"And remember what I said. If you ever involve yourself in attempting to solve any crime that has anything to do with me again, I will kill you, Sherlock Holmes. I promise you that. Until now, I have just been toying with you. But that's over. No more games."

Malefactor's eyes look cold and dead. Then he turns and saunters away as his gang runs off, Grimsby's giggle sounding across the square.

Sherlock is shaking not something he would admit to anyone. He walks up St. Martin's Lane past the big stone church there, trying to compose himself. Before he has gone far, he sees a young woman sitting on a bench against a wall with someone leaning over her, his arm extended above her shoulder and his hand flat against the wall. They are deep in conversation.

Young Lestrade and Beatrice.

Sherlock tries to slip past. But she spots him.

"Master 'olmes?"

He stops. "Miss Leckie."

Lestrade sighs and turns around. He looks a little embarra.s.sed, as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Master Lestrade."

"Holmes. I was just leaving. Good day, Miss Leckie." He doffs his bowler and walks away.

"Were you here for the demonstration, Beatrice?"

"Oh no, Sherlock, I don't believe in such things. I just 'appened to be nearby. I could 'ear that awful Mr. 'ide speaking. They say 'e is 'andsome, but I saw the side of 'is face when 'e was excited and don't agree. There is something sinister about 'im. I think 'e wants too much, that if 'e 'ad his way it would be terrible for England. The working cla.s.ses need not all all vote, that is nonsense, and neither, certainly, should women!" vote, that is nonsense, and neither, certainly, should women!"

Holmes smiles.

"I suppose I should 'ave told you that I picked that note from your pocket, and that I went to Scotland Yard with it. I am sorry."

"Not at all, Miss Beatrice. It is I who must apologize. I was a cad. You were frightened. I am sure that you did not invent what happened on the bridge. I hope the police will help you."

"They will not, but Master Lestrade 'as consented to look into things."

"That is a start."

"I have reflected on your reaction to what I told you the night before last and I understand why you would doubt me."

"Well "

"No, Sherlock, I understand. What I told you would seem quite ridiculous, if you weren't there. I don't know 'ow you did not laugh out loud. But you were too polite."

"I did not mean to make light of your ordeal. Nor did I mean to suggest that you were in any way enamored of me."

"But I am."

Sherlock is taken aback. Those big black eyes look yearningly up at him. A beautiful crow A beautiful crow, he thinks, a beautiful crow indeed a beautiful crow indeed. "Excuse me?"

"I do like you, Sherlock 'olmes." She glances down shyly, but then looks boldly up at him. "There is no use in denying it anymore. I cannot lie. I think you have become a fine young man."

The boy is tongue-tied. No one, since his mother was alive, has said anything like this to him. Beatrice notices that he is having trouble speaking and wants to help him, so she goes on.

"I am 'onored that you would think that I 'ave affection for you."

"Well ... I ..."

"And I am sorry to 'ave bothered you about all of this. Master Lestrade 'as many plans for 'ow he will investigate it. I am thankful for that."

"Perhaps ... perhaps I could ..."

"Yes?"

"Perhaps I might investigate just a little more too."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"And 'ow will you do that?"

"Will ... will you be home this evening?"

"I certainly shall be, Master 'olmes," she says.

"Then might I see you at your parents' place of residence? At the shop? About nine?"

"You will be calling on me?"

"You could tell me what happened again, and I shall listen very carefully this time and see if there is anything of interest that strikes me."

"I 'ope something of interest strikes you, Master 'olmes, I do indeed. I shall see you at nine."

JACK IN THE NIGHT AGAIN.

Sherlock Holmes wonders why he agreed to visit Beatrice Leckie. It was as if she gave him a chemical compound that drugged his senses, as if he didn't have the will to refuse. He figures it had something to do with the way she looked at him. But he told her he would call on her, so now he has to go. All day at school, he has been dreading this interview.

He tells Bell he won't be long and heads away. It is after eight o'clock and there's a pitch-black sky over the city. He crosses the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge and sets a course for his old neighborhood in Southwark. Dangerous London streets lie ahead.

Bravery is important to Sherlock. It is a British characteristic, seen not only in battle against the Spanish Armada and the great Napoleon, but on the playing fields of the nation's schools. It is also a characteristic that he knows he must have in order to confront evil. So, he always pushes himself to take courage. But tonight, he decides that following a direct route through the dark warrens and alleys toward his old neighborhood would be empty courage, a useless show that might end in his being attacked. There are many thugs and roughs who haunt this parish. He has time he will take a slightly longer way, down the main thoroughfares, along Blackfriars Road and then up Borough High Street, before he turns off the main road to find the hatter's shop.

He tells himself that this decision has nothing to do with Malefactor or the Spring Heeled Jack.

