The Secret Fiend Part 17

Holmes turns back to Sigerson Bell. The old man's eyes are reddening.

"My boy ... my lad ... my ... uh ... my son.... Take these!" The apothecary turns to his cupboards and reaches for a couple of sticks of bread and a bottle of milk and some carrots and onions and jars of stewed fruit and sweets, one after the other, and heaps them into the boy's arms. Then he tosses him a little cloth sack ... and the horsewhip. He looks like he wants to hug Sherlock as he watches the boy quickly fill the bag with the food and clothes and stuff the whip up a sleeve, but he turns away.

"Go."

"Good-bye, sir ... and thank you.... I ..."

"Good-bye, Master Sherlock Holmes, keep well."

The boy goes quietly out the door.

About twenty paces down Denmark Street, he hears Bell yelling to him.

"Sherlock!"

The old man is running his way. He has taken off his coat and shoes and even his s.h.i.+rt underneath, as if he had decided to retire to bed, but then remembered something. He's left the red fez on his head. He is naked from the waist up. Pedestrians stop and stare, mouths open; a few women scream. The flesh on his sagging chest hangs down like a dozen thin waves on the sea.

"You mentioned an apothecary at Mr. Hide's.... What was his name?"

"Simian."

Bell nods.

"Sir?"

"Farewell," says the old man, and walks back to the shop.

Sherlock is undecided about to whom he should say good-bye. He won't bother with his school. Irene, his father, Beatrice. No, not Beatrice, just the other two. Irene, his father, Beatrice. No, not Beatrice, just the other two. His sits on a bench in little Soho Square for a long time, likely a couple of hours, before he can get himself to his feet to do what he must do. He will have to say good-bye for good. The sun is almost directly above. It is nearing noon already. His sits on a bench in little Soho Square for a long time, likely a couple of hours, before he can get himself to his feet to do what he must do. He will have to say good-bye for good. The sun is almost directly above. It is nearing noon already.

If he sees Irene first, he can then go to Sydenham to the Crystal Palace. By the time he gets there it will be late afternoon his father will be in the midst of his duties Sherlock will at least be well out of London, far to the south. He will then continue in that direction. Perhaps he can walk to Portsmouth, join the Navy, go far away to sea where Lestrade or Malefactor will never find him. It is a good plan.

He heads toward Bloomsbury. If I had kept my nose out of all of this I would be home now with Mr. Bell, reading a wonderful book from his library, discussing chemistry or literature with him ... and later there'd be a warm fire, a meal we'd make together. If I had kept my nose out of all of this I would be home now with Mr. Bell, reading a wonderful book from his library, discussing chemistry or literature with him ... and later there'd be a warm fire, a meal we'd make together.

When he gets to the Doyle home on Montague Street, he can't bring himself to enter. He hears Irene singing on the floor up above. He can't listen. As he walks away, he hears something else and turns to look at the house. The Corgi, John Stuart Mill, is at a window and has spotted him. He is barking loudly.

Sherlock shuffles off down the street. He makes his way south to the river and over it at London Bridge. It will take him several hours to get to the Crystal Palace so he must keep moving. On Mondays, his father finishes work at 5:00 p.m.

But when he pa.s.ses The Mint, he can't help stopping. He turns off Borough High Street and walks into his old neighborhood. Will this be the last time he ever sees his family flat above the hatter's shop, where he held his mother in his arms as she died? She had told him that he had much to do in life.... Maybe she meant something other than my silly dream of justice. Maybe she meant something other than my silly dream of justice. He slides against a wall across the little square from the shop and looks up at the top floor. Before long, his eyes drop to ground level. He slides against a wall across the little square from the shop and looks up at the top floor. Before long, his eyes drop to ground level. I have come here to see Beatrice, not the flat. I have come here to see Beatrice, not the flat. Miss Leckie is almost a perfect human being kind and gentle, but brave and intelligent and ... he will admit, very beautiful. She is beautiful both inside and out. He must also admit that he feels drawn to her; very much so. Now, when he compares her to Irene Doyle, he sees how much more there is to this lowly hatter's daughter. She has no airs. People too often judge others by their out-sides, the cut of their clothing, and their friends. He has known Miss Leckie almost since they were born. It is as if she were meant for him. Miss Doyle is from another world. What did Louise Stevenson say? " Miss Leckie is almost a perfect human being kind and gentle, but brave and intelligent and ... he will admit, very beautiful. She is beautiful both inside and out. He must also admit that he feels drawn to her; very much so. Now, when he compares her to Irene Doyle, he sees how much more there is to this lowly hatter's daughter. She has no airs. People too often judge others by their out-sides, the cut of their clothing, and their friends. He has known Miss Leckie almost since they were born. It is as if she were meant for him. Miss Doyle is from another world. What did Louise Stevenson say? "Beatrice is a fine soul finer than any of us who cares for you, Master Holmes ... though I'm not sure why." No truer words were ever spoken. Will he ever know anyone like her again?

