The Secret Fiend

wishes … but I warn you, you will be much more likely to catch a wild goose than the Spring Heeled Jack.”

But Sherlock Holmes isn’t so sure about all of this as he walks up Whitehall, back toward Trafalgar Square, and home. If Beatrice was making this up, then why did she go to Scotland Yard with it? Surely she isn’t so angry with me that she would make herself look like a fool to the Metropolitan London Police Force. It would take monstrous chutzpah to go to them with a made-up story, especially one about a character from a Penny Dreadful come to life. But if she isn’t making it up, then why was Louise in the healthy condition he found her? She showed no signs of any attack. It is very puzzling.

The sun is rising, the streets are filling. He should really get home and off to school. He isn’t sure how much longer he’ll attend. But he’s a pupil teacher now, as well as top boy, and he needs to find a way to inveigle his way into a university. He must have higher education. So for now, his plans are to keep going to school; keep gaining the best grades at Snowfields.

Up ahead, Trafalgar Square is abuzz with activity, even more so than usual on a Monday morning. And it isn’t just the number of people that seems different. There are Bobbies everywhere: Peelers on foot, Peelers on horseback, even Peelers up on rooftops, looking down. He sees several blackhelmeted heads and blue shoulders on Morley’s Hotel, more on Northumberland House. Crows are cawing. There is a palpable sense of danger in the air. What’s going on?

Sherlock looks across the square, past the fountains, the statue of Charles I, the big monument to Admiral Nelson that rises up into the sky and sees a rough wooden stage in front of the steps to the National Art Gallery. It has obviously been pulled here by a big team of dray horses, all of which are still standing between the stage and a group of onlookers. He notices that some folks are carrying placards. He hears shouts, sees the crowd growing as he walks toward it, growing into a mob. Looking around, he notices other people actually running this way. Off to the side, down Pall Mall Street and on the other thoroughfares that go like spokes out from the square, he sees the Force gathered in large numbers, veritable battalions of police on horseback.

What is going on?

He sees the answer, then, standing on the stage. There, large as life, is the one and only John Bright, the most eloquent, the most bombastic, the most thrilling orator in the empire – and one of the most radical. He often speaks at Reform League demonstrations. When Mr. Disraeli, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had pushed the latest Reform Bill through the House of Commons and made it law that twice as many Englishmen could vote as ever before, Mr. Bright had stood in the House and said it was not enough. There must be secret ballots, and every man in England must have a vote, he had said; we must become truly democratic, or the people will rise up and the consequences will be catastrophic. Chaos, he had said, will come to all our cities; violence will fill the streets.

A sensation goes through Sherlock, part fear, part thrill: it is curious how danger has two sides to it; how it can excite you and scare you at the same time. Over the last few years, demonstrations by Radicals both here and elsewhere in London have often grown violent. Last year in Hyde Park more than two hundred thousand protestors had stormed the fences and knocked them over, sending the police fleeing.

Today, the Force looks ready. They will fight back.

Sherlock spots another man on the stage, dark-haired and powerfully built like a rugby player. He wears a unique green suit with black stripes. He is looking at the crowd as if searching it for individual faces. There is something sinister about him. Twenty-four or -five years old, Irish, by the cut of that Dublin-made suit. A man with an agenda, plotting something.

“It’s Munby!” shouts a man near Holmes.

So that’s Alfred Munby! thinks Sherlock. Controversial Reform League member, accused of Fenian connections, always denies any association with bombings, has had nothing proved against him. John Bright must be including him reluctantly.

Sherlock rushes forward with the others, and pushes his way toward the front. He turns back to see how many more are coming, and something stops him in his tracks.

Malefactor.

