The Secret Fiend

Sherlock Holmes owns just the threadbare suit he has on – though he’d been keeping a few shillings in a jar in the lab to buy another – and no other possessions but a second pair of underclothing and socks, and his over- sized nightshirt, which was a hand-me-down gift from his employer. He is now holding them all in his hands. Perhaps the old man will give him a little food to take with him. He doesn’t want to offer an explanation of what has happened, but he figures he owes it to the kindly apothecary. It is just occurring to the boy that he must leave school too. He fights back tears. His dreams are shattered.

“But, my young knight, what has happened? I don’t think I can allow this!”

In a voice that is barely audible, Sherlock tells him the fix into which the Spring Heeled Jack investigation has put him, and what he now knows about Malefactor, and about Louise Stevenson’s visit to Robert Hide, and most importantly, about the note that Master Lestrade found at that horrible crime scene.

When the old man hears about the note, Sherlock thinks he sees a slight expression of suspicion flit across his face, but it doesn’t last. It is soon replaced with anger. He leaps to his feet and begins to pace.

“But you cannot have had anything to do with this!” He stops and glances back at Sherlock, “Could you have?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we shall save you.”

“How, sir?”

The old man is, for the first time since Sherlock has known him, lost for words.

“Well … well … well … well … well … let me think about it.”

“But there is no time, sir. Master Lestrade said he will show the note to his father at noon. He is a good lad and he will likely take his time, give me a few additional hours, but he must show it to him. I would do the same – that family was brutally murdered and my name is on the most valuable clue they have. Before the sun sets, the Inspector will know and the Force will come for me.”

“They will come here first,” nods Bell, “you must leave here, but just for now.”

“I must leave here, period.”

“No.”

“Sir, you always say I should tell the truth, and seek it. You say there are times when we must bow to it.” He starts for the door.

“Sherlock!”

Holmes turns back to Sigerson Bell. The old man’s eyes are reddening.

“My boy … my lad … my … uh … my son…. Take these!” The apothecary turns to his cupboards and reaches for a couple of sticks of bread and a bottle of milk and some carrots and onions and jars of stewed fruit and sweets, one after the other, and heaps them into the boy’s arms. Then he tosses him a little cloth sack … and the horsewhip. He looks like he wants to hug Sherlock as he watches the boy quickly fill the bag with the food and clothes and stuff the whip up a sleeve, but he turns away.

“Go.”

“Good-bye, sir … and thank you…. I …”

“Good-bye, Master Sherlock Holmes, keep well.”

The boy goes quietly out the door.

About twenty paces down Denmark Street, he hears Bell yelling to him.

“Sherlock!”

The old man is running his way. He has taken off his coat and shoes and even his shirt underneath, as if he had decided to retire to bed, but then remembered something. He’s left the red fez on his head. He is naked from the waist up. Pedestrians stop and stare, mouths open; a few women scream. The flesh on his sagging chest hangs down like a dozen thin waves on the sea.

“You mentioned an apothecary at Mr. Hide’s…. What was his name?”

“Simian.”

Bell nods.

“Sir?”

“Farewell,” says the old man, and walks back to the shop.

Sherlock is undecided about to whom he should say good-bye. He won’t bother with his school. Irene, his father, Beatrice. No, not Beatrice, just the other two. His sits on a bench in little Soho Square for a long time, likely a couple of hours, before he can get himself to his feet to do what he must do. He will have to say good-bye for good. The sun is almost directly above. It is nearing noon already.

If he sees Irene first, he can then go to Sydenham to the Crystal Palace. By the time he gets there it will be late afternoon – his father will be in the midst of his duties – Sherlock will at least be well out of London, far to the south. He will then continue in that direction. Perhaps he can walk to Portsmouth, join the Navy, go far away to sea where Lestrade or Malefactor will never find him. It is a good plan.

He heads toward Bloomsbury. If I had kept my nose out of all of this I would be home now with Mr. Bell, reading a wonderful book from his library, discussing chemistry or literature with him … and later there’d be a warm fire, a meal we’d make together.

When he gets to the Doyle home on Montague Street, he can’t bring himself to enter. He hears Irene singing on the floor up above. He can’t listen. As he walks away, he hears something else and turns to look at the house. The Corgi, John Stuart Mill, is at a window and has spotted him. He is barking loudly.

Sherlock shuffles off down the street. He makes his way south to the river and over it at London Bridge. It will take him several hours to get to the Crystal Palace so he must keep moving. On Mondays, his father finishes work at 5:00 p.m.

But when he passes The Mint, he can’t help stopping. He turns off Borough High Street and walks into his old neighborhood. Will this be the last time he ever sees his family flat above the hatter’s shop, where he held his mother in his arms as she died? She had told him that he had much to do in life…. Maybe she meant something other than my silly dream of justice. He slides against a wall across the little square from the shop and looks up at the top floor. Before long, his eyes drop to ground level. I have come here to see Beatrice, not the flat. Miss Leckie is almost a perfect human being – kind and gentle, but brave and intelligent and … he will admit, very beautiful. She is beautiful both inside and out. He must also admit that he feels drawn to her; very much so. Now, when he compares her to Irene Doyle, he sees how much more there is to this lowly hatter’s daughter. She has no airs. People too often judge others by their out-sides, the cut of their clothing, and their friends. He has known Miss Leckie almost since they were born. It is as if she were meant for him. Miss Doyle is from another world. What did Louise Stevenson say? “Beatrice is a fine soul – finer than any of us – who cares for you, Master Holmes … though I’m not sure why.” No truer words were ever spoken. Will he ever know anyone like her again?

He sits there, not caring who sees him slumped on the foot pavement. A few locals recognize him, try to engage him – Ratfinch the fishmonger rolls his eel cart past and attempts to get him to rise – but he waves them all off. It begins to grow darker. He must get up and go to Sydenham. He will hide there in a field somewhere and say good-bye to his father in the morning. Young Lestrade will have shown the note to his father by now. The Inspector will already have the Force searching the streets for him. They will come here. In fact, they are likely on their way.

He rises. He notices a dim light flickering on in the hatter’s shop, their only gas lamp, or perhaps it’s a candle. I must take this chance, do what is right, see her, and tell her, at least, that I admire her. I owe her that. He walks to the shop and knocks gently on the door.

Her father answers. His cloudy red eyes look more tired than ever, and his meaty round face appears as though it has begun to shrink. In the old days, it was often set in a scowl, but he wasn’t, and isn’t, an angry man, just serious and dedicated to his trade. He has had to work without stopping for many years to keep himself and Beatrice alive. He dearly loves his daughter.

The sales part of the shop with its counter and hat trees is dark. Over Mr. Leckie’s shoulder, through a door left ajar, Sherlock sees light coming from the living quarters. Sitting at a table in there, leaning over something with a pen in hand, is Beatrice. There is a fire on in the room – the light the boy had seen flicker. Sherlock gazes at her, barely hearing Mr. Leckie.

“Ah, Master ’olmes. It is a pleasure to see you again, sir. You will forgive me. I was lying down on me little bed ’ere behind the counter to let Miss Beatrice do up some correspondence. I need me rest these days, me mind