WHO IS MALEFACTOR?
The boy almost runs back to the shop. He doesn’t even realize it. His mind is churning. Saturday and Sunday are before him, two days without school, two days to save Beatrice … and himself. He almost wonders if he should have taken her with him, installed her in the shop somewhere, safe with Sigerson Bell. But that would not only involve informing her father and terrifying him further – he must have been horrified that she was involved in the first attack – but would also make Beatrice less tantalizing bait. He hates to admit it, but he needs her to look like an easy victim, alone or with Louise, walking the streets in Southwark. He had been so careful to keep Irene out of danger, but now he is using Beatrice. He tries not to think of it.
He has three tasks before him. First, he must protect her. Then he must learn more about who Malefactor really is; where, other than roaming the streets, he might be found – best to know where your pursuer is at all times. And last, he must catch Malefactor or one of his gang in the act, hopefully about to commit murder, so that he is sent to prison for a long, long time. But where can one find intimate facts about that secretive boy?
“A pistol, my boy?” asks Sigerson Bell about an hour later.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have one here, but I do not carry it. I consider it beneath my dignity to resort to such mechanical means of protection. And though I could procure another for you in an instant, I forbid you to carry one as well. You cannot have it.”
“It is not for me.”
“Not for you? And whom are you arming, sir?”
“Miss Beatrice Leckie.”
Sherlock had wanted to keep the events of the day a secret, but he knows he can’t, so he explains. First, he lifts his hair and displays his goose egg, now turning orange and purple. The apothecary lets out a cry and springs to his feet, rushing to his cabinet to retrieve a jar of frog eggs and another of lama milk, which he whips together with a mortar and pestle as Sherlock speaks, and applies to the boy’s injury. But as Holmes gets to the part in his story where he receives this blow and explains what his enemy intends to do to him, the old man emits a shriek, his face turns an alarming shade of red, and he rushes up the spiral staircase.
“Sir?”
There is all sorts of noise coming from the floor above, pots and pans flying about, and a good deal of grunting and cursing from the old man. “Dog poop!” he exclaims. But then he is coming down the stairs, taking four at a time. He doesn’t even look at Sherlock as he flies past. He has his own horsewhip in hand, is dressed in his bizarre fighting outfit, complete with obscene, tight leggings, a bandana tied around his head in combat mode, and his pistol tucked into his pants, right in the crotch.
Sherlock rushes after him.
“Sir? Sir, where are you going?”
They reach the front door.
“To eliminate a certain villain and his two lieutenants! This shan’t take long! They shall not know what hit them!” He pulls the door open.
Sherlock slams it shut.
“Sir, you cannot do that. That would be murder!”
“And?”
“I don’t think you would allow me to do such a thing.”
“But … but … but they want to kill you, my boy. My own boy! I will stalk them until I find the three of them together. Then I will sneak up behind them, silent as a ghost! Then, I will employ the Bellitsu moves explicitly set out when one is confronted by three. I shall cartwheel and catch each, one after the other, with an upside-down kick to the jaw, rendering them all unconscious. Then, I will tie them up with my whip, explain to them, very calmly, what their crime is and how their lives must be terminated for the good of all … and then I’ll shoot them!”
“No, you won’t.”
“I won’t?”
“No, sir.”
The old man’s shoulders slouch. “No. No, I won’t. It wouldn’t be right, you are correct.”
“You would be the villain and they the innocent victims.”
“Hardly innocent.”
“But before the law …”
“Yes, quite. We must catch them in the act!”
“We?”
“Well … you, Master Holmes, you … I suppose. And we must, indeed, arm Miss Beatrice!”
Bell is gone and back with a new pistol within the hour. It is an American model, a Smith&Wesson. “I know a cowboy,” explains the apothecary, “helped him with his back … too much horse bucking, or whatever those people call it.” He takes a few bullets out of his pocket, spins the chamber, loads the gun, and then fires a bull’s-eye into the skull of one of his skeletons. Sherlock instinctively ducks.
