The Secret Fiend Part 18

"Rat flatulence!"

The air completely leaves his lungs, and he falls to the ground and lies still. The Jack walks forward and stands above him, laughing.

On the stones nearby, Sherlock feels a wisp of air enter his upper body. He shakes his arm and lets the horsewhip fall from his sleeve, into his hand. The Jack is facing away from him. He struggles to his knees, pulls the whip back, snaps it in the air and cracks it at the villain. Just as intended, it wraps around his legs. Holmes jerks it violently, pulling his target off his feet, way up into the air. The fiend lands on his face on the hard road surface without getting his hands down for protection.

But he is apparently indestructible he immediately rises, kicking off the whip. There is blood on his face. He advances on Sherlock and glares down at the boy, just a few feet away.

It's him!

"Please turn somewhat, about forty-five degrees," says a high-pitched voice. The expression on the Jack's face indicates that he knows it is the old man who has spoken and that he is now standing behind him. Still, he doesn't see the Bellitsu kick coming. As the fiend turns his head just so forty-five degrees exposing his left temple, Bell's foot connects with it at a top speed, perfectly, according to the rules of physics. London's most feared villain is unconscious before he hits the ground.

"A patient taught me how to recover from a winding of the respiratory system in less then five point seven-five seconds. It has to do with the relaxation of the a.n.a.l sphincter and "

"Uh sir?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"I don't think we need to know that, not right now."

"Quite. More pertinent would be getting this chap hog-tied and delivered to Scotland Yard."

Sherlock Holmes turns the unconscious Spring Heeled Jack onto his back. Robert Hide's face is still distorted.

"It barely looks like him," says the boy.

"Sherlock!" They turn and see Beatrice Leckie and young Lestrade run into Old Nichol Street and hurry toward the scene. Bell turns back to the fallen man.

"Well, it isn't him in a sense, my young knight. It is his double. When you mentioned the name of the apothecary, I knew something was not right with Robert Hide. Simian is a pract.i.tioner who dabbles in the dark arts. He went over to the shadowy side long ago. Most apothecaries try to help others bring health and goodness and progress of the human spirit to the world ... then, there are others. I believe one of those vials you saw Simian giving Hide contained a substance removed from the reproductive parts of an aggressive male animal perhaps a baboon or an ape. The other likely contained secretions from the glands that adjoin the tops of human kidneys."

"Aggressive male animal?" asks Beatrice, as the other two arrive.

"Why that's Robert Hide!" exclaims young Lestrade.

"Apothecaries have long believed that there are chemicals within males that make us manly," continues Bell, "a powder keg of elements for the male a.r.s.enal, if you will. If one could find a way to multiply that supply, then ignite it with secretions from those glands that impart vigor to our systems, someone could possess energy almost beyond his control. A man could become a triple man! And the dark personality inside would be free to come forth ... creating a fiend!"

"We didn't agree to 'is doing anything like that," says Beatrice.

"We?" asks Lestrade.

"I went to Blackheath tonight and waited outside Hide's house," says Bell. "I wanted to catch that Simian rat red-handed. But as it got dark, I saw a figure through the gla.s.s in Hide's laboratory. He appeared to be putting on a costume. When I saw the wings, it did not take me long to comprehend what that costume was. Then I watched his shadow take the vials from the cabinet and ingest them. He stood still for a moment. Then he staggered, and his shadow transformed. It seemed to grow before my eyes. He began smashing bottles and test tubes in the laboratory. Then he leapt, in a single bound from a squat on the floor up onto a counter. In moments he was rushing out the door and coming this way. He took to the rooftops once he got to the north side of the river, ran along them, and when there were s.p.a.ces between the buildings, he jumped ... sometimes more than ten feet at a time!"

"'e must have been fortifying 'imself," says Beatrice, looking down at him with sympathy. "It wasn't in 'is nature to be so violent. 'e must have felt that 'e 'ad to ... be someone else to do this. 'e had to use the devil inside. We didn't know."

"We?" says Lestrade again. "Beatrice, how can you know anything about this? You told me we were coming here to see Master Holmes ... that he would be in trouble."

"I have been 'elping the Spring 'eeled Jack."

"You what?"

"She and Louise Stevenson and Robert Hide concocted the first attack," says Sherlock. "They did it late at night when there wouldn't be enough witnesses to intervene, just a few who might report it, give it credence when, as they hoped, it got into the papers. They played it out, screams included, exactly as if the Jack were a real villain and they real victims."

