But there is much that seems suspicious in the old man's actions. And Bell likely thinks the same of the boy. All day they play a sort of cat-and-mouse game, speaking less frequently than usual, constantly glancing at each other and quickly looking away, neither leaving the shop for a moment, despite the sunny late-winter day outside, both puttering away at seemingly unimportant duties Sherlock cleaning up in places that appeared already quite tidy, the apothecary mixing solutions and mixing them again. For awhile, Bell turns to his skeletons, taking them down from their nails, gripping them in his arms and manipulating their bones, practicing his new art of skeletal adjustment, which he plans to use on unsuspecting patients with spinal ailments in the near future. He has come to the conclusion that had someone done something similar for him, he would not be as bent over as he is today.

Though Sherlock wants to keep his eye on Bell, he can't stand being cooped up forever. So, just after supper, he goes out for a walk. On his way, he spots Dupin, the legless newsboy, strapped to his wheeled platform, rolling along with his folding kiosk and leftover papers, as he leaves Trafalgar Square. The sight of him gives Sherlock an idea.

"Mr. Dupin!"

The ageless newsboy pulls over near the gray exterior of Northumberland House, out of the way of pedestrians. Sherlock approaches, and smiles down at him.

"Ah, Master 'olmes. What adventures is you in pursuit of these days?"

"These days, I am merely a student and an employee of Sigerson Bell."

"And a fine thing it is to be gainfully employed, even by that strange 'un. None of your snoopin' into criminal affairs anymore?"

"I am still a boy, Dupin, and I still have a great deal to learn. Best leave adult concerns to adults."

"And by the look in yer eye, guvna, you have something more you'd like to learn at this very moment."

"Do you recall the Spring Heeled Jack? Not from the Penny Dreadfuls. Wasn't there a real one at one time?"

"Indeed there was. Why do you ask?"

"I ... am simply curious. Do you have any accounts of him in your notes?"

Dupin is not just a newspaper vendor but an expert in everything to do with the news. Among his few possessions is an extraordinary catalogue of almost every important event from the last few decades. It is referenced and cross-referenced. But his pages are only slightly better informed than his remarkable, retentive brain.

"That was long ago, you know, when I was a lad."

"Were you selling papers then?"

"I was. It was my first year, the second season of our Victoria's reign."

"Can you tell me anything more?"

Dupin regards him with a smile. "Why?"

Sherlock can do nothing but smile back. He fingers a shilling in his pocket. It is all he owns. Would Dupin give him the information for cash?

"Put your money away, Master 'olmes, but promise me this: if anything comes of whatever you is after, let me know the details."

"I fear, Mr. Dupin, that if anything does come of it, you will soon know as much as I."

Dupin grins. "Let me see." He slings his kiosk off his back, finds a wooden box and eases it down onto the hard foot pavement as if it contains the crown jewels. He begins flicking through its contents: uniform, neatly cut pieces of paper filled with information.

"1838 ... ... A A ... ... H H ... ... S S ... ... Sp Sp ... Spring 'eeled Jack. 'ere it is." ... Spring 'eeled Jack. 'ere it is."

He pulls a small sheet out of the box. "First struck late in that year. Both in London and in the vicinity, face like the devil, claws on 'is 'ands, red eyes, blue flames from his mouth " Dupin can't help but laugh. "There were many reports that year and next and into the '40s, many imitators it seems, then reports fall off."

"What did he wear?"

"Wear?" Dupin gives him a questioning look, then peruses the account again. "A costume ... 'ad wings, dressed somewhat like a bat, black and green."

Sherlock swallows.

"Did they arrest anyone?"

Dupin reads again. "It seems ... they brought in one man, respectable sort, but never prosecuted. 'pparently it weren't 'im. No one else was ever accused."

"Do they say how old the Jack was?"

"I recall that meself. I recall too, that it was almost exclusively women that 'e attacked, or just frightened usually, never badly 'urt any of 'em, though there were folks imitating 'im in other places that killed their victims. 'e was supposed to be, 'ccording to these ladies 'e scared, a man of nearly forty."

Sherlock walks back to the shop deep in thought. It wore a black and green costume. And it struck about thirty years ago. It wore a black and green costume. And it struck about thirty years ago. He doesn't know Sigerson Bell's age, but is guessing he is about seventy. This apothecary, with the chemical magic at hand to turn his eyes red and his breath blue ... who hides his past, was He doesn't know Sigerson Bell's age, but is guessing he is about seventy. This apothecary, with the chemical magic at hand to turn his eyes red and his breath blue ... who hides his past, was nearly forty nearly forty in in 1838 1838.

When Holmes returns, the sun has long since set, but Bell is still wrestling with his skeletons. In fact, as the boy enters, he is attempting to adjust a neck bone ... and snaps the skull clean off the body. He utters a little curse under his breath.

"Oh, rat flatulence!" He turns to Sherlock. "I have had enough of this, and I am taking to my bed."

"But it is still early, sir."

