The Secret Fiend

You were explaining how you deceived these young men so easily.”

She gives him a look, but continues.

“We never intended to ’urt anyone. It was the opposite. We thought a sense of chaos would push the government to really ’elp people in need. But we knew that a simple Spring ’eeled Jack appearance, even several of them, would be treated as pranks, nothing more. We thought if we could involve Sherlock ’olmes, the boy whom the lead inspector at Scotland Yard ’ated, get him to pursue the case, and make sure Lestrade knew he was doing so … then the Force would go after it with everything they ’ad and the public would know that. Fear would grow. Louise and I, we know London, we know where the poor are, we live like them ourselves. Robert, for all his brilliance and understanding, doesn’t. So it was us who scheduled his appearances and moved them around London. In order to protect ’im, should he be suspected … I wrote the notes he left behind. Every few days I wrote up ’is locations and ’is notes to leave at the crime scene, and ’ad them delivered to Blackheath. Louise and I, we tried to stay away from ’im, so no one could connect us. And every day, I fed the press everything I could.”

“But …” gasps Lestrade, “you were involved in the murder of an entire family! Hide turned into a beast! You are an accomplice to a gruesome butchery!” His eyes are turning red. He reaches out and takes her violently by the arm. But Sherlock pulls him off.

“There was no murder. No one was injured by this Spring Heeled Jack … unless you count the self-inflicted wounds on Miss Leckie.”

Beatrice looks ashamed.

“No murder? What do you mean?”

“Horse blood, my friend: all that blood was horse blood.”

“So where are the bodies? Where is the Treasure family, those little girls?”

“They are upright and healthier than ever, probably living somewhere in Mr. Hide’s large home. They were his followers, friends of his who believed in him.”

“Yes,” says Beatrice.

“They are scheduled to leave London tomorrow by boat,” continues Sherlock, “for a better life in Montreal, in Canada.” He turns to his childhood friend. “I have only one question. Why was Hide carrying the note about me?”

“He wasn’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I planted it on the scene afterward, for Master Lestrade to find.”

“You what?” says Lestrade.

“You still weren’t ’elping us, Sherlock. I had to MAKE you. I know you, and I guessed you wouldn’t give in. I did what I ’ad to do.”

“But why a note ripped in two?”

“Because if they caught you, if you were really in trouble, I was going to bring the other part to police headquarters … and give myself up.”

Sherlock has to steel himself. “I didn’t calculate that properly,” he says weakly.

“Whatever your theories are, Master Holmes,” says Lestrade, glaring down at Robert Hide, “I want this fiend bound by hand and foot like the pig he is! You shall all stay here with him while I send word to my father! You, Miss Leckie, and Miss Stevenson, shall be taken to Scotland Yard and brought before the magistrates for aiding and abetting –”

“What?” interrupts Sherlock.

“A … a …”

“A Penny Dreadful character?”

“Who –”

“Who committed the crime of scaring people, in order to make England a better place?”

Lestrade has no immediate response.

“When he comes to,” says Sherlock, “let him go.”

“No! I cannot allow this!”

“With this proviso … that he arranges for the sale of his property and follows the Treasure family to Canada, where he will never use terror to do what is right. If he stays here, your father, indeed, must arrest him.”

“But –”

Holmes puts his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. The older boy sighs, then nods.

“Thank you,” says Beatrice. She is glowing at Sherlock again, and her eyes are watering. She reaches out to him.

He pulls away. “Miss Leckie, you were playing with fire. I would advise you too, if you seek to do good in this world, to never use fear or terror to do so.”

“Like you?” she asks, giving him a hardened look. “No, you would never do anything unsavory to bring about justice, would you?”

“Best not to answer that, my boy,” says Bell.

But Sherlock has turned away from her, to Lestrade, “Give your father this.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls out the two halves of the ripped note and hands them over. “And assure him that the threat of the Spring Heeled Jack has been taken care of. Should he have any questions, he knows where to find me.”

A big grin spreads over the apothecary’s face.

The poor girl in the stained dress, with the greasy hair and gap-toothed smile has been forgotten in all of this. She is looking down at the fiend who intended to attack her. He is beginning to groan and stir. She smiles at him.

“Thank you,” she says.

THE MAN

Sherlock walks home alone that night, despite Sigerson Bell’s objections. The boy knows he won’t be able to sleep anyway. He wants to be on Westminster Bridge. When he gets there, he ignores the stragglers, the prostitutes, the drunks, who stagger in circles behind him and make rude talk. He even ignores the possibility that somewhere in the shadows, Malefactor may be watching him. Instead, he leans over the balustrade where Beatrice and Louise and Robert Hide enacted their dramatic scene.

Despite his triumph, he is feeling sad. He knows he must always be wary of slipping into deep, dark moods, but he feels one coming on.

How could she have done what she did? But it was for good, wasn’t it? Isn’t she still a remarkable person? Isn’t Irene? He isn’t sure. He looks up at Big Ben. Trust no one. But shouldn’t we all do the opposite – trust one another, care for each other? Are we capable of that? We all have a secret fiend inside.

He steps away from the wall and walks toward Westminster Palace. Up ahead, he sees a beautiful four- wheeled carriage moving very slowly along the street, the liveried coachman holding the reins tightly … and a man walking beside it. His dark suit looks expensive but somehow ill-fitting; and though he seems rather elderly, his tall top hat sits on a big head with black curly hair hanging down, so black it looks as if it were dyed. He walks with a slight stoop, deep in contemplation, his gleaming walking stick tapping out each step. Sherlock nears. Then his heart almost stops.

Disraeli.

The prime minister of the British Empire is fifteen strides in front of him: this great man, this Jew, unique in history – a popular novelist and dandy in his youth, now the most powerful man on earth, who rose through genius and courage, despite the prejudice against him … who gave a quarter of England, after two thousand years, their democratic rights. Sherlock feels as though he may faint. Instead, he darts across the road.

“You avoid me, young man? Am I not fit to speak to?” says a low voice.

Sherlock comes to a halt. So does the carriage.