"For life and beyond?"

"Absolutely. And I'm sorry about the ... the Spring Heeled Jack idea."

Sigerson Bell laughs so loudly that he has to put his hand over his mouth to prevent someone from hearing and coming their way. "Give me a moment, let me gather myself. I shall put away the papers I had come to arrange and we shall walk home together. I want to hear more about Beatrice's vision."

An hour later they are strolling arm in arm along Fleet Street toward home. The sun will rise in an hour or two. Now a few milkwomen are out, walking on their thick white-stockinged legs, their yokes over their shoulders, from which big pails dangle.

Sherlock tells Bell all about Beatrice's encounter on Westminster Bridge and what he found when he went to investigate. "So, in the end, it was nothing, sir. Especially now that my suspicions of you ... and I must say again, sir, that, I am sorry ..."

"Not at all, rather flattering I must say, at my age."

"... it was just a young girl enamored of me."

"Oh! Is that what you think? You have a rather high opinion of your animal magnetism when it comes to the fairer s.e.x, think you not? Do you really believe that a young girl would go to such lengths just to impress you? It seems unlikely to me."

"She is a nice girl, sir, very pleasant, but a simple one. I've known her since we were children. Her father is a hatter."

"I have seen this 'simple girl' with my own eyes, Sherlock. And I say, 'Beware.' She is more than she seems ... as most women are. I shall tell you some day about my witch."

They part ways at Trafalgar Square, the old man anxious to get home to bed, the boy deciding to take a stroll down to Westminster Bridge before he heads back. He knows he won't be able to sleep. He has always been like that when something is on his mind he could continue wide awake for a week, he sometimes thinks, if he were really intrigued by a problem. Perhaps he has been unfair to Beatrice, perhaps she and her friend were indeed accosted by someone on the bridge, nothing to really worry about a lunatic of some sort someone acting in a way that disturbed her impressionable female mind. Or perhaps it was was a vision of a sort, a frightening image made by the lights in the London night and the fearful girls' imaginations. Perhaps Louise really believed it forced her toward the water: Beatrice fainted. He should have helped her, been more understanding. a vision of a sort, a frightening image made by the lights in the London night and the fearful girls' imaginations. Perhaps Louise really believed it forced her toward the water: Beatrice fainted. He should have helped her, been more understanding.

When he arrives at the bridge, it is still pre-dawn, but there are people crossing toward the main part of the city, and a few going south. They are mostly working cla.s.s, ready to start their trades early. But then Sherlock spots someone who stands out among these ordinary folk. He wears a bowler hat, and is examining the very spot on the bridge where Beatrice said she and her friend were attacked.

Lestrade.

FEAR IN THE STREETS.

It isn't the senior Lestrade, not the police inspector himself. It's Sherlock's friend, Master G. Lestrade. That narrow-faced lad, a few years older than he, is dressed, as always, in a sort of imitation of his father checked brown suit with tie, brown bowler for a lid. The wisp of a mustache is just beginning above his upper lip. Though Sherlock respects him as a human being, he has yet to gain much admiration for his supposedly burgeoning detective skills. The only ability young Lestrade has that the boy cannot quite fathom, is his knack for sneaking up on others without notice. He has done it several times to Holmes, and it galls him.

Sherlock slips through the crowd and sneaks right up to the older boy. He comes within a few inches and then speaks softly into his ear.

"It has returned!"

Young Lestrade nearly leaps over the bal.u.s.trade, into the river his hat comes flying off and almost sails overboard too, though he catches it at the last moment, in an unintentionally comic move. Recognizing the voice at his ear, he gathers himself, straightens his suit, and calmly sets his lid back on his head, c.o.c.king it at a fashionable angle. He doesn't turn around.

"Master Holmes, what a strange thing to say."

Then he turns and smiles at the boy, their faces just a foot apart.

"Rings no bells with you?"

"All is silent."

"You are here for no purpose?"

"I am just on my way to the office."