“I will show you how to use this, and you will do the same for your young lady friend.”
Sherlock had spent the time when Bell was gone writing a letter to Irene. In it, he asked for more information about Malefactor.
Bell’s Apothecary Shop
Denmark Street
London,
Miss Doyle,
It was lovely to spend some time with you yesterday. You indeed have a beautiful voice, and I agree that one must be oneself. And perhaps you are correct that we often aren’t true to ourselves, deceive ourselves about what we want from life, present something false to the world, and are afraid to exploit our desires. It is an interesting idea.
May I also say that I may be, as you say, misjudging Malefactor. Perhaps if I gave him the benefit of the doubt, approached him and spoke to him in a civilized manner, we might find common ground and get on better. Upon reflection, I know you are not naïve about him and that a little kindness and interest might, indeed, slowly help him change. I am intrigued to know more about him, and I thought I would ask you. Please write back and tell me more. What else has he told you about his past? I await both your response and seeing you again, some day soon.
Warm regards,
Sherlock Holmes Esq.
The letter goes into the post that night. He expects a response in the morning and he is not disappointed. There isn’t a great deal that is new to him throughout most of her letter, mostly just tales of Malefactor’s happy early Irish childhood, the family’s downfall, his sister’s death, his bitterness. Irene also writes that she can see through Sherlock’s words, that he is trying to say nice things that he may not mean. At least, she says, he is trying. Then, right near the end, almost unknowingly it seems, she tells him something that rivets him – it is the opening for which he is looking.
Malefactor’s followers are remarkably loyal. The only one I know of who has ever left him was an eccentric boy named Utterson, who took the money he made and went back to school. I’ve convinced Malefactor not to harm him, at least I hope I have. I believe the boy attends the Hermiston National School in Lambeth and is very conscientious, even goes there on Saturday mornings to clean up the rooms.
Sherlock knows of the school. He tells Bell he is going out, tucks his horsewhip up his left sleeve, and makes for Lambeth as quickly as he can, sticking to the midst of the crowds and away from entrances to alleyways, constantly on the alert for Malefactor and the Irregulars. He reaches the Hermiston school safely, notices that the door isn’t locked, and lets himself in. It is quiet inside the cool stone building, but from downstairs he can hear someone sweeping up on the first floor.
The former criminal has not lost his street-wise alertness, for by the time Sherlock Holmes enters the classroom, he has turned and is examining his visitor.
“Who asks?”
He is as eccentric as Irene said: as thin as a willow branch, dressed in a green jacket that looks like it is made of velvet, with light brown hair, so long that it almost touches his shoulders, flowing out from under a red and yellow skull cap. There is something of the artist, or at least Bohemian, in his appearance. Sixteen years old, raised in Dublin, Ireland, sharp as a fox, a holder of secrets. Sherlock presses his left arm to his side, making certain that his weapon is there.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“And what do you want with me?”
“Why did he let you go?”
“I suppose there is no sense in pretending that I don’t know to whom you are referring?”
“No.”
“I know things, things I shan’t tell you.” He goes back to sweeping the floor.
“What if I made it worth your while to tell me?”
The boy stops sweeping. “And how would you do that?”
“I know I don’t look like much, but I have been instrumental in helping the police capture several important criminals.”
“I know.”
Sherlock smiles. “I should have guessed.”
“Your reputation precedes you in some quarters.”
“Malefactor, Master Utterson, would be my greatest prize. And should he be removed to the luxurious quarters of the Marshalsea Prison, you would never fear him again. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to put him there.”
“You assume I fear him now.”
“Do you?”
“Not exactly, though I know you do.”
Seldom does Holmes meet anyone who can size up someone as quickly as he can. This boy is a contender.
“If you don’t exactly fear him,” continues Sherlock, “then you are not entirely comfortable with his existence on the streets of London, either.”
