The Secret Fiend

It is an interesting idea.

May I also say that I may be, as you say, misjudging Malefactor. Perhaps if I gave him the benefit of the doubt, approached him and spoke to him in a civilized manner, we might find common ground and get on better. Upon reflection, I know you are not naive about him and that a little kindness and interest might, indeed, slowly help him change. I am intrigued to know more about him, and I thought I would ask you. Please write back and tell me more. What else has he told you about his past? I await both your response and seeing you again, some day soon.

Warm regards,

Sherlock Holmes Esq.

The letter goes into the post that night. He expects a response in the morning and he is not disappointed. There isn’t a great deal that is new to him throughout most of her letter, mostly just tales of Malefactor’s happy early Irish childhood, the family’s downfall, his sister’s death, his bitterness. Irene also writes that she can see through Sherlock’s words, that he is trying to say nice things that he may not mean. At least, she says, he is trying. Then, right near the end, almost unknowingly it seems, she tells him something that rivets him – it is the opening for which he is looking.

Malefactor’s followers are remarkably loyal. The only one I know of who has ever left him was an eccentric boy named Utterson, who took the money he made and went back to school. I’ve convinced Malefactor not to harm him, at least I hope I have. I believe the boy attends the Hermiston National School in Lambeth and is very conscientious, even goes there on Saturday mornings to clean up the rooms.

Sherlock knows of the school. He tells Bell he is going out, tucks his horsewhip up his left sleeve, and makes for Lambeth as quickly as he can, sticking to the midst of the crowds and away from entrances to alleyways, constantly on the alert for Malefactor and the Irregulars. He reaches the Hermiston school safely, notices that the door isn’t locked, and lets himself in. It is quiet inside the cool stone building, but from downstairs he can hear someone sweeping up on the first floor.

The former criminal has not lost his street-wise alertness, for by the time Sherlock Holmes enters the classroom, he has turned and is examining his visitor.

“Utterson?”

“Who asks?”

He is as eccentric as Irene said: as thin as a willow branch, dressed in a green jacket that looks like it is made of velvet, with light brown hair, so long that it almost touches his shoulders, flowing out from under a red and yellow skull cap. There is something of the artist, or at least Bohemian, in his appearance. Sixteen years old, raised in Dublin, Ireland, sharp as a fox, a holder of secrets. Sherlock presses his left arm to his side, making certain that his weapon is there.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“And what do you want with me?”

“Why did he let you go?”

“I suppose there is no sense in pretending that I don’t know to whom you are referring?”

“No.”

“I know things, things I shan’t tell you.” He goes back to sweeping the floor.

“What if I made it worth your while to tell me?”

The boy stops sweeping. “And how would you do that?”

“I know I don’t look like much, but I have been instrumental in helping the police capture several important criminals.”

“I know.”

Sherlock smiles. “I should have guessed.”

“Your reputation precedes you in some quarters.”

“Malefactor, Master Utterson, would be my greatest prize. And should he be removed to the luxurious quarters of the Marshalsea Prison, you would never fear him again. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to put him there.”

“You assume I fear him now.”

“Do you?”

“Not exactly, though I know you do.”

Seldom does Holmes meet anyone who can size up someone as quickly as he can. This boy is a contender.

“If you don’t exactly fear him,” continues Sherlock, “then you are not entirely comfortable with his existence on the streets of London, either.”

The boy pauses and then motions toward the door. “Walk with me as we talk. We must head downstairs. You will be silent and I will speak. When we reach the entrance you will act as if I sent you away. Our visit must be seen as a very short one – a rejection. We will never meet again. He is not who he says he is. He tells lies about his past. I knew him when he was a child in Ireland. The family name is not Malefactor – though it has its similarities. His father was never a dustman. The family was well respected when I knew of them, accepted in society, sending their children to the best schools. Few were aware of their criminal activities, though. Their wealth came from underground business practices on the continent. They were found out by a gentleman who could benefit from their fall – he was about to inform the police. They left Ireland before they were arrested, and came to England. But their reign was over and they were on the run. That is how his family fell, how they went to an English almshouse where both his parents died – leaving him with nothing but that tailcoat – and where his sister, the only good soul in the family, died as well. He is bitter, yes, but because he believes that he and his family were singled out in a world where everyone is corrupt in some way, you and I, and the government too. We are all after power, he believes, especially the rich, and we all lie and cheat, but most of us pretend we don’t. He considers himself an anarchist, saying the world would be better off in complete chaos, with each man for himself. He is a master debater on the subject. I am the only one who knows these things about his past, and I made sure before I left him that if anything happened to me, the police could trace my murder to him. I fear turning him in, but he fears killing me. We are at a stalemate. But you, Sherlock Holmes, can act. He lives in Knightsbridge by day – Queens Gardens off Brompton Road. He owns the white house there.”

“He what?”

They are at the outside door. Utterson flings it open and shoves Sherlock into the street, so hard that he knocks him to the ground.

“And stay away from me!” he shouts. He strides up to Holmes and whispers into his ear. “I will get out of London when I am educated, change my name, go to the South Seas, and write adventure stories. Life, you see, is stranger than fiction, and my life has been unbelievable.” He kicks Holmes in the ribs and storms away, slamming the school door behind him.

Sherlock rises slowly as people stop and stare. He doesn’t know if he is more shocked by his sudden ejection and swift boot to the ribcage or by what Utterson has told him, especially what he said just before sending him flying out the door.

Malefactor lives in Knightsbridge?

He wants to go there immediately, but before he does, he must visit Beatrice. She will be home early on a Saturday, a half day for a scullery maid. It is nearing the noon hour. He walks east toward Southwark, the Smith&Wesson pistol deep in a pocket of his old frock coat.

The hatter, red-faced and looking unwell, is happy to see Sherlock Holmes and even happier to hear that the boy is calling on his daughter. She appears, beaming at him, almost the instant Sherlock’s voice is heard at their front door. He steps inside, noticing today what he should have noticed before: how shabby the shop looks and that fewer hats hang from the hooks. There are no customers to be seen. Beatrice wraps a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders, and as they step out together into the brisk March air, she puts her arm in his.

“I am told you are a political thinker, Miss Leckie.”

She colors. “Who told you that?”

“A little birdie, actually a big, silver one.”

“Oh, Master Silver! ’e thinks that anyone with an opinion is a deep thinker. I suppose ’e remembers my chat with ’im. I was angry about ’is father’s situation, that’s all. I leave politics up to the competent men of this nation …