"And I thought your family lived west of the city, north side, not south curious that you would be out on this bridge. No need, really, on one's way to Scotland Yard."

"You know where we live?"

"There is a slight turn in certain vowels employed by many long-time residents of Hounslow. You and your father exhibit as much."

Lestrade sets his jaw tightly. "I thought I'd come out here and look at the river."

"Brown and smelly and cold on the second day of March? Lovely, that."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"You have it with you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The note. The one the so-called Spring Heeled Jack left last night."

Young Lestrade is barely able to contain his surprise, but he keeps his mouth from opening into a gape.

"Beatrice Leckie is a long-standing friend. She told me this yarn as well, brought me to this very spot last night, in fact. She must have taken the note to police headquarters. Is that how you ended up with it?"

The note had been written on a big sheet with big letters Sherlock has noticed a bulge in Lestrades's left suit-coat pocket, one that such a sheet, folded many times, would make.

Lestrade says nothing for a moment, but soon relents. "All right. Yes, she brought it to Scotland Yard early yesterday morning. My father thought it nonsense."

"The only wise thing he has ever thought."

"I will thank you to never say anything of that nature in my presence again. You are not capable of even carrying his boots."

"I shall speak as I please."

"Very well we have nothing to say to each other, then."

Lestrade turns back to the river.

"I found Beatrice's friend," says Sherlock, "one Louise, lying near the sh.o.r.e without a scratch on her. Her clothes were barely damp and she was not particularly cold, though her story is that she was carried through the air from this bal.u.s.trade more than fifty feet into the freezing water of the Thames. The lettering on the note is not consistent with the hand of a madman. Miss Leckie, I must tell you, is an admirer of mine. She was seeking attention."

Lestrade wheels around.

"Who do you think you are, sir? You stain her name with that comment. I spoke to Miss Leckie myself, after my father politely refused to look into this. I found her to be believable. In fact, I found her a remarkable young lady."

Sherlock smiles. "And not without attractions."

"Step away from me, Master Holmes, or I may slap your face."

"You don't want to do that, my friend, believe me. However, I am sorry that I offended you. I have no quarrel with you, not at all." He turns to go, but then looks back. "Proceed as you see fit, Lestrade ... against your father's wishes ... but I warn you, you will be much more likely to catch a wild goose than the Spring Heeled Jack."

But Sherlock Holmes isn't so sure about all of this as he walks up Whitehall, back toward Trafalgar Square, and home. If Beatrice was making this up, then why did she go to Scotland Yard with it? Surely she isn't so angry with me that she would make herself look like a fool to the Metropolitan London Police Force. If Beatrice was making this up, then why did she go to Scotland Yard with it? Surely she isn't so angry with me that she would make herself look like a fool to the Metropolitan London Police Force. It would take monstrous chutzpah to go to them with a made-up story, especially one about a character from a Penny Dreadful come to life. It would take monstrous chutzpah to go to them with a made-up story, especially one about a character from a Penny Dreadful come to life. But if she isn't making it up, then why was Louise in the healthy condition he found her? She showed no signs of any attack. It is very puzzling. But if she isn't making it up, then why was Louise in the healthy condition he found her? She showed no signs of any attack. It is very puzzling.

The sun is rising, the streets are filling. He should really get home and off to school. He isn't sure how much longer he'll attend. But he's a pupil teacher now, as well as top boy, and he needs to find a way to inveigle his way into a university. He must have higher education. So for now, his plans are to keep going to school; keep gaining the best grades at Snowfields.

Up ahead, Trafalgar Square is abuzz with activity, even more so than usual on a Monday morning. And it isn't just the number of people that seems different. There are Bobbies everywhere: Peelers on foot, Peelers on horseback, even Peelers up on rooftops, looking down. He sees several blackhelmeted heads and blue shoulders on Morley's Hotel, more on Northumberland House. Crows are cawing. There is a palpable sense of danger in the air. What's going on? What's going on?

