The Secret Fiend

Holmes grabs her by the arm. He raises his voice. “If you know anything about this that you haven’t told me or the police, you had best tell me now! Do you know the evil that was done last night? Have you read the newspapers?” Sherlock pulls The News of the World from his pocket and wields it, almost as if he is about to hit her with it. A burly sailor, grimy from head to foot and smelling of ale, passes by.

“Is you all right, miss?” He glares at Sherlock.

“I am fine, sir, thank you. This gentleman meant nothing by it. ’e is about to escort me ’ome and be on ’is way.”

The sailor walks slowly away, looking back at Holmes

“You are ’urting me, Sherlock.” Her voice sounds different. There is an edge in it, a hint of anger, almost as if she is threatening him with the sailor, or something else, if he doesn’t let go.

He releases her arm.

“I ask you again. Have you read the newspapers? Do you know what he did?”

“I can’t read, Master ’olmes.”

An hour later, Sherlock Holmes is still on Samoa Street. After escorting Louise back to her home, he had walked up the road away from the river and found an indented doorway in an abandoned stone building with boards over its windows. He sat down in it, out of the way, looking like a beggar, his eyes cast down the street toward the Stevenson home. He had seen fear in Louise’s face when he questioned her, especially when he asked if she knew anyone who had anything to do with these crimes. He thinks she has secrets and has made a calculation. He predicts that in a short while she will be leaving her house. Where she goes will tell him a good deal about the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. He remembers Alfred Munby’s dark face at the riot in Trafalgar Square.

Louise Stevenson is guilty of something. Exactly what, he isn’t sure. But he does know this – she could not have written those notes. She cannot read.

Just a short while later, he sees her emerge. She has put on her coat, tied her bonnet down tightly, and after glancing up and down the street, heads south, toward the river. Sherlock follows. Miss Stevenson will be moving on foot – she doesn’t have money for a cab. Not that cabs are often seen in this part of Limehouse, anyway.

At first, he thinks she is going somewhere back in central London. She scurries down to Narrow Street, passes by the Jolly Hangman Tavern, and heads west along the Thames. He follows her for a long time. They pass sailors, dock workers, wharves, ships under construction, and rope factories. Just beyond the London Docks, she pauses at the Thames Tunnel, the dark subterranean passage under the river, as if debating whether or not to enter it alone. After a while, she moves on, until she comes to London Bridge. Once over it, he expects her to make for the hatter’s shop, but she doesn’t. She turns east and hurries down river toward Rotherhithe.

This was where Sherlock helped capture the notorious Brixton Gang last year. Though he is proud of what he did, he has no stomach for returning today. It is an industrial wasteland, full of docks and crime. But he can’t let Louise out of his sight. He is amazed that she would come here.

She keeps her head down and ignores the catcalls from roughs who see her. Sherlock prays he doesn’t have to intercede. But she actually barks back at some of the men who taunt her from the doors of taverns and factories, despite their size and violent attitude. Sherlock can barely keep up with her. He continues to expect her to stop, but on and on she goes, past the Whiting Asphalte Works, the warehouse where Sherlock found the gang, down past the Limehouse Reach, and out of Rotherhithe by King’s Yard (where the Royal Navy’s ships are built), then veers slightly away from the Thames and into Deptford. By the time they get there, they have been walking for more than an hour and she is still maintaining her aggressive pace. Louise Stevenson certainly isn’t what she seems. Under that humble exterior there is obviously an extraordinary toughness, and under that dress a pair of unusually strong legs. What is she up to?

They have come so far that they are now in London’s suburbs. Greenwich appears. This is a much nicer area, hilly and beautiful with bigger homes and many parks. To the north is Greenwich Hospital, the former site of a country palace where kings used to ride to the hounds, where Sir Walter Raleigh famously laid down his cape over a muddy puddle to keep Queen Elizabeth’s shoes from being soiled. The dirt is black and rich, the coming spring evident in the open green areas and sprouting trees. It actually seems warmer here, as if God heats it especially for its residents. What business does Louise Stevenson have here?

She swings south of the Royal Observatory in huge tree-lined Greenwich Park and approaches Blackheath. Sherlock can feel blisters on his toes, but Louise doesn’t seem to be suffering at all. Her head is up now, in this much safer area, her nose pointing toward her destination. Holmes senses that they are nearing it.

Blackheath Village is a gorgeous little spot with its own shops and businesses, a kind of haven just outside of London. John Stuart Mill lives here … the great man, not the dog. Birds are singing, people are strolling about on the little streets, governesses push prams, well-dressed children dutifully by their sides. It is like a painting from a storybook that starts and ends very well.

Louise turns down a smaller road off the main street. She looks just as out of place as her pursuer. Though the houses are a good size here, they aren’t enormous, not like those in Mayfair or Belgravia. But there is a lovely homespun feel to them. They are relatively new, with cream or white stucco exteriors, large latticed windows, and fake thatched roofs. Louise stops at one. It has beautiful pink blossoms just beginning on the small apple trees on the front lawn, which is surrounded by a white picket fence. Holmes sees a long low building at the rear, attached to the house. Louise hesitates then swings the gate open. It creaks. She moves slowly up the walkway. A figure appears at the front window, and then comes to the door and opens it. The boy is careful to stay well down the street, out of sight. Whoever has come to the door is greeting Louise happily, as if she is an old friend. It is a man. Sherlock steps into the street to see who it is. Robert Hide.

DEAD END

Sherlock Holmes is not used to running out of ideas. But here he is, across the street from Robert Hide’s surprisingly idyllic home far from the troubles of downtown London, and he does not know what to do. If he had more time, he would retreat now, go back to the apothecary shop, maybe consult Sigerson Bell, gather his thoughts, and concoct a scheme. That would be the prudent – the scientific – way to proceed. But he doesn’t have any time. The sun is beginning to set and the village, equipped with just a few gas lamps, is growing darker. Before noon tomorrow, he must know the identity of the Spring Heeled Jack. His only clue is in the person of Louise Stevenson, and she is in that house across the street consulting one of London’s most powerful reformers. It would, perhaps, be best if he waited for her to come out. But he doesn’t know if he can afford to even pause. A few more minutes pass, and she is still inside. He begins to think that it may be better to confront them together, anyway. If they are guilty of something, he might spook them, put them off their guard. Make people ill at ease and you can extract things from them all that much easier. He wishes he had his horsewhip. He recalls Hide’s thick chest and arms, the fact that at twenty-two, he is in the prime of his life.

The boy takes a deep breath and gets up from behind the post in the little driveway down the street. He strides over to Hide’s house, swings open the creaking white gate, and is about to pound on the door when he realizes he can hear voices inside.

He puts his ear to the door, but he can’t make out what is being said. Then he hears two words very clearly.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

There is silence. He raises his fist to bang on the door, but suddenly, it opens. Robert Hide is standing there, his expression as serene as ever, a smile growing on his face, a truly handsome and charismatic man. He is wearing a mousy gray dressing gown, red Persian slippers, and holds a black pipe in his hand. Behind him, Louise Stevenson appears in the front hallway just beyond the vestibule, her bonnet still on. She puts her hand to her mouth in shock.

“You followed me?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

“Won’t you come in?” asks Hide politely.

Should I? “Yes … yes, I will.” He marches into the house. A rich, red Indian rug