The Secret Fiend

the conclusion that had someone done something similar for him, he would not be as bent over as he is today.

Though Sherlock wants to keep his eye on Bell, he can’t stand being cooped up forever. So, just after supper, he goes out for a walk. On his way, he spots Dupin, the legless newsboy, strapped to his wheeled platform, rolling along with his folding kiosk and leftover papers, as he leaves Trafalgar Square. The sight of him gives Sherlock an idea.

“Mr. Dupin!”

The ageless newsboy pulls over near the gray exterior of Northumberland House, out of the way of pedestrians. Sherlock approaches, and smiles down at him.

“Ah, Master ’olmes. What adventures is you in pursuit of these days?”

“These days, I am merely a student and an employee of Sigerson Bell.”

“And a fine thing it is to be gainfully employed, even by that strange ’un. None of your snoopin’ into criminal affairs anymore?”

“I am still a boy, Dupin, and I still have a great deal to learn. Best leave adult concerns to adults.”

“And by the look in yer eye, guvna, you have something more you’d like to learn at this very moment.”

“Do you recall the Spring Heeled Jack? Not from the Penny Dreadfuls. Wasn’t there a real one at one time?”

“Indeed there was. Why do you ask?”

“I … am simply curious. Do you have any accounts of him in your notes?”

Dupin is not just a newspaper vendor but an expert in everything to do with the news. Among his few possessions is an extraordinary catalogue of almost every important event from the last few decades. It is referenced and cross-referenced. But his pages are only slightly better informed than his remarkable, retentive brain.

“That was long ago, you know, when I was a lad.”

“Were you selling papers then?”

“I was. It was my first year, the second season of our Victoria’s reign.”

“Can you tell me anything more?”

Dupin regards him with a smile. “Why?”

Sherlock can do nothing but smile back. He fingers a shilling in his pocket. It is all he owns. Would Dupin give him the information for cash?

“Put your money away, Master ’olmes, but promise me this: if anything comes of whatever you is after, let me know the details.”

“I fear, Mr. Dupin, that if anything does come of it, you will soon know as much as I.”

Dupin grins. “Let me see.” He slings his kiosk off his back, finds a wooden box and eases it down onto the hard foot pavement as if it contains the crown jewels. He begins flicking through its contents: uniform, neatly cut pieces of paper filled with information.

“1838 … A … H … S … Sp … Spring ’eeled Jack. ’ere it is.”

He pulls a small sheet out of the box. “First struck late in that year. Both in London and in the vicinity, face like the devil, claws on ’is ’ands, red eyes, blue flames from his mouth –” Dupin can’t help but laugh. “There were many reports that year and next and into the ’40s, many imitators it seems, then reports fall off.”

“What did he wear?”

“Wear?” Dupin gives him a questioning look, then peruses the account again. “A costume … ’ad wings, dressed somewhat like a bat, black and green.”

Sherlock swallows.

“Did they arrest anyone?”

Dupin reads again. “It seems … they brought in one man, respectable sort, but never prosecuted. ’pparently it weren’t ’im. No one else was ever accused.”

“Do they say how old the Jack was?”

“I recall that meself. I recall too, that it was almost exclusively women that ’e attacked, or just frightened usually, never badly ’urt any of ’em, though there were folks imitating ’im in other places that killed their victims. ’e was supposed to be, ’ccording to these ladies ’e scared, a man of nearly forty.”

Sherlock walks back to the shop deep in thought. It wore a black and green costume. And it struck about thirty years ago. He doesn’t know Sigerson Bell’s age, but is guessing he is about seventy. This apothecary, with the chemical magic at hand to turn his eyes red and his breath blue … who hides his past, was nearly forty in 1838.

When Holmes returns, the sun has long since set, but Bell is still wrestling with his skeletons. In fact, as the boy enters, he is attempting to adjust a neck bone … and snaps the skull clean off the body. He utters a little curse under his breath.

“Oh, rat flatulence!” He turns to Sherlock. “I have had enough of this, and I am taking to my bed.”

“But it is still early, sir.”

“And I am fatigued. Is that all right with you, Sir Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”

The old man looks guilty. “Quite all right, my boy. That was my frustration speaking.”

But Sherlock isn’t sure he believes it. Once Bell is upstairs and apparently in bed, the boy makes noises downstairs, as if he is still working. At the appropriate time, he blows out the candles, turns off their gas lamp, undresses and gets under the blankets in his wardrobe. But he doesn’t sleep. He listens. He hears a few horses and carriages go by outside, a few shouts in the street, but nothing from the floor above.

About four hours later, the pitch-black stillness of the shop is broken by a noise overhead.

Sigerson Bell is on his feet. Sherlock listens for the sound of his chamber pot being slid out from under his bed, for the familiar noise of pee spurting in irregular squirts into that vessel. But there’s nothing of that sort. Instead, the boy hears the old man putting on his clothes! Moments later, he is coming down the stairs! Sherlock hears him putter through the lab, knock into something and still it. Then, there’s a low voice.

“Dog flatulence!”

Silence.

The footsteps move again, through the lab, into the front room. The outside door squeaks open and closes.

MORE SECRETS

Sherlock has his trousers, waistcoat, and frock coat on in seconds. He only glances into his little mirror, pats his hair into place in a rush. He gets out the door and spies the old man way down Crown Street, heading toward the river. Bell wisely avoids the dangerous Seven Dials and keeps going straight south to The Strand. Sherlock has to stay on his toes because the old man looks back several times, as if concerned that he is being followed. He has something tucked under an arm.

At The Strand, so unlike itself now because it is nearly deserted, the boy follows Bell as he heads east toward the Old City. They pass St. Paul’s Cathedral, bare-foot waifs lying on its steps. Only the odd hansom cab passes, that signature London sound of clopping hooves now a lonely noise. It is still too early even for the working class to be starting out, and not a single milkwoman is yet in sight. Sherlock keeps his eyes open for shadows lurking down the alleyways. Malefactor and his gang could beat you, strip you, and clean out your pockets in a flash, unobserved at this hour. Respectable, sober folks know to keep from the streets in the early morning. Sherlock once had a sort of admiration for Malefactor, but now despises him. He would just as soon have him arrested as speak to him.

Up ahead, Bell seems to have no worries. He scoots along, bent over, never looking side to side, just occasionally behind. He is fearless, thinks Sherlock. But anyone as skilled in the arts of