"Robert Hide," says Beatrice, looking down at him, "would give 'is life for people like my father and me, and Louise and 'er poor family. 'e was excited about the changes that Mr. Disraeli had made and said that when a Conservative prime minister can do such things give the vote to many millions at the stroke of 'is pen the politicians must be at the point where they would make more changes. 'e said they would surely do almost anything to keep the peace ... if their 'ands were forced. Robert thought now was the time to strike for the poor, for children, for women. 'e said we needed to create fear in the streets." She looks sad. "The idea of the return of the Spring 'eeled Jack came to us."

"You told him that you could get me involved, didn't you?"

"Yes, but it was in the cause of good, in the end, Sherlock. I told 'im that I knew a boy, a brilliant boy, a wonderful boy, who believed in justice. I knew you 'ad 'elped the police capture some of the worst criminals in London over the past year. But the public didn't know. I told him that the senior Inspector at Scotland Yard was jealous of you 'ated you."

"That is, perhaps, too strong a word," mutters young Lestrade.

"Let us tell the truth, sir," says Bell.

"But I told Robert," continues Beatrice, "that you would never agree to 'elping us, that you would think our plan reckless and criminal. So, we came up with a way to make you 'elp us without you knowing. And we enlisted Master Lestrade as well."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, we did."

"Women, Sherlock," says Bell. "You see, they are not what they seem. Oh, excuse me. Miss Leckie, do go on. 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 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." '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 never do anything unsavory to bring about justice, would you?" 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 a.s.sure 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 prost.i.tutes, 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 bal.u.s.trade 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. 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. 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.

"The prime minister wishes your presence," says the coachman.

The boy turns and walks slowly back across the road, his head lowered.

"Look at me, son."

The aging visage, wrinkled from work and care, still has those dark, twinkling eyes, that big nose the political ill.u.s.trators like to exaggerate, as if he were a Hebrew Pinocchio, as if he were Mr. d.i.c.kens' evil Jew, f.a.gin. For Sherlock Holmes, looking at him is like looking into the face of G.o.d.

"You are about the streets at a rather late hour."

"So ... so are you, sir."

The prime minister lets out a huge guffaw.

"Oh! I do not get to laugh much anymore."

"Sir ... why can we not all vote: women and men and all the poor?"

"Ah. You are a thinker. That is good." He pats Sherlock on the shoulder. The boy wonders if he will ever clean that spot again. "When I was a youth I was impetuous. I wanted to be the greatest novelist the world had ever seen and the choice of all the ladies and and the fanciest dresser. And when I first became a politician, I wanted to change the world ... on my first day in parliament!" the fanciest dresser. And when I first became a politician, I wanted to change the world ... on my first day in parliament!"

Sherlock smiles.

"But humanity will not put up with that. We are a rather large group with many points of view. There will always be poverty, hatred, poisonous ideas, as well as love and kindness and decency. Life changes slowly. The most important thing is to do your part to steer steer things in the right direction. And that is what I am trying to do. Like my fellow human beings, I am not always right ... I am not always good. I have a bad side. We all do. I have, for example, a very poor opinion of my things in the right direction. And that is what I am trying to do. Like my fellow human beings, I am not always right ... I am not always good. I have a bad side. We all do. I have, for example, a very poor opinion of my scandalous scandalous opponent ... Mr. Gladstone, and I use the term opponent ... Mr. Gladstone, and I use the term Mr. Mr. with some reservation. But I am trying, I have my nose, this big Jewish nose, pointed, I think, in the right direction. And with me, I hope to take the English people. Some day, we will, indeed, with some reservation. But I am trying, I have my nose, this big Jewish nose, pointed, I think, in the right direction. And with me, I hope to take the English people. Some day, we will, indeed, all all vote." vote."

"I am a Jew," blurts out the boy.

"Are you? What is your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, Master Holmes, if you might allow me to impart some advice, do not be too much of a Jew. Be a human being first. Treasure your Jewishness, but listen to others they may be, believe it or not, just as n.o.ble as you. That's what the Christians must do and the Muslims and the Conservatives and the Liberals and the Irish, who are igniting bombs in our city to get their way, and the Americans, who so often think they are right when they have no idea, and cause damage in the world."