The Secret Fiend Part 2

She blushes again.

"I SAID ... a little stouter than you? The truth, Beatrice!"

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I am a little slimmer."

"Wearing a bonnet, a servant's frock, no crinoline? Petticoats over a corset beneath? Like you?"

This time her face turns very red, but she answers. "Yes."

He turns back to the bridge, calculating. There is no ice on the river below. Let's imagine this really happened. The drop is a little more than fifty feet, their weight about nineteen stone, their clothes heavy. The man leapt out from the bridge, may have held out his bat-like wings to cushion the fall. The river is deep here. Let's imagine this really happened. The drop is a little more than fifty feet, their weight about nineteen stone, their clothes heavy. The man leapt out from the bridge, may have held out his bat-like wings to cushion the fall. The river is deep here.

"If they did this as you say, then they lived," he says out loud, "and they could have landed near the sh.o.r.e."

With that, he turns and walks briskly back toward Big Ben. Beatrice, after a moment's hesitation, follows on the run. In minutes, he is off the bridge and down the stones steps and near the river. A few small boats float on the water. The mudlarks, those who make their living from finding things by the sh.o.r.e, aren't out at this hour. Though the muddy sh.o.r.eline is filled with stones and piers and wharfs of all sizes, there are bushes and brambles here and there. Sherlock spies a clump of them about even with the spot where the pair would have entered the water. Rushing forward, he sees two sets of footprints in the cold mud a man and a woman's leading from the water into the bushes. Five steps into the brambles, he finds a piece of black cloth, bordered with green.... Then he hears a moan.

"Over here, Beatrice!" he cries.

Sherlock hears something moving, scurrying away, about fifty feet or so down the sh.o.r.e. When he looks that way, he thinks he sees a shadow, rushing off. He wants to follow, but he must look for the girl that is what matters that is what matters.

It doesn't take much searching. He finds her, lying under the bushes, covered by them. Louise is insensible, but alive. Up ahead, the shadow has vanished.

"Oh, Lou!" cries Beatrice and kneels beside her.

There is a note pinned to Louise's dress, written in red on a large piece of white paper.

I HAVE RETURNED!.

Sherlock pulls it off and stares at it.

No watermark. Careful writing, not rushed, almost feminine, a young hand.

A handful of frigid water scooped from the Thames and splashed onto the young lady's face brings her around immediately. Her green eyes, which go charmingly with her curly red hair, snap open and she starts. Surprisingly, she has no cuts, no apparent bruises, and rises to her feet without much trouble. Her purple dress and dark blue shawl have somehow already dried, are just a little damp. Sherlock frowns, glancing back and forth from the victim to the note. He throws his frock coat over Louise's shoulders and helps the girls up the embankment before seating them on a bench near the Parliament grounds. He crosses his arms and frowns at them again. Beatrice glances up at him, then back to her friend, then up again, appearing concerned about Sherlock's reaction.

"Do you two mind telling me what this is all about?"

"I don't know that I follow you, Sherlock. I 'ave told you what 'appened." He thinks he detects a slight tone of guilt in her voice, but isn't sure.

"What really transpired here?"

"It is as I said."

"Yes, Master 'olmes, it is as she said. And I is much obliged, I'm sure."

"How do you know what Beatrice said, Miss Louise?"

"I ... I imagines it. I imagines she said what 'appened, true and clear. Beatrice is an 'onest sort, always 'as been."

"But you are not bruised from your mighty fall, you have no cuts, your dress and shawl are almost dry, you are not traumatized. It was easy to find you. This ... this note note looks like it was written on a desk in a clear hand, not scribbled by an agitated fiend. What could he have wanted with you? He did nothing to you. He simply fled." looks like it was written on a desk in a clear hand, not scribbled by an agitated fiend. What could he have wanted with you? He did nothing to you. He simply fled."

"It ain't for me to judge what a devil wants. 'e 'as evil intent for women."

"Did he act out that intent?"

"Sherlock!"

"We must get to the truth of this, Beatrice. Did he, Miss Louise, act out his intent? Did he lift your dress and undergarments and brutally "

"NO!"

"Then, why?"

"Louise said that it was not for 'er to know why such a fiend does as 'e does ... and she is right."

"This fiend from a Penny Dreadful magazine? This figure, this bogeyman for the children of England, who has so many times appeared in drawings looking more terrifying and vivid than anything Mr. d.i.c.kens might imagine?"