The boy pauses and then motions toward the door. “Walk with me as we talk. We must head downstairs. You will be silent and I will speak. When we reach the entrance you will act as if I sent you away. Our visit must be seen as a very short one – a rejection. We will never meet again. He is not who he says he is. He tells lies about his past. I knew him when he was a child in Ireland. The family name is not Malefactor – though it has its similarities. His father was never a dustman. The family was well respected when I knew of them, accepted in society, sending their children to the best schools. Few were aware of their criminal activities, though. Their wealth came from underground business practices on the continent. They were found out by a gentleman who could benefit from their fall – he was about to inform the police. They left Ireland before they were arrested, and came to England. But their reign was over and they were on the run. That is how his family fell, how they went to an English almshouse where both his parents died – leaving him with nothing but that tailcoat – and where his sister, the only good soul in the family, died as well. He is bitter, yes, but because he believes that he and his family were singled out in a world where everyone is corrupt in some way, you and I, and the government too. We are all after power, he believes, especially the rich, and we all lie and cheat, but most of us pretend we don’t. He considers himself an anarchist, saying the world would be better off in complete chaos, with each man for himself. He is a master debater on the subject. I am the only one who knows these things about his past, and I made sure before I left him that if anything happened to me, the police could trace my murder to him. I fear turning him in, but he fears killing me. We are at a stalemate. But you, Sherlock Holmes, can act. He lives in Knightsbridge by day – Queens Gardens off Brompton Road. He owns the white house there.”
“He what?”
They are at the outside door. Utterson flings it open and shoves Sherlock into the street, so hard that he knocks him to the ground.
“And stay away from me!” he shouts. He strides up to Holmes and whispers into his ear. “I will get out of London when I am educated, change my name, go to the South Seas, and write adventure stories. Life, you see, is stranger than fiction, and my life has been unbelievable.” He kicks Holmes in the ribs and storms away, slamming the school door behind him.
Sherlock rises slowly as people stop and stare. He doesn’t know if he is more shocked by his sudden ejection and swift boot to the ribcage or by what Utterson has told him, especially what he said just before sending him flying out the door.
Malefactor lives in Knightsbridge?
He wants to go there immediately, but before he does, he must visit Beatrice. She will be home early on a Saturday, a half day for a scullery maid. It is nearing the noon hour. He walks east toward Southwark, the Smith&Wesson pistol deep in a pocket of his old frock coat.
The hatter, red-faced and looking unwell, is happy to see Sherlock Holmes and even happier to hear that the boy is calling on his daughter. She appears, beaming at him, almost the instant Sherlock’s voice is heard at their front door. He steps inside, noticing today what he should have noticed before: how shabby the shop looks and that fewer hats hang from the hooks. There are no customers to be seen. Beatrice wraps a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders, and as they step out together into the brisk March air, she puts her arm in his.
“I am told you are a political thinker, Miss Leckie.”
She colors. “Who told you that?”
“A little birdie, actually a big, silver one.”
“Oh, Master Silver! ’e thinks that anyone with an opinion is a deep thinker. I suppose ’e remembers my chat with ’im. I was angry about ’is father’s situation, that’s all. I leave politics up to the competent men of this nation … leaders like Mr. Disraeli.”
They stop down the street and he edges her into an alley.
“Sherlock?”
“You do?”
He pulls the pistol from his pocket and she gasps.
“What is that for?”
“For you.”
“Me? But I don’t know ’ow to use it.”
“I will show you. I want you to be safe. Carry it with you at all times. If the Jack attacks you, do not hesitate to point it at him. That will likely be enough, but use it if you must. It will be self-defense. And by the way … I am now certain who this villain is.”
“You are? But who –”
“Never mind, that’s not your concern. I’ll tend to accosting him, just carry this and keep yourself safe. That way, you won’t need the police around your door, upsetting your father.”
