The Secret Fiend

hates such dishonesty. Beatrice Leckie is a real girl, a real person – the personality you see on the surface is who she is. Mixed with her unadorned beauty, it is an intoxicating perfume … which Sherlock inhales.

“You know what I think,” she says in a sweet voice, “I think you could be a great detective one day.” This is almost more than he can bear, so he keeps quiet.

They pass through a near-empty Trafalgar Square, its fountains stilled, and head toward the heart of Westminster, the river now just a stone’s throw to their left. The magnificent granite government buildings rise on either side of the wide avenue known as Whitehall; and Scotland Yard stands dark and mysterious near the water. Even the Lestrades will be home now, fast asleep. A few steps more and they pass Downing Street, where the day before yesterday, Mr. Disraeli, the Jew, took up his post as the leader of the United Kingdom.

The young couple is silent as they walk. Beatrice holds Sherlock’s arm tightly, an acceptable thing to do in the street at night and her right, under the circumstances. Sherlock, despite himself, feels flattered to be the object of such affection. For a few moments they forget their mission.

But Westminster Bridge is nearing. Soon they feel the looming presence of the famous Abbey near it: the ancient, twin-towered Anglican church that holds the bodies of the kings and queens, and great statesmen and authors in its vaults. Even more imposing is the gothic complex that rises behind it: the Palace of Westminster, containing the House of Commons and the House of Lords. It is the seat of power of the world’s greatest empire, perhaps the greatest the world has ever known. These days India, Canada, Australia, Ireland – and half the world, it seems – is kneeling before England’s queen, the majestic Victoria … and her cunning new prime minister.

Whenever the boy is this close to Parliament, he feels a yearning in his chest. He never knows if it is fear or pride … or awe. The Clock Tower, Big Ben, is above them now. He looks way up and sees the dial’s massive black- and-white face. His earliest memory is of being four years old and standing near here, viewing the tower’s thirteen- ton iron bell that was cast in a foundry in Whitechapel, as it arrived on an open cart pulled by sixteen horses. The crowds were ten deep, the cheering deafening. His father the Jew held one hand, his mother the English lady held the other, his brother, Mycroft, by their side. As they walked away afterward, a man spit in front of Sherlock’s black-haired, olive-skinned father and muttered that his mother was a disgrace.

Suddenly, Big Ben tolls. Its gigantic gong vibrates in their chests and seems to shake all of London. Beatrice cries out. Sherlock, startled at first, pulls her closer. Ben tolls again, and again. Three o’clock. There is something terrifying about those sounds, something like a warning in this time of the people’s riots in Hyde Park and the Irish bombings in the streets. There are always Bobbies near the Parliament Buildings these days – Sherlock sees them now. One is looking toward him. Sometimes it feels as though the world is about to come to an end. Could London, could the English Empire fall apart from within?

The brown bridge is wide and imposing, made of cast iron and set on granite bases. A series of seven semi- circular arches marks its appearance, looking like monstrous, half-submerged eyes, staring down the River Thames. Gas lamps rise into the mist every thirty feet or so, casting dim spotlights into the murky darkness.

“It was over ’ere,” says Beatrice as they step up onto the bridge, pointing toward the balustrade wall a few dozen steps away. “We were walking this way, our gaze straight ahead, not looking to either side, ’oping to get ’ome without any mischief befalling us. There was almost no one else about.” Their shoes scuff along the stones.

She pulls Sherlock with her and then stops about a quarter of the way along the stone surface. “Then we ’eard it.”

“Heard what?”

“I don’t know if I can rightly describe it. It was like an ’iss.”

“A hiss?”

She pulls away from Sherlock and turns toward Big Ben and the Parliament Buildings, rising above them in the night. She holds her arms wide and her face has an expression of horror, as if she were an actress emoting on a stage.

“Yes. And we turned. And there it was.”

“The Spring Heeled Jack?”

“It ’ad been kneeling against the balustrade, and as we turned, it climbed up onto it … and spread its wings.”

“Wings? Now, Beatrice –”

“It ’ad wings, Sherlock. I don’t say that they were real, but it ’ad wings.”

“What color?”

“They were black, as was the rest of ’im, but there was green too – green borders and streaks.”

Sherlock thinks again of Bell’s black and green costume.

“And … and ’e ’ad something like ’orns on his ’ead.”

“Like the devil?”

“I know it sounds fanciful.”

“So … it climbed up –”

“No. That isn’t right. I misspoke. It didn’t climb … it leapt.”

Sherlock looks at the nearly five-foot high balustrade and runs his hand along its top, a surface only six inches across.

“He sprang up onto here? From a crouch?” Sherlock looks down more than fifty feet to the freezing water below.

“Yes, ’e did.” She begins to weep.

He goes to her and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“It ’ad an ’orrible look on its face, a beet-red face, so angry …”

“A young man or older?”

“It was ’ard to tell, it was so distorted … but its ’air was black and its eyes … its eyes were black with red centers, and when it ’issed again … a blue flame came from its mouth.”

“Now, Beatrice!”

“Don’t believe me, if you want!” It is the first time he’s ever heard her angry with him. “But THAT is what I saw! And if it isn’t true, then where … where is Louise?” At this she puts her head into her hands and sobs.

Best to stick to the problem, thinks Sherlock, try to solve it for her. And she indeed has a point … where is Louise? … Maybe Louise wasn’t here to begin with.

“How did he take her?”

“’e flew down from the wall at us, ’is wings widespread. I pulled back and so did Louise, but ’e seized ’er and lifted ’er up with enormous strength, carried her across the bridge to the opposite side … and leapt up.”

“Leapt up onto a balustrade again? Carrying Louise? Are you sure?”

“And then … then … then ’e dove –”

“Dove off the wall? From there into the river?”

“I ’eard a sound like them striking the water. I ’eard ’er scream. It was nearly deserted ’ere and no one else was near enough to intervene. I didn’t watch. I was lying on the ground. I should ’ave done more! But I just … just got up and ran … to you.”

She throws herself into his arms, but he lifts her away and shakes her.

“Beatrice, control yourself. I know you can. You aren’t weak and helpless. Now, you say you saw this, so you can help me shed some light on it … tell me exactly, and I mean EXACTLY where they left the wall when they descended.”

She walks across the bridge toward the balustrade.

“It was … ’ere.”

Sherlock wishes he had his father’s spyglass. He follows and examines the surface. It is icy in places, but right where Beatrice indicates, it has indeed been disturbed. His heartbeat increases. He lowers his big, hawkish nose to the surface … and smells it like a bloodhound. He detects something. What is that odor? It’s like rotting eggs. Then it comes to him. Sulfur! Bell keeps bottles of the yellow crystals in his laboratory and melts them into a red liquid. It has a distinct aroma. If one were to light it, it would indeed produce a flame that would look blue in the night. Anyone with an elementary knowledge of chemicals could dab sulfur in their mouth and pull the trick of having blue fumes emit as they spoke. The boy gazes straight