Irene trying to get nearer the charismatic man. Soon, Hide moves Holmes’s way and it is only when he is almost upon the boy that Irene finally reaches him. Hide sees her, looks enchanted – who wouldn’t be – and shakes her hand like a gentleman. As he turns, he is face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

“Hello, sir,” Hide says in a confident voice and takes the boy’s hand. Most people of higher social standing than Sherlock don’t even acknowledge him. They see his threadbare suit and waistcoat, his old boots, polished so often that he’s created holes and turn away. But this famous young man smiles at him. “Thank you for listening,” he says, looking right at the boy. If Sherlock Holmes can do anything, he can judge character. He can tell that Robert Hide means what he says.

As the boy turns away, someone jostles him, and he is pushed into Irene Doyle. Their faces almost touch. For a moment they are held by the crowd, eyes inches apart. Irene, for once, isn’t frowning at him.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she says.

She is so utterly beautiful this close that his knees almost buckle.

“H … H … Hello.”

“We shouldn’t be fighting, you know. Mr. Hide is right. We should all be together.”

“I agree,” says Sherlock, before he can even think.

“Let us put the past behind us, what do you say?”

“I say that is wise.”

“Walk with me.”

She must have come alone, not a rare thing for this remarkable girl. She puts her arm through his and they move northward, up St. Martin’s Lane, past the church. Irene Doyle has never been afraid to be seen in public with Sherlock Holmes. He has always appreciated that. Others stare after them, but she doesn’t take notice.

They talk about politics. At least, she does. She despises Alfred Munby, but admires Disraeli, the Liberal Gladstone even more, and Bright and Hide the most. She believes that women should vote. Before they know it, they are on Montague Street, nearing her house.

“I am sorry for the way I have treated you,” he says.

A pink glow comes to her cheeks.

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“Well, I’m trying.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“I’m sure your father wouldn’t –”

“He isn’t home. He’s out with Paul.” There’s a bitter tone in her voice.

“Then I shouldn’t be inside. There would just be the two of us.”

They had been alone in the house before, but that had been out of absolute necessity, when he was an escapee from jail, running for his life. It wouldn’t be proper for him to be there now, not with a young lady of Irene’s standing.

“Sherlock, this is a new day. If I want to have a gentleman in my home, I shall do so.”

There is something in her expression that disturbs him. It isn’t just her clothes that announce a new Irene. As he’s walked with her today, he has been acutely aware of how completely she is changing – Miss Doyle is going to be a different sort of woman than he once imagined. She is becoming as bold and as expressive as her dress. In her conversation, he can feel her anger about life – about the time her father spends with her stepbrother, about women’s roles, about not being allowed to state her true feelings, about being held down.