THE SPRING HEELED JACKS

Sherlock Holmes tries to be a regular boy the next day. He attends school and listens carefully. He is the only one in his form, learning at a level, he has been told, that no other student has ever reached at Snowfields. Sherlock also puts in his two hours as a pupil teacher instructing the little ones, helps the Headmaster clean up afterward, and is the last one out before the big wooden door on the ground floor of the big brick building is locked. He will clean the apothecary shop when he returns home. It will be a satisfying day’s work.

But during all of this, a tension, a burning excitement, builds inside him. A devil wants out. At times he even notices his hands shaking. So far, he has resisted the volcano inside. Sigerson Bell may be right. Perhaps he should pursue this fiend. Perhaps. Feelings welling inside him are telling him as much. But they are feelings. He must be prudent.

As he walks home along Snowfields Road and heads past the large railway station, he spots London Bridge up ahead and sighs. He likes to play little mental games to keep his brain exercised. How many steps is it from here to the bridge? He is training himself to judge distances – there may be a day when it will come in handy. Nine hundred steps, he estimates. Then he adds to his game. If I am able to travel that entire distance without once thinking of the Spring Heeled Jack, I shall resist him for good, leave him to the police to catch. That’s a vow.

At step number two hundred and twenty-two, his head cast down and his thoughts disciplined, he is interrupted.

“Sherlock.”

A lovely voice.

Beatrice Leckie and her friend Louise appear in the crowd of faces coming toward him, having just crossed the bridge from the city, heading south. She has obviously taken this route to her father’s shop in order to intercept him, either rushing here at the end of a short day, or during a late tea time.

“Miss Leckie.”

She catches the less-than-enthusiastic tone in his voice. “Sherlock,” she says, “I did not volunteer information about you to the press.”

“But you did not keep quiet when asked, either.”

“No.” Her head lowers. Then she looks at him, her eyes large. “I am glad to have met up with you today.”

There is something about her that prevents Sherlock from being angry with her. “And I, you,” he says. He turns to her companion. “Good day, Miss Louise.”

“Good day, sir.” Louise actually curtsies. As the boy looks at her, it occurs to him that he knows nothing of this new friend of Beatrice’s, not even her last name. Who is this person with my schoolmate? She was the victim the first time, not Beatrice. Perhaps she was the only target. Sherlock has never considered what her game might be in all the goings-on about the Spring –

He stops his thoughts.

“It is a fine day, ladies.” And it is: cold but clear, with spring in the air. “I am afraid that I am in a rush. I am needed at the shop.” If he’d had a hat, he would have tipped it. He starts on his way, but Beatrice reaches out and actually takes him by the arm, gripping him firmly, as if to hold him there. Pedestrians move past, taking notice of the bold young lady, standing so close to the young man that her chest almost touches his.

“I want you to find him.”

“I have no idea to whom you are referring.” He begins to pull away. He just has to make it to London Bridge without hearing that name, just six hundred and seventy eight steps and –

“The Spring ’eeled Jack.”

His shoulders slouch. And what happens next doesn’t help the situation. Beatrice slides her hand down to his hand and holds it tightly. Louise blushes, smiles, and speaks in a soft voice. “We is in danger, Master ’olmes.” Her tone appears calculated to sound weak and vulnerable.

“Nonsense.”

“I ’ope you are correct,” says Beatrice, squeezing his hand as he tries to get it loose, “but Master Lestrade, who ’as been spending time comforting me, says that the police are absolutely certain John Silver acted only last night.”

“That was not your fault, Master ’olmes,” adds Louise, “thinkin’ that you ’ad nabbed the real ’un. I am sure that Master Lestrade could ’ave done no better ’imself.”

Sherlock feels the color rising to his face.

“And I know ’e couldn’t ’ave!” declares Beatrice, still holding Sherlock’s hand tightly.

“This is a police matter.”

Beatrice turns those big, pleading eyes on him again. “It is clear that the villain who attacked us in Westminster was the one who assaulted those ladies in Knightsbridge, isn’t it? ’e is lunatic, a murderous one, and ’e knows who we are, how we come ’ome at night, perhaps even where we live.”

