The Secret Fiend

time has already begun to run out.

Shall I go home and prepare to leave? Or try my one last idea? Louise.

When Sherlock went to visit Beatrice shortly after the first attack, she had spoken a little about her life over the last few months, as she explained how she and Louise ended up on Westminster Bridge late at night, set upon by the Spring Heeled Jack. She had talked about her new employment, though she didn’t reveal that she sought the job because her father had fallen on hard times. Now, when Sherlock thinks of it, the frequent absence of Mr. Leckie from Southwark should have spoken volumes about their situation. Her father, not well to begin with, was obviously seeking other work, probably something menial and even more dangerous to his health. Part of the reason this hadn’t occurred to Sherlock was that Beatrice had spoken so cheerfully of her work, as if it were enjoyable, and a new challenge. She told him where she and Louise were employed and even described the house – on a grand street in Kensington, just west of Knightsbridge.

Sherlock makes up his mind. He will try this one last thing. If it leads nowhere, he will be gone by the morning. He runs all the way to Kensington and finds the mansion, its appearance just as Beatrice said. He paces back and forth in front of it several times, trying to look inconspicuous, but the only employees he sees are footmen, who twice answer the door. That won’t do. He cannot ask them about another servant, cannot take the risk of being suspected of something. He must speak to someone more lowly, and female. After a half-dozen more passes, the last few drawing looks from passersby, he spots a girl in a servant’s black dress and white apron and bonnet, not much older than Beatrice, rushing out from the rear below-ground door of the house to the street, snapping a couple of coins into her little purse. Sherlock stands up straight and tries to add a few years to his age. He will lower his voice a little too. A scullery maid, like Beatrice, at the bottom of the pecking order. About seventeen years old. She’s on an errand. One button purposely undone at the top of her dress, pinching her cheeks to make them rosy; likes the opposite sex a little more than she should.

“Excuse me?”

At first, she looks apprehensive.

“What do you want?”

“Louise Stevenson.”

“Oh you does, does you?” She smiles.

“Just –”

“You a bit young for ’er, ain’t you?”

“I am just a friend … though I could be more.”

“Yes, I’m sure you could, you young rascal.”

“I would like to bring her a flower … to her home. I have a song to sing for her too.”

“Well, to it then, lad. Why is you standing ’ere? Or should you like to sing for me?”

“But I don’t know where she lives. We’ve just met.”

She looks suspicious. “And ’ow does I know you ain’t some fiend? Maybe you is the Spring ’eeled Jack! Attacked ’er, ’e did, you know. Made her famous. ’e only attacks the ladies, us poor ones, they says. I ’ear ’e is kinda ’andsome … ’andsome and dangerous.” She giggles.

“I am not the Spring Heeled Jack, my lady. I have no secrets, other than my affection for Miss Stevenson, which I would like to make known to her.”

“Well, ain’t you the talker. Tell me somethin’ about ’er that makes me believe you ain’t just wantin’ to ’urt ’er. ’Cause you know, if you is unsuited for ’er, I is available. I likes that talk ’o yours, all proper and refined-like. Very nice. Out with it! What do you knows of ’er?”

“She is a close friend of Beatrice Leckie, who is employed here as well, and lives in the Mint area in Southwark, daughter of a hatter.”

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer me, ’andsome?”

“If it weren’t for Miss Stevenson, I would.”

“Oh! You is such a talker!” She slaps him lightly on the shoulder. “Miss Stevenson lives in Limehouse, though I tell you, I’ve been there once or twice and it ain’t very nice in those parts. I’m ’appy I live in with the lady and gentleman ’ere. The Stevensons is awfully poor. Her father worked in a ’orse glue factory in Rotherhithe direct across the river, but the Duke who owned it, ’e closed it down because, they said, ’e didn’t like the color of the glue. ’er father ’ad inhaled the chemicals in there for many a year. ’is lungs don’t work right now. ’e can’t get work no longer.”

“What is the address, if you please?”

“On Samoa Street, off Narrow Road, right near the river. It ain’t much of a street. Just ask anyone who lives there for the family.”

It takes Sherlock more than an hour to get to Limehouse. As he walks at a brisk pace, he continues to consider what he knows about the case. He has very little, almost nothing. Then a thought occurs to him. He has seen all three notes. The handwriting! That’s at least something. It was the same on every one. If I could find the hand that wrote it, and look up that arm to the face … I would have my solution. It’s an intriguing idea, but virtually impossible to follow through on.

Limehouse is east of Stepney, past the area where little Paul Doyle used to live in the workhouse. Many of its streets are populated with the desperately poor, with seafaring men and their families, living many people to a room. Samoa Street is no exception. The buildings are jammed together. Sherlock keeps alert, his wits about him, remembering his Bellitsu defenses. Once he gets to Narrow Road, he asks a child, running about in bare feet in the March weather, where he might find the Stevensons. He is directed to their rough little home, the ground floor of a slim, brick building.

The man who answers the door is coughing into a cloth. There are red splats on it. He is obviously Mr. Stevenson, probably in his forties, though he looks closer to seventy. The boy spots Louise sitting at a little table in the only room that is evident, conversing with her haggard-looking mother and six other children. There is a fireplace and five beds crammed against the walls. Everyone stops talking the instant he appears, though he hears a little of what is being said, and thinks Louise mentions Alfred Munby. She stands up with a start when she sees Sherlock Holmes, shoving her chair back. Before her father can question the visitor, she has wrapped a ragged shawl around her shoulders, come forward, and ushered Sherlock out the door and into the street.

“Master ’olmes, what a surprise.” She is trying to sound pleased, but rushing him down the road away from the house, as if they are meant to walk out together.

“Miss Stevenson, shouldn’t I meet your family? Or are you ashamed of me?”

“Now, Master ’olmes, what a thing to say, I –”

“Then, why didn’t you offer proper introductions? Why are we talking in the street? Is that the correct manner in which to treat a caller?”

“It’s because … because of the Spring ’eeled Jack.”

“Yes?”

“I … uh … knows you are ’ere to ask about it, I’m sure. I don’t want to concern them about such things. They is very fragile.”

“Well, you are correct. That is why I have come to see you.”

“Does that mean you is going to look into things? That is wonderful, Master ’olmes! Beatrice will be pleased. She thinks so ’ighly of you, sir. Talks of you non-stop, says you could find this fiend. Do you have any clues?”

“Yes. I have one.”

“And can you tell a lard-headed girl like me ’bout it?”

“Yes, I can. In fact, I must. You, Miss Stevenson, are my clue.”

She turns white. “I beg your pardons, Master ’olmes?”

“Why did the Jack attack you?”

“Well, sir, you asked me that before, I’m sure you did, and I ’ave no answer. ’ow could I?”

“Who are you, Louise?”

“Who am I?” She blanches again. “What a question. Well, sure, I am Louise Stevenson, a poor girl, a friend of Beatrice Leckie’s, and an unfortunate victim of the Jack.”

“Hardly a victim, you didn’t suffer a scratch, and he had a good deal of time to do you harm. Who do you know whom the Jack might know? I overheard you mention Alfred Munby. Don’t deny it.”

Louise swallows. “I don’t know ’im, ’onest. I am sure I knows no one. I … I must be going.”