The Secret Fiend

She didn’t seem afraid, not in the least. That surprised him too. Her objections were solely to his being alone, for his safety. She is a brave and remarkable girl, who indeed cares for him.

He is alert as he approaches the bridge, eyeing the balustrades, the tops of the buildings beyond, the shadows. He keeps rotating his gaze, left hand firmly on the horsewhip. Crew knows how to strike without warning.

There are a few dim lights in the House of Commons – as always, a sort of golden glow surrounds it. He wonders if Mr. Disraeli is in there somewhere, trying to keep England strong and safe.

It may be his imagination, but everyone he passes tonight seems to be on edge. There is tension in London. It isn’t surprising. The newspapers have been carrying many lead stories about the potential for revolution on the streets of England – some adding that “the Jew” is not the right man for the job at this time in history. And today, right on the front page of The Times, no less, was another unsettling article that will have caught many eyes.

A faithful reader of the Daily Telegraph and any sensation paper he can find, Sherlock would not even have seen it had Dupin not drawn his attention its way.

“Sherlock ’olmes!” cried the old vendor, as the boy made his way through Trafalgar Square to school that morning. “There is something in The Times that I knows you will be wanting to see.” He snapped open the paper and poked a finger at a headline.

DISTURBING ATTACK AT WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

A frightening incident, drawn to this reporter’s attention by an anonymous source, seems to have taken place on Westminster Bridge in the early morning of February 29. Two young ladies, names withheld to protect their reputations, are said to have been attacked by a fiend dressed as the Spring Heeled Jack. Though when first questioned about this, Scotland Yard denied it as “nonsense,” another source momentarily gave it credence, and upon further enquiries, The Yard admitted that a complaint had indeed been made, but for “good reason” had not been taken seriously. The original report characterized the attack as a violent one, in which one young lady was temporarily absconded with, and languished, for a short while, near death. Now, this morning, comes several citizens’ reports, communicated directly to the office of The Times, of a second attack in a Clerkenwell alley in the early hours, where a similar fiend menaced a young woman. At press time, the Force had not commented.

On his way home from school, Sherlock had waited outside Scotland Yard until young Lestrade came out the door. The boy followed him for at least a hundred yards. When the older lad paused, waiting for a chance to dart across the street between noisy omnibuses and hansom cabs, Sherlock had spoken softly into his ear.

“Read The Times today?”

Lestrade had bolted forward in front of a big coach, whose coachman shouted at him. “Do you WANT to be trampled, you idiot!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as Lestrade jumped back to the foot pavement and gathered himself.

“That’s twice I’ve spooked you lately!”

“I am in no mood for jokes.”

“I am sure. Were you the police source?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“But they weren’t yesterday.”

“Hobbs, that fool reporter, devious man – you have his acquaintance, I believe – sought me out and asked me about the incident as if he already had the facts.”

“Which he did, such as they are.”

“So it seems. I didn’t think to deny it until it was out of my mouth.”

“One must always be dispassionate in police affairs, not let one’s desires, shall we say, one’s affections, alter one’s –”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Pursue cases because they are right to pursue, my friend, not because you care for anyone involved.”

Lestrade sighs. “You are right. But I believe her story. It is worth pursuing.”

“It must have been her who told The Times. She had to be the original source.”

“No, she wasn’t. I asked her myself, this forenoon.”

“How is your father?”

“Livid.”

“And how are you?”

Sherlock can’t help liking the other boy, blundering youth that he is, but earnest and honest.

“I have been better.”

“Keep your chin up. A solution may be at hand.”

Sherlock is all the way across Westminster Bridge now. This is going to be a longer trip than the one he made last night. Beatrice and Louise can’t take the narrow lanes and alleyways because that would truly make them vulnerable – too obvious a prey at which Crew could strike. No, the girls have been instructed to stick to the wider, brighter thoroughfares until just the right moment. Only then will Sherlock’s plan put them into a situation so perfectly tempting that the villain will not be able to resist. And when he strikes, so will Sherlock Holmes.

As they leave the bridge, the wharfs, and flour mills visible on the south side of the river below, they enter Lambeth, east of Southwark. This is a mixed neighborhood filled with factories, theaters, slums, poor residences, and a few not so poor. Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop of Canterbury lords it over the state religion is nearby, but so are hard-living tradesmen, dock workers, and Astley’s Theatre. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the girls.

It takes them about half an hour to make their way along Westminster Road past the Female Orphan Asylum, through St. George’s Circus, and up Borough High Street. Never once do they veer off the main roads, and there is no sign of the fiend. The girls keep to themselves in these areas and move quickly. As they approach Mint Street, they turn into Sherlock’s old haunts, down a narrow lane.

The boy rushes up to the corner and turns. The pair is just ahead, still unmolested. He pulls his horsewhip from his sleeve and grips it tightly. Crew will be well aware that this is the perfect place to strike. But the thug doesn’t appear. Sherlock follows the girls down several small streets, even an alleyway, all the way to the hatter’s shop. They do just what they were instructed to do, but no attack occurs. The girls stop at the hatter’s door and turn back to Sherlock. Louise smiles shyly at him.

“I’m glad, really,” says Beatrice. “You should not be doing this alone.”

“I would have been fine. I was well prepared. I should have him in custody by now.”

“Would you like to come in? Father won’t be ’ome for an hour.”

“There’s no need.”

“But –”

“I must be getting back.”

Louise looks at Beatrice, disappointed for her.

“Don’t you two ever walk home this late again; if you absolutely must, ask a gentleman to accompany you.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Yes, thank you, Master ’olmes,” adds Louise.

The boy stomps away from the shop, head down, upset at this missed opportunity. He was sure it would work.

He is so intent on his thoughts that he almost misses it. He passes a short alleyway where a dark figure has its back turned to the street, struggling with something. Sherlock walks by, but then stops. Did he imagine it? The fog has started to settle in. He turns and peeks around the corner. There is indeed a figure there in the mist, tall and muscular, glancing out toward the street every now and then, as if he is doing something secretive. It takes a moment for Sherlock to realize what he is up to.

He is putting on a costume. It is black and green. It has wings.