He sits there, not caring who sees him slumped on the foot pavement. A few locals recognize him, try to engage him Ratfinch the fishmonger rolls his eel cart past and attempts to get him to rise but he waves them all off. It begins to grow darker. He must get up and go to Sydenham. He will hide there in a field somewhere and say good-bye to his father in the morning. Young Lestrade will have shown the note to his father by now. The Inspector will already have the Force searching the streets for him. They will come here. In fact, they are likely on their way.

He rises. He notices a dim light flickering on in the hatter's shop, their only gas lamp, or perhaps it's a candle. I must take this chance, do what is right, see her, and tell her, at least, that I admire her. I owe her that. I must take this chance, do what is right, see her, and tell her, at least, that I admire her. I owe her that. He walks to the shop and knocks gently on the door. He walks to the shop and knocks gently on the door.

Her father answers. His cloudy red eyes look more tired than ever, and his meaty round face appears as though it has begun to shrink. In the old days, it was often set in a scowl, but he wasn't, and isn't, an angry man, just serious and dedicated to his trade. He has had to work without stopping for many years to keep himself and Beatrice alive. He dearly loves his daughter.

The sales part of the shop with its counter and hat trees is dark. Over Mr. Leckie's shoulder, through a door left ajar, Sherlock sees light coming from the living quarters. Sitting at a table in there, leaning over something with a pen in hand, is Beatrice. There is a fire on in the room the light the boy had seen flicker. Sherlock gazes at her, barely hearing Mr. Leckie.

"Ah, Master 'olmes. It is a pleasure to see you again, sir. You will forgive me. I was lying down on me little bed 'ere behind the counter to let Miss Beatrice do up some correspondence. I need me rest these days, me mind gets tired. She works so 'ard, she does, but keeps up the letters to our folks and friends, too. Why are you carrying that sack, sir?"

"May I see her?"

"Yes ... yes, Master 'olmes. Just go through. She is always 'appy to see you. I'll just lie down 'ere again. Won't bother you two young folk."

Sherlock walks silently across the dark room, avoiding the hats hanging from hooks. When he gets close to the door, he stops and simply looks at her. Her head is bent down and she is writing carefully, thinking about what she is saying. She seems to be pressing the pen down hard onto the paper. Her bonnet is off and her long black hair hangs in ringlets almost onto the paper. There is a little wooden box on the table near her hand. Because she is next to the fire, she isn't wearing a shawl. In fact, she has pulled the sleeves of her dress up, so her slender forearms and wrists are visible. Sherlock beams. A wonderful idea comes to his mind. In my new life, I can have a partner. There would be none better than Beatrice Leckie, and I know she would choose me too. Perhaps, in a few years, I can send for her. What if we talk about it ... tonight. In my new life, I can have a partner. There would be none better than Beatrice Leckie, and I know she would choose me too. Perhaps, in a few years, I can send for her. What if we talk about it ... tonight.

He pushes the door and it creaks. Beatrice turns with a smile, but when she sees who it is she gasps and puts her hand to her mouth.

"Sherlock!" The look of fear dissolves into happiness. But there is something else there too. Guilt. Guilt. Instantly, she turns to her writing and stuffs the paper into her dress pocket. Instantly, she turns to her writing and stuffs the paper into her dress pocket.

The boy drops his cloth sack on the floor. "Doing your correspondence?"

"Yes ... yes, I like to write at night."

"The way you put your letter away when I came ... it must be very private. I suppose you are writing to someone special. Perhaps I should go." His heart is sinking. Why would I a.s.sume that Beatrice Leckie has no one special in her life? There were many boys at school who liked her. Why would I a.s.sume that Beatrice Leckie has no one special in her life? There were many boys at school who liked her.

Beatrice sees his intent. "Oh, no! No, Sherlock, it isn't like that!"

"That is fine, Beatrice. I was just going, anyway."

"Sherlock!" she rises and takes him by the hand. "Don't go. I'll ... I'll show you what I would write ... if I were writing to you."