“Then you must be careful, take a different route, go with a gentleman, and come home earlier, as you are doing now.”

“I’m so afraid, Master ’olmes,” says Louise and a tear plops onto her cheek.

It is as if they are working together.

“There is no evidence that this fiend will strike at you again. There are four million people in London, so probability suggests that you are quite safe.”

“But ’e was reported near our shop past midnight last night,” says Beatrice.

“He was? By whom?”

“It was a couple of lads, out carousing.”

Sherlock smiles. “Hardly reliable.”

“Master Lestrade says they are. ’e came at dawn this morning to the shop, and interviewed them – roused them up from their beds. ’e tells me ’e believes them.”

“And that he must protect you?”

“Yes. ’e ’as convinced his father to post a man out on Borough High Street nearby, and ’e promises to stop in every night, too.”

“He would.”

“Pardon me?”

“How nice of him.”

“I wish it was you … protecting me. I know the police will do what they can to catch this villain, and that they have been embarrassed into action, but I also know that the inspector thinks it is no more than someone pulling pranks, that the fiend isn’t really dangerous. Master Lestrade told me as much. But I’ve seen the Jack – ’e will murder someone … maybe us!”

“Come now Beatrice. As I said, there is little evidence that –”

“There’s something in the afternoon papers today,” says Louise, “about it appearing again, somewhere else, last night. We ’eard the newsboys shouting out something ’bout it trying to attack some ladies again. It was in Brixton, wasn’t it Bea? That’s so close to us!”

“I know that Inspector Lestrade thinks you are out of the way now,” says Beatrice, “because of what ’e said about you in the papers. But if you were to become involved in this, I think it would change everything. I think ’e would turn London upside down to find the Spring ’eeled Jack. I know ’ow ’e despises you and what you’ve done. You’ve made ’im look a fool … Master Lestrade ’as told me too.”

It almost makes Sherlock feel proud.

“London should be on fire with fear! Your involvement would ensure it!”

The boy is surprised at the expression in Beatrice Leckie’s face. It is lit up, her eyes actually angry. But she looks guilty the moment the words are out of her mouth. “I grow a little ’ysterical. I am sorry. But I’m … terrified.”

Louise puts her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

“That is natural, Miss Leckie,” says Sherlock. “You and your friend were assaulted. No wonder you are fearful. But … you have Master Lestrade. He will look after you.”

And with that, Sherlock loosens her hand and walks away, up toward London Bridge.

“You don’t need to find him all by yourself, Master ’olmes! Just let Lestrade know that you are interested! That would be enough!” shouts Beatrice.

“The inspector thinks ’e’s shamed you!” adds Louise, “that you don’t ’ave the courage to ’elp anymore!”

Holmes is trying not to listen, waving his hand as he moves away. There are many crimes in London, he tells himself. I cannot solve them all. I cannot be swayed by emotions. And I am still just a boy. I was fortunate before – all of this is beyond me. I should only act if I have no options.

He walks slowly home, telling himself that the vow he made to investigate the Spring Heeled Jack if he heard or contemplated the villain’s name before he reached London Bridge was just a child’s game and that Beatrice and Louise’s fears are unfounded – they are safe. He reaches Fleet Street where the newspapers are published. He likes the atmosphere here. There is always a bustle: the omnibuses and hansom cabs clattering, the newsboys shouting.

“Leaping Jack loose again!” one calls. Sherlock sees a few pedestrians take papers from this particularly loud little vendor, flipping coins his way, hungrily reading the front page. But most people are simply rushing along as if they have important places to go. He smells the constantly lingering aroma of burning coal, the refuse, the perspiration, the perfume. There is no fog late this afternoon, and he can see all the colors of London: the black and brown horses, big black-and-white signs, the gray, shoeless children, the red and purple dresses and flowery hats, the pale faces, all as clear as day. But as he gets to The Strand and then moves toward Trafalgar Square, it seems as though the crowd is thicker than usual. There is a commotion up ahead. Past Northumberland House, he sees that people are rushing into the square from the streets. That is certainly abnormal at this hour.

Sherlock crosses the street and peers over the heads of the crowd, the top hats and bonnets, and sees why.