"And I am fatigued. Is that all right with you, Sir Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir."

The old man looks guilty. "Quite all right, my boy. That was my frustration speaking."

But Sherlock isn't sure he believes it. Once Bell is upstairs and apparently in bed, the boy makes noises downstairs, as if he is still working. At the appropriate time, he blows out the candles, turns off their gas lamp, undresses and gets under the blankets in his wardrobe. But he doesn't sleep. He listens. He hears a few horses and carriages go by outside, a few shouts in the street, but nothing from the floor above.

About four hours later, the pitch-black stillness of the shop is broken by a noise overhead.

Sigerson Bell is on his feet. Sherlock listens for the sound of his chamber pot being slid out from under his bed, for the familiar noise of pee spurting in irregular squirts into that vessel. But there's nothing of that sort. Instead, the boy hears the old man putting on his clothes! Moments later, he is coming down the stairs! Sherlock hears him putter through the lab, knock into something and still it. Then, there's a low voice. Sherlock listens for the sound of his chamber pot being slid out from under his bed, for the familiar noise of pee spurting in irregular squirts into that vessel. But there's nothing of that sort. Instead, the boy hears the old man putting on his clothes! Moments later, he is coming down the stairs! Sherlock hears him putter through the lab, knock into something and still it. Then, there's a low voice.

"Dog flatulence!"

Silence.

The footsteps move again, through the lab, into the front room. The outside door squeaks open and closes.

MORE SECRETS.

Sherlock has his trousers, waistcoat, and frock coat on in seconds. He only glances into his little mirror, pats his hair into place in a rush. He gets out the door and spies the old man way down Crown Street, heading toward the river. Bell wisely avoids the dangerous Seven Dials and keeps going straight south to The Strand. Sherlock has to stay on his toes because the old man looks back several times, as if concerned that he is being followed. He has something tucked under an arm.

At The Strand, so unlike itself now because it is nearly deserted, the boy follows Bell as he heads east toward the Old City. They pa.s.s St. Paul's Cathedral, bare-foot waifs lying on its steps. Only the odd hansom cab pa.s.ses, that signature London sound of clopping hooves now a lonely noise. It is still too early even for the working cla.s.s to be starting out, and not a single milkwoman is yet in sight. Sherlock keeps his eyes open for shadows lurking down the alleyways. Malefactor and his gang could beat you, strip you, and clean out your pockets in a flash, un.o.bserved at this hour. Respectable, sober folks know to keep from the streets in the early morning. Sherlock once had a sort of admiration for Malefactor, but now despises him. He would just as soon have him arrested as speak to him.

Up ahead, Bell seems to have no worries. He scoots along, bent over, never looking side to side, just occasionally behind. He is fearless He is fearless, thinks Sherlock. But anyone as skilled in the arts of self-defense as he, is frightened of no man. In fact, the boy pities any thug who might try to accost him.

They pa.s.s south of Cheapside and the old man swings down to Thames Street next to the river. Sherlock can smell it. The Tower of London looms up ahead, looking ominous against the black sky. The boy's breath is evident in the cold night.

Bell stops suddenly, pulls the costume and mask out from under his arm as if readying it to put on, then scurries into one of those impossibly narrow streets in this ancient part of the city. Everything here is cramped, made for smaller people of a bygone era.

By the time Sherlock turns into the street, Bell has vanished. He must have entered one of the buildings. He must have entered one of the buildings. The boy begins examining them. They are block-like and jammed together, made of dark granite, gone black from centuries of grime and decades of soot. A few have business names on plaques, a barrister here, an exporter there. But one sign stops him in his tracks. It is unlike any other. There are no words, just a symbol containing a compa.s.s and a square joined together, with the large letter The boy begins examining them. They are block-like and jammed together, made of dark granite, gone black from centuries of grime and decades of soot. A few have business names on plaques, a barrister here, an exporter there. But one sign stops him in his tracks. It is unlike any other. There are no words, just a symbol containing a compa.s.s and a square joined together, with the large letter G G in between. The door looks very heavy, curiously bolted from the outside. in between. The door looks very heavy, curiously bolted from the outside. Is it locked from the inside as well? If so, what a strange entrance. Is it locked from the inside as well? If so, what a strange entrance.And he thinks it especially so when he sees a dim light through the cracks someone is in there! Somehow, that person can lock and unlock the outside bolt from the inside. The door also features remarkable decorations, carved right into it a whole series of pyramids each with a single eye peering out. Should he enter? Sherlock carefully draws the bolt, then reaches out and grips the handle. Suddenly, the door swings open and just as suddenly, he is on the ground. Someone has taken his legs out from under him with a deft move of a foot and an expert push from a forearm. His a.s.sailant stands over him.

"My boy?"

His master is astride him ... frantically throwing off a black and green costume.

"Mr. Bell?"

"What, in the name of Hermes, are you doing here?"

"One might well ask the same question of you, sir."

The old man offers a hand and raises him to his feet.