But even in the slight flow of evening folks on the wider roads, he can't shake the feeling that something or someone is lurking behind him, down an alley to the side, or awaiting him up ahead.

By the time he approaches St. George's Circus, the loud roundabout near the big Surrey Theatre, he has had enough of taking this long route. Dangerous or not, he is sick of wasting his time, upset that he is allowing himself to be fearful.

He swings east down a narrow lane and moves past the stinking domes of the Phoenix Gas Works. Soon the street becomes darker and deserted and his heartbeat picks up. He keeps moving, refusing to look back, even when he thinks he hears scuffling along the cobblestones behind. He finds himself recalling his Bellitsu moves. Then, just before he reaches bigger, busier Bridge Street with its glowing gas lamps a light at the end of the tunnel he hears someone call out to him.

"Sherlock Holmes!" says a voice in a hiss.

He has has to turn around. to turn around.

"Chaos!"

The sound appears to be coming from above, on the rooftops. The boy looks up, scanning the uneven horizon of the haphazard stone and wooden structures, some abandoned, others sagging, all shadowy in the night. For an instant, he thinks he sees a human-sized figure up there, dark and batlike, moving away from the edge of a building. It appears to have black, pointed ears, like the devil. It appears to have black, pointed ears, like the devil. The boy stands staring for a moment, frightened as much by his own fevered imagination, as by what he The boy stands staring for a moment, frightened as much by his own fevered imagination, as by what he might might have seen. He shakes his head to drive away the fantasy and moves on. have seen. He shakes his head to drive away the fantasy and moves on.

As he crosses Bridge Street, he is tempted to stay on it and resume a more circuitous, safer route to the hatter's shop. But he tells himself that is nonsense. He crosses the street, determined to walk straight toward his old haunts. He enters another lane. Almost immediately everything grows dark. There are no gas lamps here, just the dim glow of candles in one or two windows of the poor little homes and shops. He trips over something. No, it's someone someone, who moans. He leaps, jumping over the body, but when he regains his pace and surges forward, he sees a figure coming the opposite way, toward him.

"Ah, 'ere we is!" it cries. The voice is bizarre, a growl ushered up from an inhuman throat. Sherlock can't see the figure clearly. It looks as if it is wearing fur. He veers to the other side of the street, but it keeps coming at him.

"You can't run from me! I is more than one folk. I is everywhere!"

Sherlock can see him now, a beggar in bare feet, wearing rags, indeed made of furs, as if he were a caveman from prehistoric times. His hair is white on one side, black on the other: his face old and wrinkled, with calm eyes on the left, young and wild on the right. He has suffered some horrible disease or injury. He reaches out for the boy. Sherlock delivers a blow, the most severe he can muster, right from the toolbox of the Bellitsu art, produced with his left hand his best from a balanced stance, brought up from below the chest, turning his hips as he follows through. The beggar goes down instantly and for seconds is dead silent. Then, he utters a groan.

Holmes begins to run. Why did I hit that poor wretch? Why am I running? Why did I hit that poor wretch? Why am I running? He wants to turn back and help the beggar to his feet. But then he hears that voice again, the one he heard in the other lane, calling to him from above. He wants to turn back and help the beggar to his feet. But then he hears that voice again, the one he heard in the other lane, calling to him from above.

"Sherlock Holmes! Chaos!"

He turns, glances up, and thinks he sees a winged shadow, high on a building again. But he doesn't pause. He turns back and sprints until he is all the way to Borough High Street. Stopping there for a moment under a gas lamp, his chest heaving, he changes his plans. He will give in: angry with himself, he makes his way along this well-lighted main thoroughfare. He moves quickly in the thin crowd under the lamps seeing tradesmen getting home late, couples out for entertainment, men for drinks past the shops and offices, under taller buildings and awnings. By the time he nears Mint Street, he has calmed down considerably.

But now, as he turns off the wide road, he must make his way through a few more narrow lanes to get to the hatter's shop. He shouldn't be afraid here: this is his old neighborhood of friendly buildings and little businesses. If anything, he should be sad. When he last came here, he had held his dying mother in his arms. But he can't stop feeling spooked.

He slips down a familiar little artery, his eyes alert. He has to be vigilant: the only light here comes from the main street's glow and a few little gas lamps behind windows. He gets down the first street, shoots along another and then turns onto his own.