Robert Hide. He is standing on another crude stage near the north end of the square, in front of the stately National Art Gallery. It is Thursday, just three days since his exciting appearance here with John Bright. Two Reform League demonstrations in one week? Sherlock has never heard of such a thing. Perhaps Hide has organized this on his own.

The boy makes his way through the crowd to get near the front. He passes all sorts – working class, middle class, and aristocrats. Then he spots her. Irene. She is at the front, wearing another of those loose artistic dresses, orange this time, watching Hide with a look of admiration. In a sea of people in varying headgear, she alone is hatless. Her golden hair, hanging loose, glows in the sun.

Hide is pacing, the way a pugilist does before he enters the prize ring, as if holding something in. Sherlock notices Alfred Munby, dark and muscular in his green-and-black suit, heading toward the stage, but he is intercepted by a Reform League man who motions to him to stay off the podium. He glares up at Hide. But the young orator doesn’t notice. He is glancing down into the front of the crowd now, regarding his admirers. His expression changes from a frown to a glorious smile. Several of his fans reach up to him. He bends and moves along, touching hands … one of them is Irene’s.

Hide straightens and faces his audience. His brown eyes are glowing.

“My fellow Englishmen!” A big cheer rises, louder than any he received before. He is indeed a growing star. “I will take up little of your time this afternoon, but I thought it necessary in these extraordinary days – nay, in this extraordinary week – to speak with you once more.” He thrusts his arms into the air. “Because we have a new man now fully at work at Number Ten Downing Street!”

Some cheer and others groan.

“Mr. Disraeli is a leader unlike any other. He is brilliant and open-minded, a seeker of consensus. Some say though … that he is erratic and unpredictable! An opportunist!” Hide frowns and holds his hands in fists.

“Here! Here!” shout some.

“I do not! He is my leader as he is all of yours, and I bow to his guidance.” He places his hand over his heart. “But … he takes office at a time when trouble continues to dog our nation, when trouble seems to be growing. The markets are poor, the trade unions are restless, and the need for further reform is absolutely necessary.” Hide begins to pace again. “Can he take us further? Change our nation, douse the flame of discontent rather than throw coal upon it by turning his back on us?” As Hide reaches the end of the sentence he is shouting and the crowd is cheering. He pauses. Silence descends. Irene stares up.

“I believe he can. But I believe that it is up to us, to you and you and you and you,” he points at individuals in the crowd, “… and to me … to push him. We must remind him every day that England is not the way it should be – yet. We must all vote, ALL of us; we must have a secret ballot; we must pay our tradesman more; we must tax our wealthy citizens more, those who have so much!”

A cheer goes up through part of the crowd. Others look around nervously.

“But be not afraid, London, even in these fearful times, this fearful week. Chaos …” he pauses and laughs, “as this heinous Spring Heeled Jack fellow is telling us … is NOT here. Chaos shall never come to London or to our government as long as I, for one, have a BREATH TO BREATHE!” He punches the air with one of his big fists and everyone cheers. The sound fills the square and spills into the rest of the city. He lets it continue, posing for a moment, his handsome face upturned, holding that fist in the air, his bicep bulging under his neat, pin-striped suit, his slim waist evident as his coat pulls open. Sherlock sees Irene staring up at him, her mouth open.

On he goes, calling for change, but standing behind the government and the “good sense of sober people.” He ends with a flourish. “Chaos comes only when fear consumes us, when fear runs loose in our streets, when fear trembles the tower at Westminster and freezes Big Ben, when you, the people, allow fear into your veins! We shall not … we shall not … FEAR! We fear … nothing!”

For an instant Sherlock thinks he sees Beatrice, moving through the crowd near the front, and disappearing behind the stage. But that is impossible – he has just seen her south of London Bridge. To get here, she would have had to double back. Am I thinking about her too much? Am I becoming attracted to her?

