"Walk with me."

She must have come alone, not a rare thing for this remarkable girl. She puts her arm through his and they move northward, up St. Martin's Lane, past the church. Irene Doyle has never been afraid to be seen in public with Sherlock Holmes. He has always appreciated that. Others stare after them, but she doesn't take notice.

They talk about politics. At least, she does. She despises Alfred Munby, but admires Disraeli, the Liberal Gladstone even more, and Bright and Hide the most. She believes that women should vote. Before they know it, they are on Montague Street, nearing her house.

"I am sorry for the way I have treated you," he says.

A pink glow comes to her cheeks.

"I understand."

"You do?"

"Well, I'm trying."

"Thank you."

"Would you like to come in?"

"I'm sure your father wouldn't "

"He isn't home. He's out with Paul." There's a bitter tone in her voice.

"Then I shouldn't be inside. There would just be the two of us."

They had been alone in the house before, but that had been out of absolute necessity, when he was an escapee from jail, running for his life. It wouldn't be proper for him to be there now, not with a young lady of Irene's standing.

"Sherlock, this is a new day. If I want to have a gentleman in my home, I shall do so."

There is something in her expression that disturbs him. It isn't just her clothes that announce a new Irene. As he's walked with her today, he has been acutely aware of how completely she is changing Miss Doyle is going to be a different sort of woman than he once imagined. She is becoming as bold and as expressive as her dress. In her conversation, he can feel her anger about life about the time her father spends with her stepbrother, about women's roles, about not being allowed to state her true feelings, about being held down.

"d.a.m.n my father and brother," she says.

He gapes at her.

"Just being silly," she giggles. "Shocking word, isn't it?"

Sherlock goes in with her. They sit on the old settee where they used to lounge, and John Stuart Mill, her ga.s.sy little Corgi dog, waddles up to him and stretches out nearby. Holmes hopes the little mutt can keep his flatulence to himself.

Irene talks non-stop. It is as if she has been holding a flood of emotions back, and they are finally bursting forth. She says she loves little Paul, but that her father is soft in the head about him, attached to him as if Paul were the reincarnation of her dead brother.

"That's fine, if that's what he wants to do. It is time for me to cut the ap.r.o.n strings and be independent anyway. I am ready to be a new woman. He speaks of encouraging that sort of thing, but I doubt he wants me to be truly independent. I am sick of spending all all my time helping him with his work. Not that I don't support him, but he is so removed from reality, even though he thinks he isn't. He doesn't really understand the unfortunate. He looks down on them from above and tries to get them to help themselves when that is often quite ridiculous. I would rather be truly close to them, understand them. Mr. Hide comes from a less-than-savory background. They say his father was a criminal, but he reformed. It makes him very authentic. I want to be like that, somehow. I want to live a real life, connected to my feelings. I am learning a great deal from Malefactor. I think I am beginning to gain his trust." my time helping him with his work. Not that I don't support him, but he is so removed from reality, even though he thinks he isn't. He doesn't really understand the unfortunate. He looks down on them from above and tries to get them to help themselves when that is often quite ridiculous. I would rather be truly close to them, understand them. Mr. Hide comes from a less-than-savory background. They say his father was a criminal, but he reformed. It makes him very authentic. I want to be like that, somehow. I want to live a real life, connected to my feelings. I am learning a great deal from Malefactor. I think I am beginning to gain his trust."

Sherlock has to bite his tongue.

"Oh, I know you hate him. I know you think he wants to hurt you."

"He does, Irene."

"Not if you don't confront him." She slaps him playfully on the shoulder. "I have learned more about him. That's why I am sure I can change him. I know you know that his family pulled themselves up from nothing, and then lost everything. But did you know that he was a brilliant student too, a mathematical whiz who could have been a professor in any university?"

"It doesn't matter what he could have been. He chose otherwise."

"Yes he did, but he can turn back too. He could be such a positive force."

"I doubt it."

"I know you do. You have an old-fashioned view of someone's ability to change. He has spoken to me of his admiration for you, what do you think of that?"