His heart sinks when he sees the hatter's shop. Up above, in their little flat, he spots a dim light. Someone has lodgings in their old home. Someone has lodgings in their old home. He knows it isn't his father. The boy has made enquiries and was told that Wilberforce Holmes is still living near the Crystal Palace in rooms provided for him by that entertainment complex's owners. It is for the best. Still, Sherlock wishes he could talk to him. He wants to hear his voice and pick his brilliant mind like in the old days. But he can't. Instead, he sends him letters, visits the Crystal Palace and watches him at a distance, sadly working with his white doves. Sherlock understands that he must stay away from his father, knows that his very presence would remind Wilber not just of his beautiful wife Rose, but of how his son, He knows it isn't his father. The boy has made enquiries and was told that Wilberforce Holmes is still living near the Crystal Palace in rooms provided for him by that entertainment complex's owners. It is for the best. Still, Sherlock wishes he could talk to him. He wants to hear his voice and pick his brilliant mind like in the old days. But he can't. Instead, he sends him letters, visits the Crystal Palace and watches him at a distance, sadly working with his white doves. Sherlock understands that he must stay away from his father, knows that his very presence would remind Wilber not just of his beautiful wife Rose, but of how his son, this this son, Sherlock Holmes, caused her death. son, Sherlock Holmes, caused her death.

There is a noise above. And this time, it's close.

Sherlock looks up. A human bat appears on the edge of the rooftop, right above the window in his old family flat. There is no doubt this time. The figure jumps, swooping down out of the black sky, knocking the boy over, thundering him to the ground. He smacks his head on the cobblestones.

Everything goes blurry. He tries to look up at it. Is this the fiend's face? Is this the fiend's face? In the fog, it appears incensed complexion flushed, red eyes angry, spittle on its lips, blue flames coming from its mouth as it speaks in a deep, evil voice. Devil ears rise up in its hair, wings spread out from its body, and claws sprout from its hands. It wears a suit of some sort, striped black and green. In the fog, it appears incensed complexion flushed, red eyes angry, spittle on its lips, blue flames coming from its mouth as it speaks in a deep, evil voice. Devil ears rise up in its hair, wings spread out from its body, and claws sprout from its hands. It wears a suit of some sort, striped black and green.

"Beware Sherlock Holmes! I bring chaos to London! Warn them!"

Is that what it is saying? He isn't sure. His vision is fading, growing dark. It stands over him, leans down, and rakes his face. He can feel the blood on his cheeks trickling toward his ears and neck. But he can't move. It is about to kill him and he is helpless, slipping into unconsciousness. He isn't sure. His vision is fading, growing dark. It stands over him, leans down, and rakes his face. He can feel the blood on his cheeks trickling toward his ears and neck. But he can't move. It is about to kill him and he is helpless, slipping into unconsciousness.

But then it rises. Before he blacks out, Sherlock can see its blurred image as if in a dream: it is wearing big, black boots with enormous heels. It stands grinning down at him for a moment, then springs halfway up the wall of the building, climbs to the rooftop and vanishes.

The boy lies immobile for a moment. But he's roused by a voice. Someone is calling him again.

"Sherlock?"

This voice is lovely.

"Sherlock!" He sees her porcelain white face, kind black eyes, black hair falling in ringlets down onto his chest as she leans over him, her face within inches of his. She smells of soap. Beatrice. Beatrice.

"You've been attacked! You're bleeding!"

"I am fine. It was nothing."

"But you're 'urt!"

"It was just a thug. He's gone."

"These streets are so 'orrible! Let's get you inside."

She puts his arm over her shoulder and helps him past the bow windows, toward the big wooden door of the shop. Groggy, Sherlock recognizes the old, familiar counter, the many hats mostly black, some brown hanging from hooks and on display. He remembers the smell of the mercury, the beaver and rabbit fur, and silk. He had worked here one summer or two, Beatrice often following him around, asking him questions, complementing every clever thing he said.

She takes him through to the back, to their home. It is warm inside, a fire burns on the hearth. There is no one else around her father must be out. She guides him to a settee with a torn cover, pulls a blanket over him, then brings him a cup of tea that she's made for his arrival. In seconds, she is back with a warm cloth.

Though he takes the tea, he soon pulls off the blanket and sits up.

"I'm all right."

"But you aren't."

He puts his hands up to stop her from cleaning his cuts.

"Put your 'ands down, Sherlock 'olmes!"

He does so, immediately. She smiles at him.

"Now, sit still and we will clean you up."

She takes his strong chin in one hand and gently caresses the sc.r.a.pes on his face. Miraculously, it doesn't hurt: the touch of a girl on his wounds is soothing. In minutes, he is put to rights.

"I came here to help you, not the other way around," says Sherlock. "I am not mortally wounded, you know. Let's talk about your troubles."

"Are you up to it, Sherlock? We could talk another night."

"Beatrice, I am fine! It was just a little knock on the head from falling and some scratches."

"It is curious," she says, looking at him.

"What?"

"That this rough didn't rob you. 'e didn't, did 'e?"

Sherlock feels in his pockets, finds his two shillings.

"'e didn't take your coat, your boots, your shirt, anything."

It is curious.

"'e just attacked you."

"He was simply a young tough out for a little pleasure. There are those in this city who find it in violence."

"He was young? Did you see 'im clearly?"