“Yes, Sherlock.”
He shows her how to load it, point it, and fire, though she can’t practice here in the alley. Strangely, she doesn’t seem to take it seriously. She appears more interested in having him show her, than in really learning. She keeps getting him to stand near her and wrap his hand around hers as she holds the gun. She doesn’t ask any questions about the Spring Heeled Jack. She doesn’t even seem to fear him. It appears she would rather just be close to Sherlock.
She is a brave girl … but if she only knew who this villain is …
It is a good hour’s walk to Knightsbridge. Clouds gather in the cool day as he finds his way eastward through Lambeth and crosses the Thames at Westminster Bridge. It has been a full week since Beatrice and Louise were attacked here. He stands on the south side of the bridge near Astley’s Theatre and looks across the wide, brown river with its crowd of noisy boats of all sizes, and up at the Palace of Westminster with Big Ben rising above it. He imagines the Spring Heeled Jack perched on the balustrade wall, the government buildings framing him. Now that he considers things, with more facts in hand, this whole sensation is exactly Malefactor’s style. He put the fear of God into those dear girls, but made sure they survived to tell their tale. He saw to it that one of them was Sherlock’s friend. Malefactor knew it would draw me in, force me to protect Beatrice, and do it on my own, which would put me out on dangerous streets at night and make me vulnerable to a deadly attack. Malefactor could eliminate the thorn in his side and have the deed done by a disguised perpetrator who would frighten all of London and bring chaos to the city when fear and uncertainty was at its height. He started proceedings on Westminster Bridge, with the symbol of the Empire’s stability as audience. He figured low-lifes would try to imitate the Jack, and things would begin to spiral. It was, and is, a deep and tangled plan, accomplishing many things in just a few bounds. His opponent, Sherlock must admit, is a genius.
He passes Westminster Abbey and moves up Birdcage Walk past the big green expanse of St. James’s Park, the queen’s massive urban lawn with her swans on its ponds, fronting Buckingham Palace. Even the strolling pedestrians look nervous today. Governesses with children, young men with young ladies, nannies out with babies in prams – all seem to be glancing around. There is a fiend on the loose. The city is uneasy. Or is it my imagination? He crosses in front of the palace, serene and majestic as usual, and goes up Constitution Hill toward Knightsbridge Road. Can Malefactor really live in this wealthy neighborhood? A different fear crosses his mind. Is this a setup? Irene is Malefactor’s friend now. Did she intentionally tell me about that boy, Utterson … or whatever his name really is? Can Irene be trusted anymore? Are Utterson’s directions leading me into some sort of dead-end in a Knightsbridge neighborhood where I will be mugged and beaten by the Irregulars? He warily watches for little figures darting at him from either side. But something comforts him, at least somewhat: this isn’t Malefactor’s time of day. He’s noticed that the crime boss rarely does much when the sun is out.
At Hyde Park Corner, where rich Belgravia and Mayfair meet, he goes through the Wellington Arch with its ridiculously large statue of the late Duke of Wellington atop, aboard his famous charger, Copenhagen. Wellington’s old home is nearby, known to citizens as “Number One, London.” The great national hero, the vanquisher of the legendary Napoleon, should be here now, calming things. Or should he? Sherlock remembers that when the Iron Duke was prime minister, he always opposed reform, and even had unbreakable bars installed on his windows to protect him from the mobs who sought changes.
The boy walks along Knightsbridge on the south side of Hyde Park and turns down Brompton Road. No worries here – many wealthy folks, the poor who supply them and work for them, and a few vendors who pursue them, make up a flow of pedestrians on the wide foot pavements – not a place for an attack.
He passes a little store named Harrods, selling groceries and other goods and spots Queens Gardens. All the streets going off from Brompton Road have been wide ones, lined with big, elegant homes. Queens Gardens is narrow. His fears return. Should I go down here? Can Malefactor really live here? It seems preposterous.