"Imagine! Is that what you think? What could be our purpose?"

"That, Miss Beatrice, is for you to tell me."

"Why do you stand 'ere talking rubbish? This villain must be caught and punished! You 'ave friends at Scotland Yard. You must go to them. We will come with you and make a full report."

"I wouldn't dare."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I would not dare confront Inspector Lestrade with such a fairy tale."

"FAIRY TALE!"

"Why did you do this, Beatrice ... do I not pay you enough attention at "

The slap that strikes his face is unlike any crack of a parasol he has ever received from Irene Doyle. Those were mere caresses next to this. Beatrice Leckie smacks him across his cheek with a stroke that comes out of nowhere and would have scored many centuries on the cricket field and brought all of England to its feet. Her strong working-cla.s.s hands are small but not delicate and there is pa.s.sion in her blow. She indeed cares about Sherlock; he can feel that now. But whether there is hatred or love in her mind is uncertain.

He actually falls backward from the slap.

"Return to your master, you ... you little little boy! Go back to your dreams and your selfish ambitions! There is more to the world than you imagine. Leave us! We will get our own 'elp!" boy! Go back to your dreams and your selfish ambitions! There is more to the world than you imagine. Leave us! We will get our own 'elp!"

There is nothing else he can do. Stunned, he leaves them sitting alone, seething on the bench under Big Ben. As he trudges home, he reconsiders everything he has seen and what the girls said, wondering if he might be wrong. But he can't believe that this "crime" was anything but a setup, created to draw him in. It was all too easy. Of the millions of possible targets in the city, why would this fiend strike his his close friend, causing her to run directly to him? It is like an occurrence in a melodrama. But why did Beatrice strike him like that, why such absolute fire in her eyes, why was she so emotional about his refusal to help? There was real fear, real feeling in her anger, not just the reaction of a schemer found out. Was there really a Spring Heeled Jack on the loose in London? And why was Sigerson Bell carrying a black and green costume and sneaking around in the middle of the night ... just when the villain appeared? close friend, causing her to run directly to him? It is like an occurrence in a melodrama. But why did Beatrice strike him like that, why such absolute fire in her eyes, why was she so emotional about his refusal to help? There was real fear, real feeling in her anger, not just the reaction of a schemer found out. Was there really a Spring Heeled Jack on the loose in London? And why was Sigerson Bell carrying a black and green costume and sneaking around in the middle of the night ... just when the villain appeared?

People aren't what they seem, not even friends. Everyone is a potential suspect at all times. Trust no one. That is the only wise thing that Malefactor has ever said. That is the only wise thing that Malefactor has ever said. But ... Sigerson Bell, dressed up as a fiend? But ... Sigerson Bell, dressed up as a fiend? It doesn't make any sense. After all, the villain had black hair, wasn't old.... But didn't the apothecary have a jar of black liquid in his hand tonight, and a full-faced mask? He might have performed some magic, transformed himself ... or put someone else up to it. He thinks again of the blue flames coming from the Jack's mouth. Sherlock chides himself. It doesn't make any sense. After all, the villain had black hair, wasn't old.... But didn't the apothecary have a jar of black liquid in his hand tonight, and a full-faced mask? He might have performed some magic, transformed himself ... or put someone else up to it. He thinks again of the blue flames coming from the Jack's mouth. Sherlock chides himself. What I am considering is ridiculous. What I am considering is ridiculous.

Then again, nothing about this incident makes sense. And girls never never do, especially the ones who attract you. First there was Irene Doyle, now Beatrice Leckie. do, especially the ones who attract you. First there was Irene Doyle, now Beatrice Leckie.

Women!

He feels in his pocket for the villain's note. It isn't there.

SECRETS.

Sherlock doesn't hear Sigerson Bell leave the shop later that morning. Bell is gone before the sun is up before the boy awakes and doesn't return until late at night. Holmes decides to keep a close watch over him the next day. It is a Sunday, the lad's day off, but he rouses at the same time as the old man, jumping up from his narrow bed in the wardrobe the instant he hears feet descending the spiral staircase. His master nearly falls down the remaining steps when he spots him. The apothecary adores his young charge, but has resigned himself to the fact that rising early is not one of the boy's strong points. He is a good lad, a hard worker ... once he gets going.

