The Secret Fiend

“I don’t know who to believe anymore,” says Irene, looking stunned. “You or him or my father, or … anyone, even Robert Hide. I think … I just need to believe in myself.”

Sherlock must reach out to her. Now is the time – she seems ready to reject Malefactor. But as he steps toward her, he sees someone scurrying across the square close by, whose very presence stops him.

“Beatrice?”

At first, the hatter’s daughter acts as if she doesn’t hear him, but she then comes to a halt.

“Sherlock ’olmes?”

“Who is that?” asks Irene.

“A friend of mine.”

“A friend? She’s pretty.”

“I … I hadn’t noticed.”

Beatrice looks at Irene and her attractive dress and then glances down at her own, tattered and stained. She fixes her hair, falling out as it is from her brown bonnet. “I … I must be going,” she says, and darts away. Sherlock wonders if she was here when the riot happened. He hopes she was spared it.

“So must I,” says Irene, and stomps away.

He is left alone in Trafalgar Square. He wants to run after them, but doesn’t know which one to pursue. He wishes he could be in two places at once.

He tells himself to stop thinking about them. Irene has changed; and Beatrice is protected now. Suddenly, there is no reason to think about the Spring Heeled Jack anymore either – Malefactor is a liar, but Sherlock doesn’t believe he is lying about the murders. He would never offer to go to the police with his Jack’s costume if he were guilty of that gruesome crime. It doesn’t make sense. These latest attacks don’t seem like his enemy’s style anyway. Not clever enough.

I have no stake in this anymore. Best to let the authorities deal with it. But London is nearly in flames. Can I just sit by and watch?

“Sherlock?”

He has been standing alone in the center of the square for much longer than he realizes – the fires smoldering around him, the crowd gone, just a few policemen left, Irene and Beatrice long vanished. He didn’t notice the figure approaching him … but then, this person is good at sneaking up on people.

“Master Lestrade … you startled me.”

“I was just coming to Denmark Street to see you.”

“I believe our score is two to one on startling one another of late. That’s in my favor.”

The young detective-in-training suppresses a smile. He doesn’t appear to be in a mood to laugh. In fact, he looks terrible. And Sherlock has the sense that it isn’t entirely about the riot.

“Coming to see me? Well, I just happened to meet Miss Leckie – much more interesting for you to speak with her. She went that way.” He points south. “You could probably catch up to –”

“No, I want to see you.” The look on his face grows darker. It scares Sherlock.

“About what?”

“About this.” He takes a piece of paper from his pocket. “I went with my father to the crime scene. It was horrible. There was so much blood. I … I saw a tiny photograph of the three little girls … in their hovel. It was lying on the dirt floor near the straw that they use to sleep on. The frame was smashed and it was covered with blood.” He looks down at the paper again. “I … I don’t know how I was able to find this when my father couldn’t. I was outside, between the house and the marsh. It was crumpled up, as if it had fallen out of someone’s pocket.”

“What is it?”

“I didn’t show it to my father. I promise.”

He holds the paper so Sherlock can read it. It is splattered with scarlet. Though it is difficult to tell, the note looks as though it is written in the same hand used on the villain’s other two messages – the one left on Louise Stevenson and the one on Beatrice’s door.

The boy reads it.

SHERLOCK HOLMES ON OUR SIDE.

THE FLIGHT OF LOUISE STEVENSON

“I can’t keep this from my father for long. It is my duty to show him.”

“Thank you. But you don’t think that –”

“I will give you twenty-four hours to either leave London for good … or help me catch the fiend who murdered that family.”

“I –”

“If I am empty handed at the end of that time, I will make up a story that I went back to the crime scene and found it then. When I show it to Father, he will pursue you until he catches you. And he will. I must soon reveal this, Master Holmes. This fiend is a savage killer. I cannot withhold evidence. I cannot play with people’s lives.”

“Surely, you don’t truly suspect me. That’s absurd!”

“Is it?”

“You know me.”

“Do I? Do I really, Sherlock? Think about it. Even if we were close friends, what would I know about you that matters? My father often talks about people being shocked when a neighbor commits a crime. He seemed like such a nice man … they always say that.”

“But –”

“What is going on in my mind right now, for example?”

Sherlock examines him, but Lestrade cuts him off.

“Don’t try, Holmes. I know you are a self-described genius of observation, you have parlor tricks that help you tell others all about themselves, their heritage, their home, whether they are left-handed or right … that they live in Hounslow. But you cannot tell me what I feel. You cannot tell me if, deep down, I am actually a terrible person or a saint, what I harbor deep in my soul.”

Sherlock can’t disagree.

“I do not know that you are not helping this fiend, that you are not in fact, the Spring Heeled Jack himself. You play with fire, Holmes, you love exploring criminality … perhaps it has excited you too much? They say that villains, in the end, are more interesting than rest of us. Perhaps you’ve given in to the thrill of –”

“No, Lestrade. No, it doesn’t excite me. It never will.”

“I’m not sure I believe you. But … I will trust you to the degree that I will give you a chance to prove otherwise. Most in my position wouldn’t even do that. I may be making a terrible mistake. I will give you twenty- four hours. That’s all I can allow. Tomorrow, Monday, at noon, I shall go to my father with this note.”

He is holding it up, extending it toward Sherlock, who reaches for it so he can examine it more closely. Lestrade snaps it away and puts it into his pocket.

“When you have something, anything, let me know immediately.”

He walks away, across the smoldering square toward Scotland Yard.

Sherlock’s mind is racing. Twenty-four hours. His entire way of life could soon be over. He knows nothing about the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. Finding him in a day seems impossible. Perhaps, given the odds, it would be smart to spend his time readying himself to depart, packing up, speaking to Sigerson Bell, going south to the Crystal Palace to talk to his father. Saying goodbye to Irene … and Beatrice.

When he thinks of Miss Leckie, he is reminded of Louise Stevenson, and that gives him a tiny spark of energy, turns his mind back to the crimes. She is more than she seems … as most women are. Sherlock wonders. Should I make enquiries about her? He can’t give up. He thinks of his mother. He can’t give up on her and on what he believes he must do with his life.