She takes another piece of paper from a sideboard nearby, leans over it with a coquettish smile, hiding its contents from the boy. She writes. The ink is red. She hands it to him, glowing up.

"I LOVE YOU," it says.

But Sherlock isn't smiling back. There is a s.h.i.+ver going down his spine. And it isn't pleasurable. Her handwriting! It is EXACTLY the same as the Spring Heeled Jack's! Her handwriting! It is EXACTLY the same as the Spring Heeled Jack's!

He seizes her. For an instant, she thinks he is trying to embrace her. But he has her by the arms and is pulling her to her feet, hard.

"Sherlock! You're 'urting me!"

"You wrote those notes! YOU!"

"Please let me go!"

He pins her to the table and reaches into her dress, fis.h.i.+ng out the notes from her pocket. She wrests one arm free and holds it over the little wooden box on the table, as if to keep the lid down. Sherlock wrenches that arm off and almost in the same motion, flicks open the lid. There is a stack of papers inside. He sees two words written in red across the one on top, same handwriting, TREASURE FAMILY TREASURE FAMILY, and then some numbers and a word he can't read. Struggling to hold her, he flicks it and sees the note underneath. MUST HAVE MUST HAVE it says, but the rest is ripped. He sees the word it says, but the rest is ripped. He sees the word CHAOS! CHAOS! on another note under that. on another note under that.

"A family was murdered!" he shouts at her. He can feel tears coming to his eyes, but he won't let her go. He digs deeper into her pocket. She sinks her nails into his hand, but he pulls out all the papers. There are three of them, one with writing, the other two blank. She reaches out and claws at him, but he throws her to the floor. He spreads the notes on the table.

"Beatrice?" Her father has risen from his bed and is coming toward the door.

MARCH 10 reads the first note and two addresses in Lambeth. He recognizes them as poor areas. reads the first note and two addresses in Lambeth. He recognizes them as poor areas.

"What does this mean?"

On the floor, Beatrice is crying. "Sherlock, please don't! You won't understand!"

March 10 is tomorrow.

"WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?"

"I can't tell you!" she cries.

A startled Mr. Leckie is now at the door. "What is going on in here?" he asks.

It's a schedule. It's tomorrow's locations for the fiend's attacks! It is growing dark outside. The police will be coming ... the villain is about to prowl. It is growing dark outside. The police will be coming ... the villain is about to prowl. What about tonight? Where is he scheduled to strike tonight? What about tonight? Where is he scheduled to strike tonight?

"Who is the Spring Heeled Jack, Beatrice? WHO IS HE!"

"Don't ... don't ask me," she cries, putting her hands to her head. "I can't tell you, Sherlock."

Mr. Leckie grips the tall boy and tries to knock him to the floor. "I can't allow this! Why is you asking 'er this? What is you up to? Is you this fiend, Sherlock 'olmes!"

"Let him go, father!" shouts Beatrice, getting to her feet and pulling him away from the boy. "He means no harm."

"Oh, yes, I do, Miss Leckie! I mean harm to anyone who means harm to others. And you are one of those!"

"No, Sherlock!"

"You were writing up the schedule for planned a.s.saults for tomorrow night!"

"No!"

She wrote the notes that were left on the victims, in order to protect the Jack, in her girlish hand so the handwriting could never be traced to him. Very clever. But what about these schedules? For some reason, she was asked to make them up. Why? Is she the mastermind? Does the Jack want everything written down? If so, he's an amateur it leaves a trail. Are the notes sent by mail? Then he doesn't live nearby.

"Tell me one thing and save your soul, Beatrice Leckie. Tell me where he will strike tonight!"

She sobs, holding her father, and says nothing.

"Tell me!"

"I can't! I just can't!"

He turns back to the notes on the table. He remembers how hard she was pressing with the ink pen, making big, thick letters. He looks at the first of the two blank notes beneath. She must sit here at night and plan for attacks in different parts of London, moving things around to keep the police guessing eluding them. She must have done this last night too! Then she sends them to the Jack! She must sit here at night and plan for attacks in different parts of London, moving things around to keep the police guessing eluding them. She must have done this last night too! Then she sends them to the Jack! He picks up a blank paper and sees a faint outline of letters, impressed into the page. He can make out the words He picks up a blank paper and sees a faint outline of letters, impressed into the page. He can make out the words MARCH 10. MARCH 10. That came from writing today's note. That came from writing today's note. He picks up the other blank sheet. The trace of handwriting is very faint. He picks up the other blank sheet. The trace of handwriting is very faint. This must have been made yesterday! It will have today's attacks on it! This must have been made yesterday! It will have today's attacks on it! But he can't read it. He steps toward the fire. But he can't read it. He steps toward the fire.

