The Secret Fiend

feeling spooked.

He slips down a familiar little artery, his eyes alert. He has to be vigilant: the only light here comes from the main street’s glow and a few little gas lamps behind windows. He gets down the first street, shoots along another and then turns onto his own.

His heart sinks when he sees the hatter’s shop. Up above, in their little flat, he spots a dim light. Someone has lodgings in their old home. He knows it isn’t his father. The boy has made enquiries and was told that Wilberforce Holmes is still living near the Crystal Palace in rooms provided for him by that entertainment complex’s owners. It is for the best. Still, Sherlock wishes he could talk to him. He wants to hear his voice and pick his brilliant mind like in the old days. But he can’t. Instead, he sends him letters, visits the Crystal Palace and watches him at a distance, sadly working with his white doves. Sherlock understands that he must stay away from his father, knows that his very presence would remind Wilber not just of his beautiful wife Rose, but of how his son, this son, Sherlock Holmes, caused her death.

There is a noise above. And this time, it’s close.

Sherlock looks up. A human bat appears on the edge of the rooftop, right above the window in his old family flat. There is no doubt this time. The figure jumps, swooping down out of the black sky, knocking the boy over, thundering him to the ground. He smacks his head on the cobblestones.

Everything goes blurry. He tries to look up at it. Is this the fiend’s face? In the fog, it appears incensed – complexion flushed, red eyes angry, spittle on its lips, blue flames coming from its mouth as it speaks in a deep, evil voice. Devil ears rise up in its hair, wings spread out from its body, and claws sprout from its hands. It wears a suit of some sort, striped black and green.

“Beware Sherlock Holmes! I bring chaos to London! Warn them!”

Is that what it is saying? He isn’t sure. His vision is fading, growing dark. It stands over him, leans down, and rakes his face. He can feel the blood on his cheeks trickling toward his ears and neck. But he can’t move. It is about to kill him and he is helpless, slipping into unconsciousness.

But then it rises. Before he blacks out, Sherlock can see its blurred image as if in a dream: it is wearing big, black boots with enormous heels. It stands grinning down at him for a moment, then springs halfway up the wall of the building, climbs to the rooftop and vanishes.

The boy lies immobile for a moment. But he’s roused by a voice. Someone is calling him again.

“Sherlock?”

This voice is lovely.

“Sherlock!” He sees her porcelain white face, kind black eyes, black hair falling in ringlets down onto his chest as she leans over him, her face within inches of his. She smells of soap. Beatrice.

“You’ve been attacked! You’re bleeding!”

“I am fine. It was nothing.”

“But you’re ’urt!”

“It was just a thug. He’s gone.”

“These streets are so ’orrible! Let’s get you inside.”

She puts his arm over her shoulder and helps him past the bow windows, toward the big wooden door of the shop. Groggy, Sherlock recognizes the old, familiar counter, the many hats – mostly black, some brown – hanging from hooks and on display. He remembers the smell of the mercury, the beaver and rabbit fur, and silk. He had worked here one summer or two, Beatrice often following him around, asking him questions, complementing every clever thing he said.

She takes him through to the back, to their home. It is warm inside, a fire burns on the hearth. There is no one else around – her father must be out. She guides him to a settee with a torn cover, pulls a blanket over him, then brings him a cup of tea that she’s made for his arrival. In seconds, she is back with a warm cloth.

Though he takes the tea, he soon pulls off the blanket and sits up.

“I’m all right.”

“But you aren’t.”

He puts his hands up to stop her from cleaning his cuts.

“Put your ’ands down, Sherlock ’olmes!”

He does so, immediately. She smiles at him.

“Now, sit still and we will clean you up.”

She takes his strong chin in one hand and gently caresses the scrapes on his face. Miraculously, it doesn’t hurt: the touch of a girl on his wounds is soothing. In minutes, he is put to rights.

“I came here to help you, not the other way around,” says Sherlock. “I am not mortally wounded, you know. Let’s talk about your troubles.”

“Are you up to it, Sherlock? We could talk another night.”

“Beatrice, I am fine! It was just a little knock on the head from falling and some scratches.”

“It is curious,” she says, looking at him.

“What?”

“That this rough didn’t rob you. ’e didn’t, did ’e?”

Sherlock feels in his pockets, finds his two shillings.

“’e didn’t take your coat, your boots, your shirt, anything.”

It is curious.

“’e just attacked you.”

“He was simply a young tough out for a little pleasure. There are those in this city who find it in violence.”

“He was young? Did you see ’im clearly?”

“Uh … no, I just assumed that. My error. I didn’t see him at all. He attacked me from behind.”

“You couldn’t give a description to the police?”

“No, there’s no need to.”

“I’m surprised at you, Sherlock. Shouldn’t they be told? If there is someone beating up people for pleasure, shouldn’t the Force be informed?”

“There are many attacks like this every day, you know. I think your experience was more important.”

She blushes.

“It is so kind of you to ’elp.”

They settle in to talk. Sherlock gets her to go over the events of two nights past and listens as politely as he can, making it seem as though he is deeply interested. He acts the part of a concerned friend. His mother aspired to singing on the stage, a dream prevented by her class – but she had the talent of an actor in her veins. She often spoke to her son of how thespians exploit those skills. It is all in your head. Find the core of the emotion you want to portray and embody it. You must become the person you want to be. Beatrice feels his gaze on her, looking directly into her eyes, apparently fascinated. And to some extent, he actually is; and not solely because of her beauty. Something attacked him tonight. It was likely just a thug. Half-conscious, his head already filled with fevered ideas after his run through the dark alleys of Southwark, he likely imagined the assailant bore the face of the Jack. But he isn’t entirely sure. And though he doubts there is anything to Beatrice’s story – there are no conclusive facts – there are nagging concerns, feelings he can’t entirely discard; it irritates him to be unable to dispense with them.

Then, something dawns on him. As he keeps his best fascinated gaze fixed on Beatrice … her words fade into the background.

What did that thug say? He kept repeating it. “Chaos.” And what did Malefactor say to me? “I enjoy chaos. If chaos doesn’t come to London, I will bring it.”

Still looking intently at Beatrice, he tries to recall everything he can about the figure that attacked him. It was a good size … in fact, about Crew’s size. He thinks of the shape of the big henchman’s face and it matches; of his singular strength, his athletic ability. He thinks of Crew’s high-pitched voice and recalls that this fiend was trying to lower his own. It had dark hair … and Malefactor’s lieutenant has just dyed his black! And on top of everything, this assailant knew his name, knew where he was going, knew how to follow a victim, and knew the streets. The Irregulars have many tricks up their sleeves. This isn’t a normal criminal act – it bears all the marks of a big brain behind the scenes. Sherlock remembers Malefactor’s promise to kill him. Frighten him first, then murder him. Why did this “Spring Heeled Jack” attack Beatrice Leckie of all people … a friend of his? He may have his