The applause continues for many minutes after Hide finishes. He leaps from the stage and the crowd folds around him. Some embrace him, others shake his hand. Sherlock stands watching, noticing Irene trying to get nearer the charismatic man. Soon, Hide moves Holmes’s way and it is only when he is almost upon the boy that Irene finally reaches him. Hide sees her, looks enchanted – who wouldn’t be – and shakes her hand like a gentleman. As he turns, he is face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

“Hello, sir,” Hide says in a confident voice and takes the boy’s hand. Most people of higher social standing than Sherlock don’t even acknowledge him. They see his threadbare suit and waistcoat, his old boots, polished so often that he’s created holes and turn away. But this famous young man smiles at him. “Thank you for listening,” he says, looking right at the boy. If Sherlock Holmes can do anything, he can judge character. He can tell that Robert Hide means what he says.

As the boy turns away, someone jostles him, and he is pushed into Irene Doyle. Their faces almost touch. For a moment they are held by the crowd, eyes inches apart. Irene, for once, isn’t frowning at him.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she says.

She is so utterly beautiful this close that his knees almost buckle.

“H … H … Hello.”

“We shouldn’t be fighting, you know. Mr. Hide is right. We should all be together.”

“I agree,” says Sherlock, before he can even think.

“Let us put the past behind us, what do you say?”

“I say that is wise.”

“Walk with me.”

She must have come alone, not a rare thing for this remarkable girl. She puts her arm through his and they move northward, up St. Martin’s Lane, past the church. Irene Doyle has never been afraid to be seen in public with Sherlock Holmes. He has always appreciated that. Others stare after them, but she doesn’t take notice.

They talk about politics. At least, she does. She despises Alfred Munby, but admires Disraeli, the Liberal Gladstone even more, and Bright and Hide the most. She believes that women should vote. Before they know it, they are on Montague Street, nearing her house.

“I am sorry for the way I have treated you,” he says.

A pink glow comes to her cheeks.

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“Well, I’m trying.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“I’m sure your father wouldn’t –”

“He isn’t home. He’s out with Paul.” There’s a bitter tone in her voice.

“Then I shouldn’t be inside. There would just be the two of us.”

They had been alone in the house before, but that had been out of absolute necessity, when he was an escapee from jail, running for his life. It wouldn’t be proper for him to be there now, not with a young lady of Irene’s standing.

“Sherlock, this is a new day. If I want to have a gentleman in my home, I shall do so.”

There is something in her expression that disturbs him. It isn’t just her clothes that announce a new Irene. As he’s walked with her today, he has been acutely aware of how completely she is changing – Miss Doyle is going to be a different sort of woman than he once imagined. She is becoming as bold and as expressive as her dress. In her conversation, he can feel her anger about life – about the time her father spends with her stepbrother, about women’s roles, about not being allowed to state her true feelings, about being held down.

“Damn my father and brother,” she says.

He gapes at her.

“Just being silly,” she giggles. “Shocking word, isn’t it?”

Sherlock goes in with her. They sit on the old settee where they used to lounge, and John Stuart Mill, her gassy little Corgi dog, waddles up to him and stretches out nearby. Holmes hopes the little mutt can keep his flatulence to himself.

Irene talks non-stop. It is as if she has been holding a flood of emotions back, and they are finally bursting forth. She says she loves little Paul, but that her father is soft in the head about him, attached to him as if Paul were the reincarnation of her dead brother.

“That’s fine, if that’s what he wants to do. It is time for me to cut the apron strings and be independent anyway. I am ready to be a new woman. He speaks of encouraging that sort of thing, but I doubt he wants me to be truly independent. I am sick of spending all my time helping him with his work. Not that I don’t support him, but he is so removed from reality, even though he thinks he isn’t. He doesn’t really understand the unfortunate. He looks down on them from above and tries to get them to help themselves when that is often quite ridiculous. I would rather be truly close to them, understand them. Mr. Hide comes from a less-than-savory background. They say his father was a criminal, but he reformed. It makes him very authentic. I want to be like that, somehow. I want to live a real life, connected to my feelings. I am learning a great deal from Malefactor. I think I am beginning to gain his trust.”

Sherlock has to bite his tongue.

“Oh, I know you hate him. I know you think he wants to hurt you.”

“He does, Irene.”