"NO!" shouts Beatrice and tries to grab his arm.

He s.n.a.t.c.hes the sheet away and holds it close to the flames. The impression becomes visible.

MARCH 9 ONE APPEARANCE OLD NICHOL STREET ROOKERY, BETHNAL GREEN Crying, Beatrice is hugging him now, as if he were as dear to her as a husband. He shoves her away, picks up the notes from the table and the box, and leaving his cloth sack behind, runs out the door and into the street.

"HOLMES!"

It is Inspector Lestrade. He is just down the street, rus.h.i.+ng toward the hatter's shop, three Bobbies by his side. Several feet behind, as if reluctant to be part of this, is his son.

Sherlock is off like a shot, and they are immediately after him. But he has run through the twisting and turning arteries of The Mint since he was a little child, and within minutes, he has lost them. He takes them south. Now, he doubles back and heads north, making for London Bridge. He tries not to think of Beatrice Leckie, his "flawless friend" ... in league, somehow, with this violent fiend. Trust no one. Trust no one. Malefactor was right. Malefactor was right.

The Old Nichol Street Rookery in Bethnal Green is a perfect site for another Spring Heeled Jack attack. Beatrice and whomever she is working with have made a smart decision. It is north of the river and almost all the other appearances have been to the south. It is also in a poor neighborhood, very very poor just above Whitechapel Road in the East End. The Old Nichol Street Rookery is a London slum unlike any other, infamous for its crowded conditions, its crime and disease. But Sherlock runs across the bridge toward it, heading for it like a racehorse. He poor just above Whitechapel Road in the East End. The Old Nichol Street Rookery is a London slum unlike any other, infamous for its crowded conditions, its crime and disease. But Sherlock runs across the bridge toward it, heading for it like a racehorse. He knows knows where the Spring Heeled Jack is about to strike! He will confront him in the dangerous little streets and alleys of that desperate slum amidst its filth and poverty. It would be best to be accompanied by others, by young Lestrade, by the Force themselves. But that is impossible. His only hope of staying in London, staying with Sigerson Bell, and becoming the person he wants to be, is to do this alone, completely alone. where the Spring Heeled Jack is about to strike! He will confront him in the dangerous little streets and alleys of that desperate slum amidst its filth and poverty. It would be best to be accompanied by others, by young Lestrade, by the Force themselves. But that is impossible. His only hope of staying in London, staying with Sigerson Bell, and becoming the person he wants to be, is to do this alone, completely alone. Alone is best anyway. I can't believe I thought of Beatrice Leckie as a partner! Alone is best anyway. I can't believe I thought of Beatrice Leckie as a partner!

If he can capture the Jack, or at least set up a hue and cry and attract the police, all will be well. They will see that he is the Jack's enemy, not his accomplice. But who is this fiend? Who is working with Beatrice Leckie? Can I REALLY confront him? This villain seems to have almost supernatural powers. But who is this fiend? Who is working with Beatrice Leckie? Can I REALLY confront him? This villain seems to have almost supernatural powers.

Holmes is glad he has his horsewhip up his sleeve.

UNMASKED.

As he runs, he thinks. But his mind keeps turning to Beatrice. How could she do this? How could she do this? He s.h.i.+rks it off. He s.h.i.+rks it off. Think about the crimes. What do I know? Think about the crimes. What do I know? He considers the note that young Lestrade found in the Isle of Dogs. He considers the note that young Lestrade found in the Isle of Dogs. It had horse hairs on it ... the blood was a strange color. What if the blood, all that blood saturating the marsh, was actually horse blood? It had horse hairs on it ... the blood was a strange color. What if the blood, all that blood saturating the marsh, was actually horse blood?

He runs up through the old city, toward Bethnal Green. His heart is pumping and not just due to the strain of his sprint. The neighborhoods are getting worse. Darkness has now completely descended. Even if Beatrice wanted to help him, she couldn't young Lestrade will have stopped at the hatter's shop.

The crowds are thin at this hour, but he senses that someone is following him, far back among the pedestrians. Malefactor? The young crime lord has gone underground, but Sherlock knows that he will never be free of the scoundrel. The young crime lord has gone underground, but Sherlock knows that he will never be free of the scoundrel. I am vulnerable while I am pursuing someone else, my attention on my prey I am vulnerable while I am pursuing someone else, my attention on my prey.