He is at the edge of the crowd, leaning against a statue as if he owns it, his top hat cocked at a devilish angle, dressed as usual in his fading tailcoat, twirling his cane. His gray eyes are alert under a bulging forehead. There is a big grin on his face as he watches the rowdy scene. Arrayed on their rear ends on the stone ground against the plinth around him are his lower Irregulars, ten in number, nasty little boys dressed in eclectic combinations of stolen clothes; and right beside him, on either side, standing as he is and surveying the crowd, are his two lieutenants, dark little Grimsby and big, silent Crew. The latter, for some reason, has dyed his blond hair black.

There used to be a sense of amusement in Malefactor’s face whenever he encountered Holmes, but when he spots him today, it is a very different look. It is hatred. They are now in open enmity. If looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would be dead.

But almost immediately, Malefactor’s gaze is averted by Sherlock’s, who has noticed three particular people coming forward in the swarm of spectators approaching the stage. They are holding hands. It’s a respectable looking middle-aged man with a walrus mustache, wearing a tweed suit, and a young lady, his daughter. Between them walks a little boy. Sherlock hasn’t seen her for a few months. She is more beautiful than he remembers and grown up too, looking more like a woman than he can ever recall. But her looks are not all that have changed. The fashion of her clothes makes her stand out from the crowd. She wears a red linen dress without hoops or crinoline, so that it falls limply around her frame, showing her shape. The dress is of the sort the artists are wearing now, the kind the Pre-Raphaelite painters are depicting in their work, and it greatly surprises Sherlock. In a sea of bonnets, she wears a small hat, pinned atop her long blonde hair. Her brown eyes sparkle with intelligence. The sight of her fixes him to his spot. People jostle him, colliding against his shoulders as they run past toward the stage. But he just stands there, staring.

Irene Doyle used to smile a great deal, but lately things have changed: today her expression looks grim. Her jaw is set tightly and she barely hangs on to the little boy who steps along between her and her father. The reddish-blond child is dressed in a copy of Mr. Doyle’s suit.

Sherlock is responsible for this family combination. The boy’s name is Paul Doyle. It used to be Waller, nickname Dimly. The child used to languish in the Ratcliff workhouse in Stepney, going blind. But Sigerson Bell cured his eye infection. And Sherlock, who had discovered that the child was a relative of the Doyles, brought that fact to the attention of Irene’s father, enlightening him in a private letter. Andrew C. Doyle, who had long ago lost his only son, adopted the waif within days … much to the disappointment of his only daughter. Paul, as Irene expected, immediately ascended to a position of prime importance in their household. It had given her another reason to turn away from Sherlock Holmes.

They spot each other. For an instant, her expression softens, but then those brown eyes flare and she looks away. When she does, she sees Malefactor. She stops. The rascal doffs his top hat. Her father looks over and notices why they have come to a halt. Irene is unsure of what to do. But then she waves back. Her father glares at her and pulls both his children away.

Andrew Doyle is liberal – very liberal. That is evident, not only in his many philanthropic ventures – help for the poor and downtrodden, his support of Radicals like John Bright and the forward-thinking John Stuart Mill (after whom he even named his dog) – but in the very fact that he is here today, amongst this rabble, bringing his five- year-old boy into a dangerous scene. Doyle and Son are obviously going to one day be a joint Liberal enterprise. But he draws the line at associating with people like Malefactor. Crime is no excuse, not even for the most desperate.

Malefactor places his topper back on his head and sneers at the philanthropist. Irene turns away from her father, gives Sherlock an icy glance, releases the little boy’s hand, and raises her nose in the air. Doyle picks up Paul and makes his way toward the middle of the mob, Irene now trailing. They stop just ahead of Sherlock, not more than twenty feet away.

Despite her attitude, Holmes is thrilled. He has a clear view of her. He can stare. He senses that she knows he is observing her. Her appearance nearly makes him melt in the early March air. Beatrice Leckie is a mere crow next to this golden-haired nightingale. Really, there is no comparison. If Miss Doyle were on a London stage, not an eye would leave her.

Irene knows all of this. She has been more and more aware of her attractions as she has grown older and more womanly. She is changing both outside and in. And Malefactor, the bad boy she wants to reform, has been