The Secret Fiend

But at the bottom of Constitution Hill, by Buckingham Palace, he doesn’t head for Birdcage Walk and Westminster Bridge. Instead, he strolls on the tree-lined pedestrian avenue on the north side of St. James’s Park and moves toward the bustle of the city via Trafalgar Square. Sherlock wonders if he is a businessman of some sort. If so, what business would a co-resident of Malefactor’s conduct?

There aren’t as many newspapers on Saturdays but the square is just as busy, since foreigners and folks from the country with a little money come to the city to see the sights when the week is over.

Sherlock spots Dupin selling his publications. “A Double Jack Attack!” he cries. The boy left the apothecary’s shop before their papers arrived. He wishes he could read that story. Two more attacks? Where? When? Was anyone hurt? But he can’t pause here. He must stay on the trail.

Once they get past the square, the bearded man’s pace picks up. They enter The Strand, lined with hotels and famous West End theaters. He passes The Adelphi, where comedy rules, then Exeter Hall, one of the great political gathering places in the Empire. Though a stranger looking at its small entrance between two Corinthian pillars would never suspect as much, John Bright has many times riveted audiences within its walls, and may soon need to again. As the bearded man passes the magnificent Lyceum Theatre, that seems to glow even when unlit, he looks behind him. Sherlock has kept well back, hidden in the crowd. Why is the fellow looking back? He is also pulling an empty sack of some sort from a pocket. He darts up the street, crosses it quickly – almost into an oncoming horse – and disappears into a lane going east. This part of London is full of such lanes and alleys, running like spiderwebs from the more familiar thoroughfares. Sherlock loses sight of the man and frantically tries to cross the street. But it takes a while, and when he gets to the lane’s entrance there is no sign of the gentleman. Then, far ahead, he spots him coming out of an alley … wearing a different coat! Sherlock runs to get closer and as he nears, notices that the man looks slimmer … and that the coat is a worn tailcoat. The sack is bulging.

The man stops for an instant and leans over and puts his hand to his face as if rubbing his eyes. When he raises his head, Sherlock can just see the side of his face well enough to tell that he has removed his glasses. They come to Drury Lane and cross it near the theater. The man slips down another alley. When he emerges this time … he is beardless! That’s when Sherlock recognizes his walking stick.

Malefactor!

It seems that the young mastermind indeed lives in Knightsbridge, probably alone, funded by the huge take from his thriving criminal business. He disguises himself until he nears his gang. As always with this rascal, he has created a brilliant situation: he is permanently in hiding in a very unlikely place; he doesn’t run the risks that his followers do, stays healthy and warm and always elusive. If that boy can manage all this at such a young age, what will he accomplish when he becomes an adult?

In minutes, Malefactor, still hatless, is at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It is the largest park in the city and a daily haunt for his Irregulars, a perfect place for them to be inconspicuous. Sherlock stops a distance away, sees Malefactor enter the park and head toward the far end, to a well-treed area. Grimsby appears and tosses him his top hat.

An idea comes to Sherlock. I must get closer. Turning on his heels, he runs back through the crowds, down Drury Lane, along The Strand and into Trafalgar Square.

“Mr. Dupin!” he cries.

The old newsboy looks up at him from his kiosk and smiles.

“Funny, Master ’olmes, how this ’ere Spring ’eeled Jack situation come up right after you talks to me about ’im.”

“I have a request.”

“More information?”

“No, your clothes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want your hat and your coat.”

“Naturally. I suppose you won’t be telling me why?”

“No, sir.”

“Just your average request, asking for the coat off a man’s back.”

“And your hat.”

“Of course, me ’at too.”

“I’ll … I’ll give you a sixpence.”

“No, you won’t. If it were anyone but you, ’olmes, I’d say no, but I’m inclined to comply. Especially if you –”

“Explain all about it when it’s over?”

“You’ve got it, mate.”

“Done. Here’s my coat.” Sherlock removes his old frock coat in a flash. “Sorry, I don’t have a hat.”

The poor cripple, well-muscled through the chest and arms from years of propelling his cart, deftly pulls off his coat and hands over his hat. Getting Sherlock’s frock coat on is a more difficult task. It is so tight that it looks like a straightjacket.

“I can’t look like this long, ’olmes, it will affect me reputation.”

“I’ll be back in a bit.”

Sherlock rushes off. The big brown coat, thick and woolen to protect against the wind, smells of tobacco, but with its collar up and the soft felt cap pulled down over his eyes, Holmes is unrecognizable. He is back at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in minutes. He slows his breathing and walks past the Irregulars several times. They are on the other side of the black wrought-iron gate that surrounds the park. Sherlock screws up his mouth, his only visible part, to complete the disguise.

Despite several passes he can’t hear much of what they are saying. They keep their voices muted. But on his final pass, worried that he has left Dupin too long with his thin, tight coat, he hears five words from Grimsby, just as Malefactor takes his leave from the gang.

“Dusk tonight, then? Right ’ere.”

It is enough.

HUNTING THE JACK

It is now well into the afternoon and Sherlock hasn’t done a single one of his chores at the shop, and yet he still has something to accomplish before he goes home. He races to Trafalgar Square, exchanges clothes with Dupin, asks him for a piece of paper, writes a note, folds it, addresses it to G. Lestrade, and rushes off to Scotland Yard. Careful not to be seen by the senior inspector, he leaves the message with the desk sergeant and sprints back to Denmark Street.

He is certain that Malefactor is heading home. But catching him in his residence does nothing, for he isn’t, on the surface, guilty of anything. He, or one of his followers, must actually be caught as the Spring Heeled Jack.

Sherlock has a plan.

He is certain that the shutters on the white house at Queens Gardens stay closed whenever Malefactor is at home and are open when he is out. He wants the young boss to be with his followers when one of them, likely Crew, turns into the Jack – Sherlock must be sure that his prime target goes to work this evening. All he has to do is get to Queens Gardens tonight and see if the shutters are closed, indicating that Malefactor is at home. He will follow him when he emerges, young Lestrade (armed with a revolver) by his side. They will watch the Jack come to life, and then, if they are smart about things, watch it attack someone. They should be able to take Malefactor and his villains at gunpoint before they really hurt anyone. He can give the credit to Master Lestrade, supply him with information about the other crimes the Irregulars have committed, and see if Scotland Yard can find a way to send the gang and their leader to jail and throw away the key.

At the apothecary’s, Sherlock reads the newspaper reports of the Spring Heeled Jack’s latest exploits. Though the article is on the front page and features a large, black headline, there is little in last night’s appearances – two of them, in opposite ends of the city, about an hour apart – that tells him much. The fiend got away easily each