“Lestrade!”
The other boy hears the shout at the far end of Trafalgar Square. He waits as Sherlock runs up to him.
“Care for a stroll?”
Yesterday, Sherlock hadn’t told Lestrade exactly where Malefactor lived. He merely mentioned that he resided in Knightsbridge and then asked him to wait for him at the Wellington Arch.
“You have twenty-four hours. You should be –”
“Malefactor lives in a large white house in Queens Gardens in Knightsbridge. He knows as much about the criminal underworld as anyone in the city. Though I am now certain he or one of his colleagues is not the Spring Heeled Jack we seek, I am guessing he would have a great deal to contribute concerning the possible identity of the villain. He may not know exactly who he is, but he likely has an idea, and if he doesn’t, he knows people who will put us on the right track.”
“But why would he tell us anything?”
“Because I will knock on his door, his secret hiding place, with the son of the senior police inspector of Scotland Yard by my side. What secrets are inside those doors? We can threaten to reveal all about him, and not just to the police, but to his evil little cohorts, who appear to know nothing of his double life.”
“Blackmail?”
“Blackmail.”
Sherlock figures that he was in the square for more than an hour after the riot, and that it will take them more than half an hour to get to Queens Gardens. He is guessing that his sudden revelation spooked Malefactor, that he rushed home to get ready to leave … or that he is staying away from home, planning to sneak in late at night and prepare his departure. He and Lestrade shall either catch him at home or force the door … and wait for him inside. Holmes shall rip that beard from his face!
“Master Lestrade,” says Sherlock after they have been walking in silence for a few moments, “I see you have that magnifying glass with you.”
The other boy’s face colors a little. He not only took to carrying a glass because he had seen Sherlock using one a few months ago, but Holmes has the infuriating habit of knowing when it is on his person, by identifying the bulge in his coat pocket. Today he had pushed it farther down and thought he had disguised its presence.
“Yes, I do.”
“May I examine the note with it?”
“No, you may not.”
Holmes stops. “Why not?”
“Because I do not trust you. You shall steal the note and make a run for it.”
“Then allow me a moment with the glass, examining the note whilst you hold it in your forever trustworthy hands.”
They are at St. James’s Park. Lestrade walks over to a bench, Sherlock following, sits down, pulls out the glass, hands it over, and holds up the red-stained note. After Holmes’s momentary examination, they are on their way again. Neither boy says anything for awhile. Lestrade smiles.
“Nothing I didn’t notice?”
“Nothing. I must apologize.”
Just past Hyde Park Corner, seemingly out of the blue, Sherlock asks a question. “Did you find this note on a roadway?”
“No, it was out in the marsh. I told you that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure.”
“Do horses frequent the marsh?”
“Horses? What an absurd question. A horse would get stuck and have to be shot out there. Only an imbecile would take one to the marsh.”
“Not something you would do, then?”
“Watch your mouth, Holmes…. What are you driving at? Did you find some evidence on the note?”
“Not a thing. My head is empty. I cannot wait to unmask Malefactor.”
But when they get to Queens Gardens, the shutters are neither open nor closed. There are no shutters at all!
“Sherlock … are you sure this is the place?”
They notice a well-dressed man coming out the front door.
“Excuse me, sir,” says Lestrade, “is the gentleman who lives here at home?”
“No one lives here, my good fellow. Not anymore.”
“But –”
“I am the house agent.” The man offers a winning smile. “And this magnificent residence is for sale. For sale, I say, not to be let. Most houses in this neighborhood are leased, you know. Not this noble abode.” He motions to it with an extravagant hand gesture. “Are your parents interested in a new home?”
Lestrade looks indignant.
“Messrs. Henry & Edward, Auctioneers and Agents, at your service.” His smile somehow broadens. “In the bow windows of our establishment on Lanyon Street, you shall soon read of this mansion’s charms: gas laid on, carriage drive, four bedrooms, drawing rooms, library, servants’ quarters below the –”
“We do not want to purchase,” interjects Sherlock. “We know the owner.”
The house agent looks Holmes up and down. His smile dissolves and is replaced by a sneer. At first it seems as though he won’t deign to answer, but finally he speaks, addressing Lestrade.
“Actually, I barely made his acquaintance. A youngish man with an enormous, black beard, almost too large for his age?”
“That’s him,” says Sherlock. “We are here to see him on important business.”
“Then, you must seek him elsewhere. We received a note about an hour ago, telling us to meet him here. It was the most extraordinary thing. The note asked if we would pay him exactly half of what this house is worth and that we could keep the profit when we sold it. I was to bring him bank notes and come instantly. We, of course, were happy to oblige. When I arrived, he had three wagons on the street and they were already loaded with furniture and other household effects. The house is quite bare inside. I saw him only briefly. He had to sign a contract, which he was reluctant to do, but finally relented. He left about twenty minutes ago.”
“What name did he use?” asks Holmes.
“Use?”
“I have known him for many years, but not his last name. I am curious.”
“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I know that either. His signature is difficult to read. He was in a hurry, and I didn’t ask questions. Why should I? He gave us the deed, my friends.” Another smile. “There was the same scrawl there. I suppose there’s no harm in you looking. It’s right here.”
The house agent pulls the contract out of his pocket. Sherlock examines the name.
It is indeed impossible to decipher. But he can tell it isn’t Malefactor, at least not exactly. It has the same number of syllables, starts with an
“I hate to interrupt,” says Master Lestrade. When Sherlock turns to him, he sees that the other boy is angry. “We must be on our way.” A dozen steps down the street toward Brompton Road, Lestrade explodes at Holmes.
“We spoke of imbeciles a short time ago.
He walks briskly away, leaving Sherlock standing on Brompton Road. The boy has a decision to make. Malefactor has gone underground, the horse hair and unusual blood on the note are nothing but strange facts … and