They lock eyes and stare at each other for a long time, neither saying a word. Suspicion hangs thick in the air.

"My boy!"

"Yes, sir?"

"What is the occasion? You are out of bed prior to my descent!"

"I thought I'd turn over a new leaf. I plan to rise early from this day forward."

"And pigs shall fly from the rear ends of donkeys," says Bell under his breath.

"What was that, sir?"

"Not a thing, my boy, not a thing, just an expression of admiration. I embrace this initiative on your part. Shall you be fixing my breakfast as well?"

That is indeed his plan.

Everything seems to be almost normal with Sigerson Bell this morning. That is, as normal as things usually are around the shop.

As the curve-backed old man does his morning calisthenics of jumping jacks and running on the spot and hanging upside down from the rafters to send as much blood as possible to his brain and twisting himself into extraordinary poses that he holds for extended periods, Sherlock works away at the morning's repast: headcheese and prawns, to be washed down with b.u.t.termilk. The boy glances at the apothecary as he toils, thinking about what he knows of him. He is surprised to realize that when he actually considers it, the answer is nothing nothing. Sigerson Bell is very good at learning about others, but rarely speaks intimately of himself. Where did he come from? Who were his parents? Was he ever married? Who is this man with whom I have so thoroughly thrown in my lot? Where did he come from? Who were his parents? Was he ever married? Who is this man with whom I have so thoroughly thrown in my lot? Bell won't be attending church this morning; he never does, nor does he insist that the boy attend either ... what kind of Englishman does that? Bell won't be attending church this morning; he never does, nor does he insist that the boy attend either ... what kind of Englishman does that?

Their Sunday paper, The News of the World The News of the World, will come later in the day, so they have no choice but to converse as they begin to consume their little feast. Bell, as usual, plows into it like a starving man, eating with his mouth wide open and head down. Sherlock regards him. After a while, the old man looks up, gobs of headcheese evident between his teeth.

"Is there something on your mind, Master Holmes?"

"I was just thinking."

"You were? Of what?"

"Of you."

Sigerson Bell swallows awkwardly, then retrieves a stained blanket that rests on a nearby stool and wipes his face.

"How very kind of you. I am well, thank you." He sounds disconcerted.

"I wasn't enquiring after your health, sir. I was just thinking "

"You mentioned that."

" that you have never told me anything of your past."

"Yes, that's true."

Bell resumes eating. Sherlock keeps staring. Finally, the old man sighs and looks back.

"I am not given to airing my autobiography. I think it best for others to know little of me. I function better as a question mark. I believe I treat you well, and that your knowing intimacies of my past will do nothing to enrich our relationship or our conversation. In fact, it may hinder them."

"But you know a good deal of me."

"I deduced much of it. And you volunteered the rest."

"You sound like an acquaintance of mine."

"Who is that?"

"One Malefactor."

"Ah, yes, the boy who operates the street gang. Thank you for casting me in such lovely company."

"Only in what you just said, sir, only in that. Malefactor also cautions others to hide their pasts."

"Well, in that, and in that alone, he has a point; though such secrecy is not for everyone. Some are given to displaying their lives, every intimate detail of them, for others to paw through. And yet, no one can ever reveal all about himself. Everyone has secrets."

"Would you object to telling me something about your past, sir, just something, it need not be intimate."

"Anything?"

"Yes."

A disturbed look crosses his face. "I had a wife ... and she was a witch."

Sherlock can't believe how bitter the old man sounds. He has never heard him like this.

"Sir, might I be so bold as to suggest that that is rather unkind, and perhaps beneath you. No matter how difficult she might have been to live with, I do not think you should call her names."

"But she was a witch."

"Sir, I must repeat that "

"She was an actual witch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"She was skilled in the ways of witchcraft. That doesn't mean evil. She was a G.o.d-fearing lady."

"But you said it in such an angry manner, Mr. Bell, that I thought "

"She died when we were young." Tears come to his eyes. "She was just twenty-four, my boy, the most beautiful witch in the world. It was so unfair."

"I am sorry."

"You see what comes of speaking of intimate details! I told you before that I believe in the alchemical concept of optimism. I prefer to live in the present, neither looking backward, nor ahead. Enough!"

And that is all Sherlock can draw from Sigerson Bell that day.