But then he feels a second presence, up high on the buildings. Sherlock is scurrying along wide Sh.o.r.editch Road, in order to keep off the smaller streets for as long as possible. He glances back and up onto the roofs ... no one. no one.

He turns to his task again, running, thinking once more of Beatrice's notes, now stuffed in his pockets. She wrote the Treasure family's name on one! She wrote the Treasure family's name on one! He can't bear to even imagine her involved in what that fiend did. Huffing and puffing, he pulls that note from his pocket with a sweaty hand and looks at it closely. He can't bear to even imagine her involved in what that fiend did. Huffing and puffing, he pulls that note from his pocket with a sweaty hand and looks at it closely. The date and the time are for tomorrow. But the Isle of Dogs murder occurred yesterday. It doesn't make sense. There is another word written there The date and the time are for tomorrow. But the Isle of Dogs murder occurred yesterday. It doesn't make sense. There is another word written there MONTREAL. MONTREAL. Why Montreal? What does that mean? Why Montreal? What does that mean? He contemplates another note, the one with the strange message: He contemplates another note, the one with the strange message: MUST HAVE. MUST HAVE. It was smaller than the others and ripped after the letter It was smaller than the others and ripped after the letter E E. The note young Lestrade had found at the crime scene said SHERLOCK HOLMES ON OUR SIDE. SHERLOCK HOLMES ON OUR SIDE. It was ripped too, right before his name. It was ripped too, right before his name. What if you put them together? What if you put them together? MUST HAVE SHERLOCK HOLMES ON OUR SIDE. MUST HAVE SHERLOCK HOLMES ON OUR SIDE. The fiend must have had that note with him! But, perhaps as he struggled with his victims, as he did his gruesome deed, it was pulled from his pocket ... ripped in two, and left on the ground. Aware that something incriminating remained at the scene, Beatrice searched the area and found one half. The fiend must have had that note with him! But, perhaps as he struggled with his victims, as he did his gruesome deed, it was pulled from his pocket ... ripped in two, and left on the ground. Aware that something incriminating remained at the scene, Beatrice searched the area and found one half. But why was that maniac carrying the note in the first place? Why did he want ME on his side? Or did Beatrice? But why was that maniac carrying the note in the first place? Why did he want ME on his side? Or did Beatrice?

He is nearing Bethnal Green. Again, he senses that two figures are pursuing him, one on the ground and one up above. Darting around a corner, he stops. No one comes.

He reaches Church Street, and turns into big Bethnal Green Road. The rookery is in there, a few strides up Church and then to the left. He can actually smell it. It is renowned for it odors human refuse in pools, slaughter houses, the boiling entrails and fat of animals, used by the rich for dog food, but here for human sustenance. Drunks lie about on the small streets. Herds of families live together in bedraggled, broken-down buildings. Tradesman, dustmen, costermongers, and silkweavers live mostly on its exterior, leaving the rotting core to criminals, prost.i.tutes, and the desperately poor. John Bright often cries out for the Old Nichol Street Rookery in his speeches. "England," he says, "has forgotten one of its children: ugly, diseased, forsaken; the East End of the East End."

Sherlock Holmes has never been inside this rookery. He can feel his knees shaking. He turns down Church and then left onto a smaller road. He can hear people screaming, babies crying, their little voices hoa.r.s.e. At first, he sees no one. Then he comes to Old Nichol Street itself. The buildings are short and skinny, made of brick or stone, or of tumble-down rotting wood; many doors are wide open. It is nearly pitch-dark, not a single gas lamp evident. On the cobblestones, the scene is revolting. A row of children, ten or so in number, lie almost naked on the filthy road among piles and pools of animal and human refuse. Fast asleep, some are so still that they may be dead. A pig snorts near them, a hag is shrieking from a little window at an unseen foe. The smell is overpowering. It almost turns Sherlock's stomach. He hears the sound of footsteps echoing in the distance, and looking down the street, he can make out three shadowy men chasing a girl, a "lady of the night," though she is dressed like anything but a lady. The boy can tell from where he stands that her long hair hangs in sweaty clumps, likely filled with lice, her cotton dress is stained and ripped and torn. She is in bare feet. As they near, he sees the terror on her face. She is dark-haired, like Beatrice, dark-eyed like her too; in her fearful grimace he sees missing teeth. The men are shouting now, and she is screaming. She is clutching something in her hand. Perhaps a coin, maybe a morsel of food: something they want? This poor young prost.i.tute is Beatrice's age, just fourteen or fifteen. She sees Sherlock and reaches out for him. He can see through the grime that she might have been as beautiful as Beatrice, had life been different for her. His former friend, but for her job and meager education, could be be this girl, running for her life in the Nichol Street Rookery. this girl, running for her life in the Nichol Street Rookery.