"That he is using you."

She frowns. "You give me little credit, like most men do women. I am not naive. I understand his evil tendencies, believe me. I shall alter him, bit by bit, before he harms you. And he is changing me."

Sherlock feels ill at ease.

"He has encouraged me to be myself, to not be the good little girl who simply accepts everything her father wants her to be."

"Is he encouraging you to commit crimes?"

"I shall ignore that comment. He is encouraging me to enjoy life, and to, among other things, explore my interest in singing. It connects me to my soul. You heard me sing, once."

"You are suited for better things."

"You sound like your grandparents."

"Pardon me?"

"Isn't that what they said to your mother? Didn't they try to hold her down? Didn't she love your father even though he wasn't deemed suitable suitable for her? Didn't she give her life to their love, their marriage?" for her? Didn't she give her life to their love, their marriage?"

He knows she is right.

"How well did I sing?"

"Uh ..." he recalls her beautiful voice, her racy song, "... very well."

"I may actually take to the stage. I'm guessing that more than surprises you. But I want to do something different, and it is a worthwhile life, not disreputable as old-thinking sn.o.bs feel. The theater will be properly respected in the future it not only addresses issues, explores true human emotions, it makes folks happy. Malefactor knows people who know people in the profession powerful people. Perhaps I will go to America in a few years, create a whole new existence for myself, a whole new biography to put in the play programs and papers. Did you know that I had a wild American upbringing?"

She laughs, but Sherlock doesn't.

"I shan't marry someone my father chooses, either. I will marry whom I I choose ... or perhaps I won't marry at all! There is so much fun to be had." choose ... or perhaps I won't marry at all! There is so much fun to be had."

Sherlock frowns.

"Oh, Master Holmes, you are so straightlaced! You need to bend a little. I am learning to, so can you. No matter what happens, I will still be me."

"I have a career path too, Irene. I think it not only worthwhile, but absolutely necessary. It is what I am destined to do."

"Then we both have our goals."

"You are under the influence of a blackguard."

"I am under the influence of myself, and a bad boy is not necessarily an evil one. Sometimes they are the most fun of all. But I tell you, Sherlock Holmes, I still know what is right and wrong. I will always help others, in my own way."

"Malefactor is fun?"

"Yes, fun. Shall I sing for you?"

"But the last time I heard you, you "

"Didn't want to? I was shy about it, wasn't I? You will see I have changed. Just sit there and listen."

She stands up and tosses her hair. She begins to sing in that gorgeous voice he heard from the window at Christmas time last year. It is a love song, just as bold as the first one. She moves about in front of him, expressing the words with her actions. He feels uncomfortable, but also drawn in. The way she walks, lifts her arms, sticks out her hips, all makes him excited inside, though he tries to hide it. But when she lifts her dress to display her leg all the way up to her knee, he averts his gaze. She keeps smiling at him, looking right at him, making him look back, her face so happy it seems she will break down and laugh.

I have a secret deep in my heartA little surprisingAnd a little smartI enjoy a cigarI want to go farAh, there's so much blissIn a stranger's kiss Sherlock has sneaked into penny theaters before, heard comic belters sing rough songs, listened at the Royal Opera House to great voices with his mother ... but he has never heard anyone sing like Irene Doyle. It isn't perfect, it isn't trained, but it conveys exactly what it intends.

And then she does it.

As she reaches the finish, she struts right up to him, places one of her heeled boots on the arm of the settee, leans down to him, bending like an acrobat ... and kisses him ... on the mouth. Her lips feel warm and a shock goes through him, starting in his chest and going down to his stomach. He knows he should pull away but he sits there and receives it. Only when she is done and smiling at him, does he jump to his feet.

"Irene!"

"I want to live live, Sherlock. And I will."

