“Don’t … don’t give this note to the police. It will only make things worse for you. Stay indoors tonight, with your entrance locked. I will see you tomorrow, bearing the means to protect you.”

The boy considers how the Spring Heeled Jack struck in Knightsbridge at precisely the time he was pummeling John Silver in Southwark. That fiend could not have been my old schoolmate. He thinks of the reports of it appearing since then. He thinks of this note, written in the same hand as the first one, now threatening murder. He thinks of Malefactor, wanting him out of the way, right after the report appeared in The Times attaching his name to these sensations. He thinks of his enemy’s use of the word chaos; he thinks of the fact that the Jack is threatening his close friend; he thinks of that friend, Beatrice, whom he has known since he was a child, since the days when their mothers were alive and well; Beatrice, so sweet and wonderful, threatened with murder, her soft, white hand shaking with fear; and finally he thinks of something Malefactor said, something the boy’s fear had initially caused him to disregard. “… my Spring Heeled Jacks!” That’s what Malefactor had said … “my Spring Heeled Jacks!”

Perhaps, thinks Sherlock Holmes, a case has chosen me.

WHO IS MALEFACTOR?

The boy almost runs back to the shop. He doesn’t even realize it. His mind is churning. Saturday and Sunday are before him, two days without school, two days to save Beatrice … and himself. He almost wonders if he should have taken her with him, installed her in the shop somewhere, safe with Sigerson Bell. But that would not only involve informing her father and terrifying him further – he must have been horrified that she was involved in the first attack – but would also make Beatrice less tantalizing bait. He hates to admit it, but he needs her to look like an easy victim, alone or with Louise, walking the streets in Southwark. He had been so careful to keep Irene out of danger, but now he is using Beatrice. He tries not to think of it.

He has three tasks before him. First, he must protect her. Then he must learn more about who Malefactor really is; where, other than roaming the streets, he might be found – best to know where your pursuer is at all times. And last, he must catch Malefactor or one of his gang in the act, hopefully about to commit murder, so that he is sent to prison for a long, long time. But where can one find intimate facts about that secretive boy?

“A pistol, my boy?” asks Sigerson Bell about an hour later.

“Yes, sir.”

“I have one here, but I do not carry it. I consider it beneath my dignity to resort to such mechanical means of protection. And though I could procure another for you in an instant, I forbid you to carry one as well. You cannot have it.”

“It is not for me.”

“Not for you? And whom are you arming, sir?”

“Miss Beatrice Leckie.”

Sherlock had wanted to keep the events of the day a secret, but he knows he can’t, so he explains. First, he lifts his hair and displays his goose egg, now turning orange and purple. The apothecary lets out a cry and springs to his feet, rushing to his cabinet to retrieve a jar of frog eggs and another of lama milk, which he whips together with a mortar and pestle as Sherlock speaks, and applies to the boy’s injury. But as Holmes gets to the part in his story where he receives this blow and explains what his enemy intends to do to him, the old man emits a shriek, his face turns an alarming shade of red, and he rushes up the spiral staircase.

“Sir?”

There is all sorts of noise coming from the floor above, pots and pans flying about, and a good deal of grunting and cursing from the old man. “Dog poop!” he exclaims. But then he is coming down the stairs, taking four at a time. He doesn’t even look at Sherlock as he flies past. He has his own horsewhip in hand, is dressed in his bizarre fighting outfit, complete with obscene, tight leggings, a bandana tied around his head in combat mode, and his pistol tucked into his pants, right in the crotch.

Sherlock rushes after him.

“Sir? Sir, where are you going?”

They reach the front door.

“To eliminate a certain villain and his two lieutenants! This shan’t take long! They shall not know what hit them!” He pulls the door open.

Sherlock slams it shut.

“Sir, you cannot do that. That would be murder!”

“And?”

“I don’t think you would allow me to do such a thing.”

“But … but … but they want to kill you, my boy. My own boy! I will stalk them until I find the three of them together. Then I will sneak up behind them, silent as a ghost! Then, I will employ the Bellitsu moves explicitly set out when one is confronted by three. I shall cartwheel and catch each, one after the other, with an upside-down kick to the jaw, rendering them all unconscious. Then, I will tie them up with my whip, explain to them, very calmly, what their crime is and how their lives must be terminated for the good of all … and then I’ll shoot them!”

“No, you won’t.”

“I won’t?”

“No, sir.”

The old man’s shoulders slouch. “No. No, I won’t. It wouldn’t be right, you are correct.”

“You would be the villain and they the innocent victims.”

“Hardly innocent.”

“But before the law …”

“Yes, quite. We must catch them in the act!”

“We?”

“Well … you, Master Holmes, you … I suppose. And we must, indeed, arm Miss Beatrice!”

Bell is gone and back with a new pistol within the hour. It is an American model, a Smith&Wesson. “I know a cowboy,” explains the apothecary, “helped him with his back … too much horse bucking, or whatever those people call it.” He takes a few bullets out of his pocket, spins the chamber, loads the gun, and then fires a bull’s-eye into the skull of one of his skeletons. Sherlock instinctively ducks.

“I will show you how to use this, and you will do the same for your young lady friend.”

Sherlock had spent the time when Bell was gone writing a letter to Irene. In it, he asked for more information about Malefactor.

Bell’s Apothecary Shop

Denmark Street

London,

Friday March 6, 1868

Miss Doyle,

It was lovely to spend some time with you yesterday. You indeed have a beautiful voice, and I agree that one must be oneself. And perhaps you are correct that we often aren’t true to ourselves, deceive ourselves about what we want from life, present something false to the world, and are afraid to exploit our desires.

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