He turns around and walks back up Brompton Road, then crosses it through the gleaming carriages and well-groomed horses, to Lancelot Place on the other side, and begins to pace, trying not to look conspicuous, unsure what to do. A few gentlemen stare as he goes by, but he keeps his eyes down.
Coming here is against his best instincts. He doesn’t have many facts, just a story that a boy told him, a boy whose identity and past is not certain. And finding Malefactor here – the gang leader who he thought lived on the streets and who he knows sleeps there at times – is growing increasingly improbable as he sees more and more impressive homes. But Sherlock has to save himself and Beatrice. Irene may not be who he thought she was, but he doubts she would purposely harm him. He has to take a chance. He lets his horsewhip drop down in his sleeve, the handle falling into the palm of his left hand, then saunters down Brompton Road again and enters Queens Gardens.
The street actually widens as he walks, opening up into a beautiful avenue lined with big trees. The houses are not quite as large as those in most of Knightsbridge, but they are certainly respectable. And there, right at the end, almost tucked away in the trees … is a modest white one, just as Utterson said. There are a few people walking along the foot pavement in this cul-de-sac. He acts as though he has a reason to be there. It is in your walk. He remembers his mother’s advice about acting. Take on a character.
Sherlock approaches the house at a brisk pace, a hand in his pocket as if he is a messenger boy with a note to deliver. But the home looks empty. All the shutters, even those on the door, all as white as the stone exterior, are closed. Sherlock certainly can’t knock at the entrance. He is at the end of the street, right in front of the house. He glances around. No one is looking his way. He can only hope that a resident isn’t peering out a window at him. He slips up close to the building and darts into a tall row of shrubs and gets himself behind them, completely obscured from view.
He waits a long while. A nearby church bell chimes two separate times. He slouches down onto the cold ground.
At least two hours later, the shutters begin opening so quietly that Sherlock, almost asleep despite the cool day, barely hears them. Then, the front door opens. He peeks carefully around the shrubbery. A man, medium height and well-dressed in a dark suit with black bowler hat and white cravat, is coming out. He locks the door, tries it, locks it a second time, and tries it again. He turns and eyes the street, glances both ways, up and down. He surveys the front of the house. Sherlock ducks low. Then the man heads out along the street, whistling, poking his cane into the foot pavement with each sprightly step. He wears thick glasses and has a big black beard.
Holmes considers entering the house. But that quickly seems like a disastrous idea. If this really is Malefactor’s home, Sherlock can’t be caught in there. But who was that man? Is he an associate? A relative? Is Malefactor’s father still alive?
There is only one option that makes sense: follow him.
Sherlock checks that no one is looking his way and leaves the shrubbery as quickly as he can. He’s on the foot pavement in a flash and heading down the street. In the distance, he sees the man turn right, onto Brompton Road, heading for the center of London, back the way Sherlock came.
But at the bottom of Constitution Hill, by Buckingham Palace, he doesn’t head for Birdcage Walk and Westminster Bridge. Instead, he strolls on the tree-lined pedestrian avenue on the north side of St. James’s Park and moves toward the bustle of the city via Trafalgar Square. Sherlock wonders if he is a businessman of some sort. If so, what business would a co-resident of Malefactor’s conduct?
There aren’t as many newspapers on Saturdays but the square is just as busy, since foreigners and folks from the country with a little money come to the city to see the sights when the week is over.
Sherlock spots Dupin selling his publications. “A Double Jack Attack!” he cries. The boy left the apothecary’s shop before their papers arrived. He wishes he could read that story. Two more attacks? Where? When? Was anyone hurt? But he can’t pause here. He must stay on the trail.