"Yes, well, one might indeed, I suppose." Bell glances back at his costume, now lying in the entrance behind him, and tries to kick it through the doorway. "You are such a curious lad. Let us step away down the street here and I shall explain."

He is trying to get me away from the building. Sherlock looks above the doorway to the roof, searching for a clue to its ident.i.ty. He sees nothing that helps, but then notices the costume, still lying on the threshold, not quite all the way through the door. Sherlock looks above the doorway to the roof, searching for a clue to its ident.i.ty. He sees nothing that helps, but then notices the costume, still lying on the threshold, not quite all the way through the door.

"By all means," says the boy. As the old man relaxes in response, turning his back to pick up the costume to throw it indoors, Sherlock makes a quick move, darts past Bell, and seizes the material. In an instant he is standing out in the street, several yards from the apothecary, examining it. It is mostly black, with stripes of green, but not really stripes they are symbols of some sort, moons and suns, and more compa.s.ses and squares, more of those pyramids with eyes. Then he spots some lettering, written in a sort of Elizabethan calligraphy The Hermetic Order of the Sacred Dawn The Hermetic Order of the Sacred Dawn.

"What?" says the boy aloud.

"I really wish you had not done that!" shouts Bell. He is advancing on the boy. He s.n.a.t.c.hes the material from him and takes him by the collar. He drags him down the street and into an alleyway, looking right and left to make sure no one has followed them.

"I am required to kill you now."

"What?"

"That is what I am required to do."

"By whom?"

"By the Hermetic Order of the Sacred Dawn. You know of us now, you know our name, and you know that I am part of it."

"And I know you are the Spring Heeled Jack!"

Sigerson Bell's eyes look like they may pop out of his head.

"I'm what?"

"The Spring Heeled Jack!"

A smile spreads across Bell's face. "You have always been a strange one, Sherlock Holmes. But now you've done it. You have officially gone and lost your marbles."

"Say what you will ... I am on to you."

"Yes, yes, I am a fictional character from a Penny Dreadful magazine.... You have caught me!"

"Why did you attack Beatrice and her friend? Or did you dress up someone else to do it?"

"Ah!"

"What do you mean ... 'Ah!'"

"So that's what it was! Her vision vision was of the Spring Heeled Jack." was of the Spring Heeled Jack."

"Don't pretend you don't know. Don't pretend it is a surprise. I have caught you, red-handed. You have been using me, somehow. This was all set up. Why did you draw me into your employ in the first place?"

"Because I needed an a.s.sistant ... and you are a wonderful young man, who thinks a little too highly of himself from time to time, full of troubles and indecision, yes, but a wonderful young man ... who seeks justice."

"What? I thought you were about to kill me."

"I didn't say that. I said that was what I was required required to do. But I would be as apt to actually do it as I would be to harness a thousand crows and use them to fly to the moon and back." to do. But I would be as apt to actually do it as I would be to harness a thousand crows and use them to fly to the moon and back."

"But ..."

"But nothing. Close your mouth and listen to me. I am not the Spring Heeled Jack. Neither am I Robin Hood, Goldilocks, or the Big Bad Wolf."

"But ..."

"But nothing. I am a Mason."

"A Mason? You mean ... someone who goes to meetings at Masonic Lodges?"

"Precisely. Most people know something of Masons, I am sure you have your own impressions. We are the descendants of the great builders of England and Europe, the architects of the world, creators of many structures since the time of Solomon's Temple, formed into lodges, all of us with philosophies and in pursuit of knowledge, seeking the Supreme Being together."

"Masons are secretive, aren't they? Once they're inside the walls of the lodges? You have secret codes, secret symbols, don't you? But aren't Masons just ordinary folk too ... you aren't terribly terribly secretive, are you?" secretive, are you?"

"Most lodges aren't. But we are. The Hermetic Order of the Sacred Dawn is a higher sect of our kind ... a very high order. I am the highest ranking apothecary and alchemist, once the Worshipful Master here. I ... I come from a long line of apothecaries, Master Holmes, my father and his father before him and on and on. There is a family story that the Bells once had the name Trismegistus and originated in Egypt long before we came to England, that we knew magic, real magic of the occult sort, not the stuff silly prestidigitators attempt on the London stages, sawing ladies in half and the like." He looks down at the green and black material. "This is what I wear when I enter the holy altar inside. Some outfits have masks with them too, black paint to mark our faces. Our order has a.s.sociates all over Europe. We wield greater power than most can imagine.... And no one is to know our members' ident.i.ties."

"No one?"

"No one. An outsider discovers us on pain of death."

Sherlock gulps.

"But I doubt the folks inside those walls," he waves down the street toward the building, "could ever kill another. I know I certainly couldn't ... or maybe I could ... but not you, Master Holmes, not you." He smiles at the boy.

"Thank you, sir."

"Your lips are sealed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sealed with the best glue one could make from any horse in London? A triple promise with sugar piled on top?"

"Yes, sir."