flattering and encouraging her for almost a year. As she stands there today, she is teasing Sherlock without his knowing. She has given him just the right view of her good side, the perfect pout of her lips.
“Good morning, friends!” shouts John Bright from the stage. A roar goes up and fills Trafalgar Square. It is a wave of noise, a call to arms. Excitement is instantly in the air. They chant his name. Munby joins in, shaking his fist, encouraging the crowd.
Bright is square faced and square built. Big mutton chops grow down his temples. He has a down-to-earth Lancashire accent, but there is nothing common about his eloquence. Despite his existence on the fringes of political life, his speeches are perhaps the best known in the land, the equal of Disraeli’s. When England had entered the Crimean War more than a decade ago, Bright had spoken of “the wings of the angel of death beating throughout the land” and stilled the House of Commons as the members sat in awe. He raises his hands now and all is silent.
When he speaks it is not of rebellion, but of caution. He holds the massive audience in thrall, not with bombast and incitement to violence, but with carefully chosen words, political plans, even praise for the remarkably liberal Disraeli, a Conservative prime minister unlike any the nation has ever seen. He asks the people to give the Jew a chance, but to hold him and others to promises to continue to reform.
He finishes speaking and there is another roar from the crowd. Many turn to go, but he asks them to wait and hear a young man say a few words.
“I want to introduce Robert J. Hide, just twenty-two years old, but wise beyond his years, an English Alexander come to help his elders slice the Gordian Knot of the ruling classes’ grip on our nation. I found him speaking in poor London boroughs and his eloquence, his passion, astounded me. This young man is, like all of you, England’s future. Hear him!”
A striking man strides forward, purposely avoiding Munby, and takes Bright’s spot at the front of the stage. Sherlock sees Irene’s reaction to him. She forgets that she is being watched. She lifts her head and stares up at the stage, entranced.
Sherlock looks to Hide. He is indeed a handsome fellow, dark-haired, tall and well-built, fitting into his suit as if it were almost a second skin. His smile is beguiling, and his voice is pleasing.
The young man says little, but what he does say is cleverly put and charms the crowd. He finishes within five minutes.
“May I say in conclusion, that I hold with the great John Bright when it comes to our nation’s future. We must not be violent or rash. We must work with Mr. Disraeli, and with Mr. Gladstone, we must roll up our sleeves and do this together, Liberal and Conservative, man and woman. It is my hope that one day, we shall all vote. And by that I truly mean
“And so I say, good day to you! God bless you all! God Save the Queen!”
The cheer that goes up is not quite the roar that Bright received, but it is substantial, and Sherlock detects that its pitch is slightly higher than any other that morning. Looking around, Holmes sees women, both working class and ladies, glowing up at Robert Hide, their eyes still following him as he leaves the stage. Irene stands there too, looking after him as her father and stepbrother turn to go. Mr. Doyle has to touch her on the shoulder to get her attention.
Sherlock wants to follow Irene, but he shakes his head, trying to rattle good sense back into it. He must get going. He is late for school – if he goes now, then at least he can attend for most of the day. As he hurries across the square, he bumps into a small gathering of spectators. They seem to leap out of the crowd, causing him to run right into them.
“I am not pleased with you,” growls Malefactor, coming out from behind them. “You knew I had a stake in the Rathbone situation. You cost me money.” The two boys haven’t spoken for a while. One has been making himself scarce, the other trying to attend to shop duties and school. The older boy looks like he has grown an inch or two. There are wisps of sideburns spreading down his cheeks.
“My dear Malefactor, what a pleasure it is to see you.” Sherlock looks about, hoping there are still Bobbies nearby.
“We are not children anymore, Holmes. I have plans. I will never allow you to stand in their way again.”
“I –”
“DO YOU HEAR ME?”
“Might you speak up?”
“Match wits with me, Sherlock, and you will lose.”
“We shall see.”
A Bobbie trots by on a big black horse. Malefactor motions to his thugs and they move away from Holmes. Crew looks impassive, but Grimsby curses, disappointment etched on his face. He knows the apothecary’s assistant is becoming skilled in some sort of fighting art that Chinamen use, but Grimsby is a street fighter, a killer-in-training, with no use for such nonsense – he fights dirty. He would love to get Sherlock alone in an alley and finish things between them.
“A lovely day,” says Sherlock to Grimsby.
“Lovely, indeed,” responds Malefactor with a winning smile, the Bobbie within earshot.
“Enjoy political rallies, do you?”
The Bobbie trots away.
“I enjoy chaos. If chaos doesn’t come to London, I will bring it. Good day.”
“The same to you.”
“And remember what I said. If you ever involve yourself in attempting to solve any crime that has anything to do with me again, I will kill you, Sherlock Holmes. I promise you that. Until now, I have just been toying with you. But that’s over. No more games.”
Malefactor’s eyes look cold and dead. Then he turns and saunters away as his gang runs off, Grimsby’s giggle sounding across the square.
Sherlock is shaking – not something he would admit to anyone. He walks up St. Martin’s Lane past the big stone church there, trying to compose himself. Before he has gone far, he sees a young woman sitting on a bench against a wall with someone leaning over her, his arm extended above her shoulder and his hand flat against the wall. They are deep in conversation.
Sherlock tries to slip past. But she spots him.
“Master ’olmes?”
He stops. “Miss Leckie.”
Lestrade sighs and turns around. He looks a little embarrassed, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Master Lestrade.”
“Holmes. I was just leaving. Good day, Miss Leckie.” He doffs his bowler and walks away.
“Were you here for the demonstration, Beatrice?”
“Oh no, Sherlock, I don’t believe in such things. I just ’appened to be nearby. I could ’ear that awful Mr. ’ide speaking. They say ’e is ’andsome, but I saw the side of ’is face when ’e was excited and don’t agree. There is something sinister about ’im. I think ’e wants too much, that if ’e ’ad his way it would be terrible for England. The working classes need not
Holmes smiles.
“I suppose I should ’ave told you that I picked that note from your pocket, and that I went to Scotland Yard with it. I am sorry.”
“Not at all, Miss Beatrice. It is I who must apologize. I was a cad. You were frightened. I am sure that you did not invent what happened on the bridge. I hope the police will help you.”
“They will not, but Master Lestrade ’as consented to look into things.”
“That is a start.”
“I have reflected on your reaction to what I told you the night before last and I understand why you would