Sherlock looks across the square, past the fountains, the statue of Charles I, the big monument to Admiral Nelson that rises up into the sky and sees a rough wooden stage in front of the steps to the National Art Gallery. It has obviously been pulled here by a big team of dray horses, all of which are still standing between the stage and a group of onlookers. He notices that some folks are carrying placards. He hears shouts, sees the crowd growing as he walks toward it, growing into a mob. Looking around, he notices other people actually running this way. Off to the side, down Pall Mall Street and on the other thoroughfares that go like spokes out from the square, he sees the Force gathered in large numbers, veritable battalions of police on horseback.

What is going on?

He sees the answer, then, standing on the stage. There, large as life, is the one and only John Bright, the most eloquent, the most bombastic, the most thrilling orator in the empire and one of the most radical. He often speaks at Reform League demonstrations. When Mr. Disraeli, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had pushed the latest Reform Bill through the House of Commons and made it law that twice as many Englishmen could vote as ever before, Mr. Bright had stood in the House and said it was not enough. There must be secret ballots, and every man in England must have a vote, he had said; we must become truly democratic, or the people will rise up and the consequences will be catastrophic. Chaos, he had said, will come to all our cities; violence will fill the streets.

A sensation goes through Sherlock, part fear, part thrill: it is curious how danger has two sides to it; how it can excite you and scare you at the same time. Over the last few years, demonstrations by Radicals both here and elsewhere in London have often grown violent. Last year in Hyde Park more than two hundred thousand protestors had stormed the fences and knocked them over, sending the police fleeing.

Today, the Force looks ready. They will fight back.

Sherlock spots another man on the stage, dark-haired and powerfully built like a rugby player. He wears a unique green suit with black stripes. He is looking at the crowd as if searching it for individual faces. There is something sinister about him. Twenty-four or -five years old, Irish, by the cut of that Dublin-made suit. A man with an agenda, plotting something. Twenty-four or -five years old, Irish, by the cut of that Dublin-made suit. A man with an agenda, plotting something.

"It's Munby!" shouts a man near Holmes.

So that's Alfred Munby! thinks Sherlock. thinks Sherlock. Controversial Reform League member, accused of Fenian connections, always denies any a.s.sociation with bombings, has had nothing proved against him. John Bright must be including him reluctantly. Controversial Reform League member, accused of Fenian connections, always denies any a.s.sociation with bombings, has had nothing proved against him. John Bright must be including him reluctantly.

Sherlock rushes forward with the others, and pushes his way toward the front. He turns back to see how many more are coming, and something stops him in his tracks.

Malefactor.

He is at the edge of the crowd, leaning against a statue as if he owns it, his top hat c.o.c.ked at a devilish angle, dressed as usual in his fading tailcoat, twirling his cane. His gray eyes are alert under a bulging forehead. There is a big grin on his face as he watches the rowdy scene. Arrayed on their rear ends on the stone ground against the plinth around him are his lower Irregulars, ten in number, nasty little boys dressed in eclectic combinations of stolen clothes; and right beside him, on either side, standing as he is and surveying the crowd, are his two lieutenants, dark little Grimsby and big, silent Crew. The latter, for some reason, has dyed his blond hair black.

There used to be a sense of amus.e.m.e.nt in Malefactor's face whenever he encountered Holmes, but when he spots him today, it is a very different look. It is hatred. They are now in open enmity. If looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would be dead.