Once they get past the square, the bearded man’s pace picks up. They enter The Strand, lined with hotels and famous West End theaters. He passes The Adelphi, where comedy rules, then Exeter Hall, one of the great political gathering places in the Empire. Though a stranger looking at its small entrance between two Corinthian pillars would never suspect as much, John Bright has many times riveted audiences within its walls, and may soon need to again. As the bearded man passes the magnificent Lyceum Theatre, that seems to glow even when unlit, he looks behind him. Sherlock has kept well back, hidden in the crowd. Why is the fellow looking back? He is also pulling an empty sack of some sort from a pocket. He darts up the street, crosses it quickly – almost into an oncoming horse – and disappears into a lane going east. This part of London is full of such lanes and alleys, running like spiderwebs from the more familiar thoroughfares. Sherlock loses sight of the man and frantically tries to cross the street. But it takes a while, and when he gets to the lane’s entrance there is no sign of the gentleman. Then, far ahead, he spots him coming out of an alley … wearing a different coat! Sherlock runs to get closer and as he nears, notices that the man looks slimmer … and that the coat is a worn tailcoat. The sack is bulging.
The man stops for an instant and leans over and puts his hand to his face as if rubbing his eyes. When he raises his head, Sherlock can just see the side of his face well enough to tell that he has removed his glasses. They come to Drury Lane and cross it near the theater. The man slips down another alley. When he emerges this time … he is beardless! That’s when Sherlock recognizes his walking stick.
Malefactor!
It seems that the young mastermind indeed lives in Knightsbridge, probably alone, funded by the huge take from his thriving criminal business. He disguises himself until he nears his gang. As always with this rascal, he has created a brilliant situation: he is permanently in hiding in a very unlikely place; he doesn’t run the risks that his followers do, stays healthy and warm and always elusive. If that boy can manage all this at such a young age, what will he accomplish when he becomes an adult?
In minutes, Malefactor, still hatless, is at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It is the largest park in the city and a daily haunt for his Irregulars, a perfect place for them to be inconspicuous. Sherlock stops a distance away, sees Malefactor enter the park and head toward the far end, to a well-treed area. Grimsby appears and tosses him his top hat.
An idea comes to Sherlock. I must get closer. Turning on his heels, he runs back through the crowds, down Drury Lane, along The Strand and into Trafalgar Square.
“Mr. Dupin!” he cries.
The old newsboy looks up at him from his kiosk and smiles.
“Funny, Master ’olmes, how this ’ere Spring ’eeled Jack situation come up right after you talks to me about ’im.”
“I have a request.”
“More information?”
“No, your clothes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want your hat and your coat.”
“Naturally. I suppose you won’t be telling me why?”
“No, sir.”
“Just your average request, asking for the coat off a man’s back.”
“And your hat.”
“Of course, me ’at too.”
“I’ll … I’ll give you a sixpence.”
“No, you won’t. If it were anyone but you, ’olmes, I’d say no, but I’m inclined to comply. Especially if you –”
“Explain all about it when it’s over?”
“You’ve got it, mate.”
“Done. Here’s my coat.” Sherlock removes his old frock coat in a flash. “Sorry, I don’t have a hat.”
The poor cripple, well-muscled through the chest and arms from years of propelling his cart, deftly pulls off his coat and hands over his hat. Getting Sherlock’s frock coat on is a more difficult task. It is so tight that it looks like a straightjacket.
“I can’t look like this long, ’olmes, it will affect me reputation.”
Sherlock rushes off. The big brown coat, thick and woolen to protect against the wind, smells of tobacco, but with its collar up and the soft felt cap pulled down over his eyes, Holmes is unrecognizable. He is back at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in minutes. He slows his breathing and walks past the Irregulars several times. They are on the other side of the black wrought-iron gate that surrounds the park. Sherlock screws up his mouth, his only visible part, to complete the disguise.
Despite several passes he can’t hear much of what they are saying. They keep their voices muted. But on his final pass, worried that he has left Dupin too long with his thin, tight coat, he hears five words from Grimsby, just as Malefactor takes his leave from the gang.
“Dusk tonight, then? Right ’ere.”
It is enough.