The Secret Fiend

“Is he dead?”

“Not by the way he’s moanin’.”

Master Lestrade is hanging from the lamppost, upside down like a bat, tied to it by his long woolen comforter, watched by two respectable-looking men and a couple, the woman averting her eyes.

Sherlock sprints to the post and shinnies up.

“What are you doing lad? That’s not how we should proceed. I’ll call the police.”

“Someone should look into this.”

Sherlock doesn’t want that. It will end his investigation, to say nothing of the deep embarrassment and harm it will cause young Lestrade’s career in the Force. In a minute, Holmes has unknotted the comforter and allowed Lestrade to slide down the post. The older boy crumples on the foot pavement, still groaning. Sherlock undoes the other end of the comforter from his feet and slaps him across the face.

“Get up!”

“I think you should let him be, lad.”

“Police!”

Sherlock pulls Lestrade up onto his pins. The young detective’s eyes are opening and becoming clear.

“Master Holmes! They attacked me so fast I didn’t get to pull out my –” He reaches for his revolver. “It’s gone!”

Sherlock’s heart sinks. They’ve armed the Irregulars with a police revolver. But that is the least of his concerns now.

“Can you run?”

Though Lestrade has taken a blow to the head, Sherlock knows that, despite his inadequacies, the other boy has a deep inner resolve.

“I am as fit as a fiddle!” he says, swiping his bowler hat off the ground and clapping it onto his head. He follows when Holmes starts to run, away from the park and through the narrow roads toward the river.

“Lads! Come back!” one of the spectators calls.

Both boys have the same idea. Go south. Seek Beatrice. She is in trouble.

They get across Blackfriars Bridge in no time, running with everything they have. Once into Southwark, they turn east and head through the smaller lanes, Sherlock leading them along shortcuts. He has no fear tonight – together, these two can fend for themselves – though he wonders what they will do if they encounter the Spring Heeled Jack near the hatter’s shop. Now they have only the horsewhip and their bare hands. Their enemies have the gun, but that doesn’t matter now. They must arrive before the fiend can.

Halfway between Blackfriars Road and Sherlock’s old neighborhood, just past the Barclay and Perkins Brewery, out of breath, they stop momentarily where the London Bridge and Charing Cross Railway Line runs above a street. The boys bend over, hands on their knees, chests heaving. There’s no one on the street but Sherlock Holmes and Master G. Lestrade.

Or so they think.

Holmes is the first to hear the noise – a heavy breathing and low growl above them. He looks up to see a man dressed as a bat, scurrying along the tracks, its wings fluttering in the air. At least he thinks it is man. In some ways, it’s more like an animal.

“Oh!” exclaims Lestrade.

It sees them. For an instant it pauses on the edge of the bridge, looking down, ready to jump. It lets out a full-throated growl. They can see its face, fairly bursting with anger. Its black hair is matted and greasy, something like horns stick out from its scalp, red eyes bulge, a vein stands out on its forehead, and while it perches rather like a vulture, it lets out a cry. “Chaos!” it shrieks, and a blue flame comes from its mouth. It wears huge black boots.

Is this the REAL Jack? Can it be Crew? thinks Sherlock. Fear surges through his veins. He feels sick to his stomach. Were it to attack him now, he wouldn’t be able to move. But it jumps from the tracks onto a nearby building, a long dangerous leap of nearly ten feet, and vanishes into the night.

For a few moments there is silence.

“What, in the name of God, was that?” Lestrade’s voice is quavering.

“I don’t know. But it came from direction of the hatter’s shop.”

A HARROWING ATTACK

They fly toward the shop, but it seems as if they are too late. A little crowd is gathered up a lane just past the hatter’s door. They are looking down at someone, crumpled on the cobblestones. It is a girl. Sherlock recognizes Beatrice’s red bonnet lying nearby.

He beats Lestrade to the spot and bursts through the little group, pushing people aside. “Beatrice!”

She lifts her head. Sherlock sighs in relief and Lestrade comes forward. But her face looks ashen, tears roll down her cheeks, and an angry welt is evident on her forehead. Holmes leans over her. The instant he does, she puts her arm around his shoulder and pulls him close. Her lips are right to his ear.

“You’ve come. I knew you would. I tried to use the pistol, Sherlock, I truly did. But I was too frightened, and he was on me too fast. I just stepped from the door to throw out the wash water and he leapt at me. He took the gun.”

“Clear off!” Lestrade addresses the crowd, puffing out his chest. “I am with the London Metropolitan Police.”

“You is?” asks someone.

“You’re just a lad!”

“He is with the police!” says Beatrice, struggling to her feet with Sherlock’s help. “Call the Force, Master Lestrade. They must come immediately. Do you have a whistle? There’s supposed to be a constable patrolling out on Borough ’igh Street.”

“You,” says Lestrade, full of confidence now as he extends a finger at a burly man, “head out and put up a cry for the Bobbies. There should be more than one close by.”

Sherlock doesn’t want that. “Before you go,” he says, stopping the man, “did anyone see this happen?”

“Who are you? Are you a policeman too? Is this the children’s brigade?”

The crowd laughs.

“Did anyone see this happen?” snarls Sherlock.

“I didn’t, not me,” says a woman in a dirty brown bonnet.

“Not I,” says a boy, not much older than Sherlock. “I runs out ’ere cause I ’ears the Leckie girl screaming terrible. I just sees her lying on the ground ’ere.”

The burly man sets out, bellowing. “Police!” The rest begin to disperse.

“Take me in,” says Beatrice in a weak voice. “Father will be home soon. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

Lestrade rushes over and takes an arm, while Sherlock grips her by the other. They support her, gently walking her into the hatter’s shop. Holmes knows he can’t stay. He doesn’t want to be here when the police arrive. Inspector Lestrade is looking for a reason to shame him, perhaps even to find a charge against him.

“Master Lestrade,” says Beatrice as she is set down on a chair, “you must tell your father that you saw this with your own eyes.”

“I will, Miss Leckie, I most certainly will. We must put the full might of the police against this fiend now.” He takes his hat off and glows at her.

“So,” asks Sherlock, “you were alone when this happened?”

“I think so.”

Trust no one. She was completely alone? Holmes has questions about the attack, but when Beatrice drops her head down to her chest in exhaustion, any sense of suspicion vanishes. There is blood oozing from wounds on her neck.

“Miss Leckie!” cries Lestrade.