But almost immediately, Malefactor's gaze is averted by Sherlock's, who has noticed three particular people coming forward in the swarm of spectators approaching the stage. They are holding hands. It's a respectable looking middle-aged man with a walrus mustache, wearing a tweed suit, and a young lady, his daughter. Between them walks a little boy. Sherlock hasn't seen her for a few months. She is more beautiful than he remembers and grown up too, looking more like a woman than he can ever recall. But her looks are not all that have changed. The fashion of her clothes makes her stand out from the crowd. She wears a red linen dress without hoops or crinoline, so that it falls limply around her frame, showing her shape. The dress is of the sort the artists are wearing now, the kind the Pre-Raphaelite painters are depicting in their work, and it greatly surprises Sherlock. In a sea of bonnets, she wears a small hat, pinned atop her long blonde hair. Her brown eyes sparkle with intelligence. The sight of her fixes him to his spot. People jostle him, colliding against his shoulders as they run past toward the stage. But he just stands there, staring.

Irene Doyle used to smile a great deal, but lately things have changed: today her expression looks grim. Her jaw is set tightly and she barely hangs on to the little boy who steps along between her and her father. The reddish-blond child is dressed in a copy of Mr. Doyle's suit.

Sherlock is responsible for this family combination. The boy's name is Paul Doyle. It used to be Waller, nickname Dimly. The child used to languish in the Ratcliff workhouse in Stepney, going blind. But Sigerson Bell cured his eye infection. And Sherlock, who had discovered that the child was a relative of the Doyles, brought that fact to the attention of Irene's father, enlightening him in a private letter. Andrew C. Doyle, who had long ago lost his only son, adopted the waif within days ... much to the disappointment of his only daughter. Paul, as Irene expected, immediately ascended to a position of prime importance in their household. It had given her another reason to turn away from Sherlock Holmes.

They spot each other. For an instant, her expression softens, but then those brown eyes flare and she looks away. When she does, she sees Malefactor. She stops. The rascal doffs his top hat. Her father looks over and notices why they have come to a halt. Irene is unsure of what to do. But then she waves back. Her father glares at her and pulls both his children away.

Andrew Doyle is liberal very liberal. That is evident, not only in his many philanthropic ventures help for the poor and downtrodden, his support of Radicals like John Bright and the forward-thinking John Stuart Mill (after whom he even named his dog) but in the very fact that he is here today, amongst this rabble, bringing his five-year-old boy into a dangerous scene. Doyle and Son are obviously going to one day be a joint Liberal enterprise. But he draws the line at a.s.sociating with people like Malefactor. Crime is no excuse, not even for the most desperate.

Malefactor places his topper back on his head and sneers at the philanthropist. Irene turns away from her father, gives Sherlock an icy glance, releases the little boy's hand, and raises her nose in the air. Doyle picks up Paul and makes his way toward the middle of the mob, Irene now trailing. They stop just ahead of Sherlock, not more than twenty feet away.

Despite her att.i.tude, Holmes is thrilled. He has a clear view of her. He can stare. He senses that she knows he is observing her. Her appearance nearly makes him melt in the early March air. Beatrice Leckie is a mere crow next to this golden-haired nightingale. Really, there is no comparison. If Miss Doyle were on a London stage, not an eye would leave her.

Irene knows all of this. She has been more and more aware of her attractions as she has grown older and more womanly. She is changing both outside and in. And Malefactor, the bad boy she wants to reform, has been flattering and encouraging her for almost a year. As she stands there today, she is teasing Sherlock without his knowing. She has given him just the right view of her good side, the perfect pout of her lips.

"Good morning, friends!" shouts John Bright from the stage. A roar goes up and fills Trafalgar Square. It is a wave of noise, a call to arms. Excitement is instantly in the air. They chant his name. Munby joins in, shaking his fist, encouraging the crowd.

Bright is square faced and square built. Big mutton chops grow down his temples. He has a down-to-earth Lancashire accent, but there is nothing common about his eloquence. Despite his existence on the fringes of political life, his speeches are perhaps the best known in the land, the equal of Disraeli's. When England had entered the Crimean War more than a decade ago, Bright had spoken of "the wings of the angel of death beating throughout the land" and stilled the House of Commons as the members sat in awe. He raises his hands now and all is silent.