"Help me!" she cries.

At that very moment, a bat-like figure appears above them on the only building of any height on the street a two-storey stone edifice, the words Jackel, Butcher Jackel, Butcher imprinted in chipped letters on the front. imprinted in chipped letters on the front.

"CHAOS!" it shrieks.

Sherlock looks up and freezes. It spreads its wings. It is about to leap, all the way to the ground; its target ... the girl. The villains in pursuit of her freeze too. Then the Spring Heeled Jack spots Sherlock Holmes. He turns to him. That face. That face. It looks like someone he knows. But it isn't him. It looks like someone he knows. But it isn't him. It can't be! It can't be! The expression is distorted, the eyes red, veins pop out on the forehead, the hair is disheveled, sticking up in places like devil's ears, and when it speaks a blue flame ushers from its mouth. But most disconcerting are the eyes. They look down at the boy with evil glee, a disturbed intent, as if the mind behind them is as mad as the worst lunatic in the Bethnal Green Asylum. The expression is distorted, the eyes red, veins pop out on the forehead, the hair is disheveled, sticking up in places like devil's ears, and when it speaks a blue flame ushers from its mouth. But most disconcerting are the eyes. They look down at the boy with evil glee, a disturbed intent, as if the mind behind them is as mad as the worst lunatic in the Bethnal Green Asylum.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" it cries. Then it descends.

Just as it is about to crush him, Sherlock hears footsteps smacking toward him, clop-clop clop-clop on the cobblestones like a racehorse down the stretch ... and catches sight of Sigerson Bell coming at him out of the corner of his eye. His face is distorted too, devilry in it. on the cobblestones like a racehorse down the stretch ... and catches sight of Sigerson Bell coming at him out of the corner of his eye. His face is distorted too, devilry in it. He is in on it after all He is in on it after all, thinks Sherlock trust no one. trust no one. Bell leaps, a long, fantastic leap, and in midflight, strikes the boy right in the chest. Sherlock hits the cobblestones, and all the air is driven from his lungs. He lies there beneath the bizarre apothecary, gasping for air, feeling like he is dying. He looks up into the cold black London sky. There are no stars, of course. Beside them, the Jack has struck the hard ground without the antic.i.p.ated cus.h.i.+on of the boy's body. But it doesn't seem to care. It rolls and leaps to its feet. Sherlock expects Bell to get off him and allow the Jack to have him, to hand him over. But the old man speaks into his ear at break-neck speed. Bell leaps, a long, fantastic leap, and in midflight, strikes the boy right in the chest. Sherlock hits the cobblestones, and all the air is driven from his lungs. He lies there beneath the bizarre apothecary, gasping for air, feeling like he is dying. He looks up into the cold black London sky. There are no stars, of course. Beside them, the Jack has struck the hard ground without the antic.i.p.ated cus.h.i.+on of the boy's body. But it doesn't seem to care. It rolls and leaps to its feet. Sherlock expects Bell to get off him and allow the Jack to have him, to hand him over. But the old man speaks into his ear at break-neck speed.

"You have merely suffered a winding of the upper respiratory system. Relax, and the air shall return and proper functioning of the lungs will ensue."

Relax? thinks Sherlock. thinks Sherlock.

"Stay on the ground, my boy. I shall attend to this fiend."

As he finishes, Bell springs to his feet, spins on a needle-head ... and confronts the Spring Heeled Jack! Down below, head on the stones, not a breath of air in his entire body, Sherlock Holmes actually smiles.

"KEE-AAHH!" screams Bell.

The girl stands back in amazement. A bent-over man, at least a hundred years old in her estimation, wearing tight and nearly transparent leggings and an oriental bandana around his head, has a.s.sumed a fighting stance within a few feet of the powerfully built villain, the most feared and evil man in London. Bell turns his hips and powers a punch toward the Jack's head. But the fiend is quick. He ducks slightly and catches the blow on the meat of his shoulder. Then he turns on the old man. Blue flames stream from his mouth again.

"Sulfur," says Bell, just as the Spring Heeled Jack pivots on a leg, raises the other, and thrusts a kick into his opponent, using the sole of his big, black boot flat across the old man's scrawny chest. The sound is like a gun going off. Bell flies halfway across the street and slams into a stone wall.