The Secret Fiend

leaders like Mr. Disraeli.”

They stop down the street and he edges her into an alley.

“Sherlock?”

“I have something for you.”

“You do?”

He pulls the pistol from his pocket and she gasps.

“What is that for?”

“For you.”

“Me? But I don’t know ’ow to use it.”

“I will show you. I want you to be safe. Carry it with you at all times. If the Jack attacks you, do not hesitate to point it at him. That will likely be enough, but use it if you must. It will be self-defense. And by the way … I am now certain who this villain is.”

“You are? But who –”

“Never mind, that’s not your concern. I’ll tend to accosting him, just carry this and keep yourself safe. That way, you won’t need the police around your door, upsetting your father.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

He shows her how to load it, point it, and fire, though she can’t practice here in the alley. Strangely, she doesn’t seem to take it seriously. She appears more interested in having him show her, than in really learning. She keeps getting him to stand near her and wrap his hand around hers as she holds the gun. She doesn’t ask any questions about the Spring Heeled Jack. She doesn’t even seem to fear him. It appears she would rather just be close to Sherlock.

She is a brave girl … but if she only knew who this villain is …

It is a good hour’s walk to Knightsbridge. Clouds gather in the cool day as he finds his way eastward through Lambeth and crosses the Thames at Westminster Bridge. It has been a full week since Beatrice and Louise were attacked here. He stands on the south side of the bridge near Astley’s Theatre and looks across the wide, brown river with its crowd of noisy boats of all sizes, and up at the Palace of Westminster with Big Ben rising above it. He imagines the Spring Heeled Jack perched on the balustrade wall, the government buildings framing him. Now that he considers things, with more facts in hand, this whole sensation is exactly Malefactor’s style. He put the fear of God into those dear girls, but made sure they survived to tell their tale. He saw to it that one of them was Sherlock’s friend. Malefactor knew it would draw me in, force me to protect Beatrice, and do it on my own, which would put me out on dangerous streets at night and make me vulnerable to a deadly attack. Malefactor could eliminate the thorn in his side and have the deed done by a disguised perpetrator who would frighten all of London and bring chaos to the city when fear and uncertainty was at its height. He started proceedings on Westminster Bridge, with the symbol of the Empire’s stability as audience. He figured low-lifes would try to imitate the Jack, and things would begin to spiral. It was, and is, a deep and tangled plan, accomplishing many things in just a few bounds. His opponent, Sherlock must admit, is a genius.

He passes Westminster Abbey and moves up Birdcage Walk past the big green expanse of St. James’s Park, the queen’s massive urban lawn with her swans on its ponds, fronting Buckingham Palace. Even the strolling pedestrians look nervous today. Governesses with children, young men with young ladies, nannies out with babies in prams – all seem to be glancing around. There is a fiend on the loose. The city is uneasy. Or is it my imagination? He crosses in front of the palace, serene and majestic as usual, and goes up Constitution Hill toward Knightsbridge Road. Can Malefactor really live in this wealthy neighborhood? A different fear crosses his mind. Is this a setup? Irene is Malefactor’s friend now. Did she intentionally tell me about that boy, Utterson … or whatever his name really is? Can Irene be trusted anymore? Are Utterson’s directions leading me into some sort of dead-end in a Knightsbridge neighborhood where I will be mugged and beaten by the Irregulars? He warily watches for little figures darting at him from either side. But something comforts him, at least somewhat: this isn’t Malefactor’s time of day. He’s noticed that the crime boss rarely does much when the sun is out.

At Hyde Park Corner, where rich Belgravia and Mayfair meet, he goes through the Wellington Arch with its ridiculously large statue of the late Duke of Wellington atop, aboard his famous charger, Copenhagen. Wellington’s old home is nearby, known to citizens as “Number One, London.” The great national hero, the vanquisher of the legendary Napoleon, should be here now, calming things. Or should he? Sherlock remembers that when the Iron Duke was prime minister, he always opposed reform, and even had unbreakable bars installed on his windows to protect him from the mobs who sought changes.

The boy walks along Knightsbridge on the south side of Hyde Park and turns down Brompton Road. No worries here – many wealthy folks, the poor who supply them and work for them, and a few vendors who pursue them, make up a flow of pedestrians on the wide foot pavements – not a place for an attack.

He passes a little store named Harrods, selling groceries and other goods and spots Queens Gardens. All the streets going off from Brompton Road have been wide ones, lined with big, elegant homes. Queens Gardens is narrow. His fears return. Should I go down here? Can Malefactor really live here? It seems preposterous.

He turns around and walks back up Brompton Road, then crosses it through the gleaming carriages and well-groomed horses, to Lancelot Place on the other side, and begins to pace, trying not to look conspicuous, unsure what to do. A few gentlemen stare as he goes by, but he keeps his eyes down.

Coming here is against his best instincts. He doesn’t have many facts, just a story that a boy told him, a boy whose identity and past is not certain. And finding Malefactor here – the gang leader who he thought lived on the streets and who he knows sleeps there at times – is growing increasingly improbable as he sees more and more impressive homes. But Sherlock has to save himself and Beatrice. Irene may not be who he thought she was, but he doubts she would purposely harm him. He has to take a chance. He lets his horsewhip drop down in his sleeve, the handle falling into the palm of his left hand, then saunters down Brompton Road again and enters Queens Gardens.

The street actually widens as he walks, opening up into a beautiful avenue lined with big trees. The houses are not quite as large as those in most of Knightsbridge, but they are certainly respectable. And there, right at the end, almost tucked away in the trees … is a modest white one, just as Utterson said. There are a few people walking along the foot pavement in this cul-de-sac. He acts as though he has a reason to be there. It is in your walk. He remembers his mother’s advice about acting. Take on a character.

Sherlock approaches the house at a brisk pace, a hand in his pocket as if he is a messenger boy with a note to deliver. But the home looks empty. All the shutters, even those on the door, all as white as the stone exterior, are closed. Sherlock certainly can’t knock at the entrance. He is at the end of the street, right in front of the house. He glances around. No one is looking his way. He can only hope that a resident isn’t peering out a window at him. He slips up close to the building and darts into a tall row of shrubs and gets himself behind them, completely obscured from view.

He waits a long while. A nearby church bell chimes two separate times. He slouches down onto the cold ground.

At least two hours later, the shutters begin opening so quietly that Sherlock, almost asleep despite the cool day, barely hears them. Then, the front door opens. He peeks carefully around the shrubbery. A man, medium height and well-dressed in a dark suit with black bowler hat and white cravat, is coming out. He locks the door, tries it, locks it a second time, and tries it again. He turns and eyes the street, glances both ways, up and down. He surveys the front of the house. Sherlock ducks low. Then the man heads out along the street, whistling, poking his cane into the foot pavement with each sprightly step. He wears thick glasses and has a big black beard.

Holmes considers entering the house. But that quickly seems like a disastrous idea. If this really is Malefactor’s home, Sherlock can’t be caught in there. But who was that man? Is he an associate? A relative? Is Malefactor’s father still alive?

There is only one option that makes sense: follow him.

Sherlock checks that no one is looking his way and leaves the shrubbery as quickly as he can. He’s on the foot pavement in a flash and heading down the street. In the distance, he sees the man turn right, onto Brompton Road, heading for the center of London, back the way Sherlock came.