MALEFACTOR'S MIGHT Sherlock Holmes isn't the sort who looks forward to Friday as the best day of the week he actually enjoys school, or at least he has for the past year. That is especially true the next day. The pressure from Beatrice and Sigerson Bell and in a sense, Lestrade to be involved with the Spring Heeled Jack case, vanishes when he reaches Snowfields. So do Malefactor and his threats, and for the most part, the irresistible attractions of Irene Doyle. It is such a relief. He can just relax and learn, knowing that his growth here is a key to his future. Only once or twice does he find himself thinking about Irene. He recalls that kiss. What she had said just before made a good deal of sense ... in a way. Perhaps he is on the wrong path, is too stiff and narrow thinking. He has begun to wonder if he could, indeed, resume his friendship with her. She is becoming wayward. Perhaps she needs him. Perhaps they need each other?

By the end of the day, the headmaster is so pleased with Sherlock's work that he says he will clean and lock up on his own. He tells the boy he can go a little early. Holmes heads out, actually whistling a tune, unaware that it's the one he heard yesterday afternoon from the lips of Miss Irene Doyle.

His father, a scientist, taught him how to be an observing machine, and Sigerson Bell has taken the teaching even further. The old man likes to instruct him to be alert about everything at all times, including being attacked.

"You know the expression, my boy, have eyes in the back of your head? You, sir, if you are going to proceed with this future of yours, must have eyes everywhere: in the back of your legs, your spine, your hands, even peering out from your derriere! Learn to see, feel, hear, smell, and taste simultaneously and at all times. Be ever vigilant! It is a tenet of the Bellitsu pract.i.tioner!"

But Sherlock is so carefree after this happy school day that he leaves Snowfields, whistling that tune, without the least sense of vigilance. It is a decidedly unusual state for him, but he is enjoying it. He doesn't play any mental games as he strolls, doesn't try to exercise his brain. Instead, the powerful mind of Sherlock Holmes is startlingly blank.

And that, it turns out, isn't a good thing.

There are many alleys winding out from the little lanes near the school. Other than the railway station, Snowfields itself, a workhouse, and a few broken-down residences, this is an industrial area. Tradesmen are everywhere. They dump things in these alleys.

He doesn't notice the two smallish working-cla.s.s men with their caps pulled down coming toward him until they have actually gripped him by both arms and lifted him into the air. In seconds, he is pinned against the wall at the back of an alley that takes a sharp turn after it leaves the street. He is out of view of pedestrians.

And the two hardworking "men" who are now slamming him against the wall ... are in disguise. Irregulars! Irregulars! He looks up and sees Malefactor walking toward him with Crew and Grimsby on either side. The boss carries a big iron bar about four feet long. All three begin to remove their coats. Malefactor motions for the two who hold Holmes to leave. He looks up and sees Malefactor walking toward him with Crew and Grimsby on either side. The boss carries a big iron bar about four feet long. All three begin to remove their coats. Malefactor motions for the two who hold Holmes to leave.

"Stand by the entrance. Do not let anyone come in here."

He turns back to Holmes, looking angry, so angry that he is shaking.

"If you live through this beating, you will know how to conduct the rest of your life. And it shan't be as any sort of detective! If you do not live, I apologize to the fishes in the Thames for such a scrawny meal."

Grimsby lets out a cackle. His face is red and he is perspiring. He smiles like a lad about to enter a circus. He can barely contain his excitement. Beside him, Crew is impa.s.sive.

"I told you I would kill you, Sherlock Holmes. There will be little interest in a search for an insignificant half-breed like you. Lestrade will be happy to ignore it: your childish compet.i.tion with Scotland Yard has given me such such an opportunity. This ... is a free kill!" an opportunity. This ... is a free kill!"

Sherlock can see he means it and is suddenly terrified. His stomach burns, his heart begins to race, and he feels as though he may be sick or soil himself. This is how it is going to end for me. Child of a poor Jewish man ... and a beautiful English lady, dead at age fourteen, nothing accomplished. This is how it is going to end for me. Child of a poor Jewish man ... and a beautiful English lady, dead at age fourteen, nothing accomplished.

"If you struggle, it will go worse with you."

"I will beat you with my fists, Jew-boy," growls Grimsby, "but if you calls out, I will smash your 'ead against that wall until your brains spill. The boss is going to break your legs and your arms and your ribs with that there railway bar. Take the blows that bust your bones and 'e may just leave you crippled ... maybe!" He giggles again.