When he speaks it is not of rebellion, but of caution. He holds the ma.s.sive audience in thrall, not with bombast and incitement to violence, but with carefully chosen words, political plans, even praise for the remarkably liberal Disraeli, a Conservative prime minister unlike any the nation has ever seen. He asks the people to give the Jew a chance, but to hold him and others to promises to continue to reform.

He finishes speaking and there is another roar from the crowd. Many turn to go, but he asks them to wait and hear a young man say a few words.

"I want to introduce Robert J. Hide, just twenty-two years old, but wise beyond his years, an English Alexander come to help his elders slice the Gordian Knot of the ruling cla.s.ses' grip on our nation. I found him speaking in poor London boroughs and his eloquence, his pa.s.sion, astounded me. This young man is, like all of you, England's future. Hear him!"

A striking man strides forward, purposely avoiding Munby, and takes Bright's spot at the front of the stage. Sherlock sees Irene's reaction to him. She forgets that she is being watched. She lifts her head and stares up at the stage, entranced.

Sherlock looks to Hide. He is indeed a handsome fellow, dark-haired, tall and well-built, fitting into his suit as if it were almost a second skin. His smile is beguiling, and his voice is pleasing.

The young man says little, but what he does say is cleverly put and charms the crowd. He finishes within five minutes.

"May I say in conclusion, that I hold with the great John Bright when it comes to our nation's future. We must not be violent or rash. We must work with Mr. Disraeli, and with Mr. Gladstone, we must roll up our sleeves and do this together, Liberal and Conservative, man and woman. It is my hope that one day, we shall all vote. And by that I truly mean all all. Ladies, the fair s.e.x, the true beauty of our empire, must vote with us, add their voices to our political world, and teach us how to be gentlemen with true wisdom in these days of great change. We must ALL go forward together.

"And so I say, good day to you! G.o.d bless you all! G.o.d Save the Queen!"

The cheer that goes up is not quite the roar that Bright received, but it is substantial, and Sherlock detects that its pitch is slightly higher than any other that morning. Looking around, Holmes sees women, both working cla.s.s and ladies, glowing up at Robert Hide, their eyes still following him as he leaves the stage. Irene stands there too, looking after him as her father and stepbrother turn to go. Mr. Doyle has to touch her on the shoulder to get her attention.

Sherlock wants to follow Irene, but he shakes his head, trying to rattle good sense back into it. He must get going. He is late for school if he goes now, then at least he can attend for most of the day. As he hurries across the square, he b.u.mps into a small gathering of spectators. They seem to leap out of the crowd, causing him to run right into them.

Irregulars. They surround him. They surround him.

"I am not pleased with you," growls Malefactor, coming out from behind them. "You knew I had a stake in the Rathbone situation. You cost me money." The two boys haven't spoken for a while. One has been making himself scarce, the other trying to attend to shop duties and school. The older boy looks like he has grown an inch or two. There are wisps of sideburns spreading down his cheeks.

"My dear Malefactor, what a pleasure it is to see you." Sherlock looks about, hoping there are still Bobbies nearby.

"We are not children anymore, Holmes. I have plans. I will never allow you to stand in their way again."

"I "

"DO YOU HEAR ME?"

"Might you speak up?"

"Match wits with me, Sherlock, and you will lose."

"We shall see."

A Bobbie trots by on a big black horse. Malefactor motions to his thugs and they move away from Holmes. Crew looks impa.s.sive, but Grimsby curses, disappointment etched on his face. He knows the apothecary's a.s.sistant is becoming skilled in some sort of fighting art that Chinamen use, but Grimsby is a street fighter, a killer-in-training, with no use for such nonsense he fights dirty. He would love to get Sherlock alone in an alley and finish things between them.

"A lovely day," says Sherlock to Grimsby.

"Lovely, indeed," responds Malefactor with a winning smile, the Bobbie within earshot.

"Enjoy political rallies, do you?"

The Bobbie trots away.

"I enjoy chaos. If chaos doesn't come to London, I will bring it. Good day."

"The same to you."