The Secret Fiend

This is a very secretive man. Finally, Hide gets the door open and speaks to the visitor in hushed tones. Sherlock moves to one side to see better. The man is holding two vials in each hand. He’s elderly, eccentrically dressed in a gold cape and wearing a pink skullcap in which something bulges. Stethoscope. This strange man is an apothecary. He gives the vials to Hide, who pays him.

“Thank you, Simian.”

The man leaves by the same door, Hide locks every latch again, then unlocks a glass cabinet, puts the vials inside and locks it again. He smiles at Sherlock.

“Shall we return to our chairs? It must be getting late …” He hesitates, pulls his pocket watch out of his dressing gown, and looks at it. “… I have to tell you that I have not been entirely honest with you … and I am afraid I may have to tell you the true reason for Miss Stevenson’s visit tonight. I wish I did not.”

A grim expression has come across Hide’s face. Sherlock feels a jolt of fear pass through his system. Have I seen something I should not have seen? Is he going to hold me here? Or worse? He yearns again for his horsewhip.

“Robert,” says Louise anxiously as they return, “I must be going. Can you … can you give me –”

“Of course, Miss Stevenson – I was just telling Master Holmes that I must explain the exact reason for your coming.”

Louise sighs. “Couldn’t we just do it in the back room?”

“That wouldn’t be polite, not with a guest here, especially a suspicious one.” He grins at Sherlock and then shouts for his manservant, asking for a piece of family stationery. When it arrives he walks to a nearby desk and sits down, dipping a pen in an inkwell. The boy spots a stack of papers at his elbow.

“As I said, Master Holmes, I would prefer that you did not know this. No one is aware that I do such things and it is best that way. I am writing a note so Miss Stevenson can take it to my bank and withdraw ten pounds in order to support her family for the next month. That is why she is here … if you must know. I trust you don’t object?”

But Sherlock Holmes isn’t thinking about the generosity of Robert Hide, nor does he feel any shame. Something else is suddenly riveting his attention. Handwriting! He is remembering that the Jack’s handwriting was the same on every note he left behind.

If I can find the hand that wrote those notes, and look up that arm to the face … I will have my solution! They weren’t written by Louise Stevenson, but here is this well-muscled, dark-haired young man to whom she has just secretly flown, who wants to change England by any means, who speaks of chaos to the masses, who was a champion leaper at Eton, who has made a study of me, who has the smell of sulfur lingering in his lab, whose house is locked at both ends as if he were keeping enormous secrets … and he’s writing a note!

Sherlock springs to his feet.

Hide regards him. “Master Holmes?”

“A … a cramp in my foot. I’m often bothered by them. I just need to stretch it out.”

He walks toward Hide. Perhaps I won’t be able to see what he is writing on the note; perhaps it will look too nosey. He eyes the huge stack of papers on the desk instead. Robert Hide notices, scoops them up, and jams them into a deep drawer.

“I am sorry for the mess, Master Holmes. I tend to write everything down, and then I am left with these piles of rubbish. At every political meeting we have, I insist that we keep notes, minutes, and thorough schedules.” He chuckles.

Sherlock smiles back at him. I have to see what he is writing. He approaches the desk, glancing from Hide’s face, down his arm toward his writing hand. Hide adjusts his position on the chair, almost as if to block Sherlock’s view. But Holmes is quick. He pivots and looks over his shoulder.

Robert Hide’s handwriting! He imagines rushing to Lestrade, laying it all before him, sending the Force off to Blackheath Village.

TWENTY POUNDS TO THE BEARER OF THIS NOTE.

His heart sinks. The handwriting is nothing like the Spring Heeled Jack’s.

“Did you not believe me, Master Holmes?” asks Hide genially.

“You, uh … you made it out for twenty pounds, not ten.”

“Yes, I wish you hadn’t seen that either. Mr. Stevenson is truly in need these days.”

Louise embraces Hide and thanks him. In moments, she is gone. Hide keeps Sherlock engaged for a long time after she leaves, talking about how he has helped to improve her speech, increasing her vocabulary, reminding her not to drop her Hs. He wants her to have more in life. He goes on and on, obviously wanting Louise to have a head start on the boy, so she won’t worry about being pursued. But Sherlock has no interest in chasing her. He is feeling terrible. He suspected as good a man as England has, peering over his shoulder when he was secretly giving this poor girl and her family more than she had asked for.

“You are indeed a suspicious young man, Holmes.”

“Sometimes, too much so.”

“Oh, I don’t know. From what I hear of you, I understand you are a brilliant sort, a future detective.”

“I doubt that, sir. I may be leaving London soon, to start a new life.”

“What a shame. I could use someone with your wits. I’m sure I need not tell you that every day many children starve in this city. And yet, there is enough wealth in England for all of us to share. The problem is not scarcity, it is greed. I asked Miss Stevenson a good deal about you when she first mentioned you, and I was impressed by what she said. Should you ever want to work with me, I would be glad to employ you.”

Sherlock Holmes leaves Blackheath downcast. Because of his success with the Whitechapel murder, the Brixton gang, and the Rathbone kidnapping, he had come to think highly of himself, as if he could solve any crime put before him. But good fortune had obviously been with him. It is indeed ridiculous to think that a boy his age could do what Scotland Yard could not. There had been times when he had thought that before, but now his inadequacy is really sinking in. He is at a dead end. He has absolutely no idea who the Spring Heeled Jack is, not a clue.

He must leave London now, leave Bell, and live in fear that Malefactor will pursue him no matter where he goes. He has been in over his head. He is drowning. He must depart, and try to keep his head above the waves.

GOOD-BYES

He doesn’t sleep well again that night. In fact, he doesn’t sleep at all. His trip home from Blackheath had been harrowing. It had grown dark as he went. Feeling distraught, his confidence diminished, he lost his nerve the minute he was out of the friendly suburbs and into Rotherhithe, unlit as much of it is at night. Malefactor, gone underground, was behind every corner; the Spring Heeled Jack, now a complete mystery to him, was lurking on every building. It was a nightmare. He actually began to run. The Thames Tunnel was the quickest way home, but he didn’t dare enter its confines. Instead, he sprinted many miles without stopping, all the way across Blackfriars Bridge, then up through central London to Denmark Street, getting from Southwark to home faster than he had ever made that journey. When he was through the door, he slammed it after him. All was silent. He waited to hear Sigerson Bell’s voice, but the old man was either asleep, or out somewhere, probably with his secret clan.

He lies in bed thinking one thing. I must say good-bye to my father.

He doesn’t wake on Monday morning, he merely gets up. Bell, of course, has risen early and seems to be in a glorious mood.

“My boy!” he begins, but then sees the haunted look on his young friend. “What … why …”

“I am leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving what … who?”

“You, sir.”

The old man blanches. He had been putting on his bright green tweed coat and red fez to go out, but he flops down into a chair with a bang.