“Not if you don’t confront him.” She slaps him playfully on the shoulder. “I have learned more about him. That’s why I am sure I can change him. I know you know that his family pulled themselves up from nothing, and then lost everything. But did you know that he was a brilliant student too, a mathematical whiz who could have been a professor in any university?”

“It doesn’t matter what he could have been. He chose otherwise.”

“Yes he did, but he can turn back too. He could be such a positive force.”

“I doubt it.”

“I know you do. You have an old-fashioned view of someone’s ability to change. He has spoken to me of his admiration for you, what do you think of that?”

“That he is using you.”

She frowns. “You give me little credit, like most men do women. I am not naïve. I understand his evil tendencies, believe me. I shall alter him, bit by bit, before he harms you. And he is changing me.”

Sherlock feels ill at ease.

“He has encouraged me to be myself, to not be the good little girl who simply accepts everything her father wants her to be.”

“Is he encouraging you to commit crimes?”

“I shall ignore that comment. He is encouraging me to enjoy life, and to, among other things, explore my interest in singing. It connects me to my soul. You heard me sing, once.”

“You are suited for better things.”

“You sound like your grandparents.”

“Pardon me?”

“Isn’t that what they said to your mother? Didn’t they try to hold her down? Didn’t she love your father even though he wasn’t deemed suitable for her? Didn’t she give her life to their love, their marriage?”

He knows she is right.

“How well did I sing?”

“Uh …” he recalls her beautiful voice, her racy song, “… very well.”

“I may actually take to the stage. I’m guessing that more than surprises you. But I want to do something different, and it is a worthwhile life, not disreputable as old-thinking snobs feel. The theater will be properly respected in the future – it not only addresses issues, explores true human emotions, it makes folks happy. Malefactor knows people who know people in the profession – powerful people. Perhaps I will go to America in a few years, create a whole new existence for myself, a whole new biography to put in the play programs and papers. Did you know that I had a wild American upbringing?”

She laughs, but Sherlock doesn’t.

“I shan’t marry someone my father chooses, either. I will marry whom I choose … or perhaps I won’t marry at all! There is so much fun to be had.”

Sherlock frowns.

“Oh, Master Holmes, you are so straightlaced! You need to bend a little. I am learning to, so can you. No matter what happens, I will still be me.”

“I have a career path too, Irene. I think it not only worthwhile, but absolutely necessary. It is what I am destined to do.”

“Then we both have our goals.”

“You are under the influence of a blackguard.”

“I am under the influence of myself, and a bad boy is not necessarily an evil one. Sometimes they are the most fun of all. But I tell you, Sherlock Holmes, I still know what is right and wrong. I will always help others, in my own way.”

“Malefactor is fun?”

“Yes, fun. Shall I sing for you?”

“But the last time I heard you, you –”

“Didn’t want to? I was shy about it, wasn’t I? You will see I have changed. Just sit there and listen.”

She stands up and tosses her hair. She begins to sing in that gorgeous voice he heard from the window at Christmas time last year. It is a love song, just as bold as the first one. She moves about in front of him, expressing the words with her actions. He feels uncomfortable, but also drawn in. The way she walks, lifts her arms, sticks out her hips, all makes him excited inside, though he tries to hide it. But when she lifts her dress to display her leg all the way up to her knee, he averts his gaze. She keeps smiling at him, looking right at him, making him look back, her face so happy it seems she will break down and laugh.

I have a secret deep in my heart

A little surprising

And a little smart

I enjoy a cigar

I want to go far

Ah, there’s so much bliss

In a stranger’s kiss

Sherlock has sneaked into penny theaters before, heard comic belters sing rough songs, listened at the Royal Opera House to great voices with his mother … but he has never heard anyone sing like Irene Doyle. It isn’t perfect, it isn’t trained, but it conveys exactly what it intends.

And then she does it.

As she reaches the finish, she struts right up to him, places one of her heeled boots on the arm of the settee, leans down to him, bending like an acrobat … and kisses him … on the mouth. Her lips feel warm and a shock goes through him, starting in his chest and going down to his stomach. He knows he should pull away but he sits there and receives it. Only when she is done and smiling at him, does he jump to his feet.

“Irene!”

“I want to live, Sherlock. And I will.”