"What have I done? I'm not involved in anything!" cries Sherlock. He is almost weeping. "That report in the papers was "

"I told you that chaos was good for me. The Greek myths, Christianity, even your Jewish lies, say the world began in utter chaos. That's our natural state. We should return to it. I admire the chaos theories in mathematics about numbers and equations spinning out of control. If you knew of them, you wouldn't.... You like order."

"I am doing nothing, now! I am refusing people who want me to help. I promise you!"

"He's afraid, Master, he's afraid!" Grimsby is jumping up and down, a vein protruding out on his forehead. Quivering, Holmes sets himself as best he can against the little villain, turning his hips toward him. But as he does, Crew comes up and grabs the boy's arms, wrenching them behind his back. Sherlock can smell the dye in his hair. He is a powerful boy indeed. Before Holmes can try to bring Crew down with a Bellitsu move, Grimsby has released a punch, aiming for the solar plexus, intending to start proceedings by rendering Sherlock helpless. Holmes has but an instant to tighten his abdomen.

"My boy!" cried Sigerson Bell just last week. "Should you ever be in the unenviable position of receiving a blow to the midsection, or a punch in the gut, as it were ... you are out of luck!" The old man had laughed so hard that tears had come to his eyes. "Just playing the fool, Master Holmes, playing the fool. Now ... strike me!"

And with that, he invited the boy to pound him in the abdomen. Sherlock tapped him lightly and the old man yelled at him to do it harder, whereupon Holmes added a slight bit of power to his blow, whereupon the apothecary cursed the boy with a truly revolting epithet something to do with his ancestors resembling the refuse of a particularly repulsive beast thus angering the lad so that he struck his old friend with everything he had ... and discovered that he couldn't harm him. Sigerson Bell's gut, when engaged, was as hard as the pillars of St. Paul's Cathedral.

"Clench the abdominal muscles at precisely the right moment, my child! And actually step into the blow! It is an art in itself!"

Sherlock attempts to employ it as Grimsby delivers his punch, which arrives in a split second. His stomach muscles are barely locked and hardened, and he has only begun to move toward the flying fist, but it is enough. Holmes doesn't buckle; he doesn't lose all the air in his body; he isn't left lying on the ground. Grimsby is astonished.

"Stand back!" commands Malefactor. Though the iron bar is heavy, he swings it as though it were a twig. Sherlock doesn't have time to be amazed at his enemy's strength. Digging in his heels, he shoves Crew back and is able to move him a few inches. The bar misses and connects with the wall, right in front of his thigh bone, making a dull clanging noise and chipping out a piece of stone.

Crew, pushed up against the wall by Holmes' maneuver, shoved so hard that most opponents would have buckled, doesn't flinch, doesn't utter a sound. His body feels as hard as the stone wall itself.

"Things are heating up in this city and that is good for my ventures," says Malefactor, pulling the bar from the wall. "Were I to allow you to have a healthy body and mind, you would soon not be able to resist being involved in chasing my Spring Heeled Jacks again! We have the Bobbies pre-occupied. But you would change that! After I warned you, you still kept interfering. You have proven to me that I must eliminate you. This is the perfect time to do it. You know too much about me, far too much! You are a thorn in my side, Sherlock Holmes, and if I do not stop you now ... you will always be!" He glances at Crew. "Ready him!"

Crew swings Holmes around, cracking his head against the wall. The blinding pain shivers through his body right down to his toes. Crew swings him back and Malefactor lifts the iron bar to strike, to break his right thigh bone.

But the blow never comes. Someone clutches the weapon on the back swing.

The Spring Heeled Jack!

Its wings are widespread.

While both Grimsby and Crew gape at it, Malefactor turns and boots it in the midsection, knocking it across the alley and onto the ground.

"You are a fool!" cries the crime boss and advances toward it. It lies there gasping, one of its arms folded across its chest, as if wrapped in a sling inside its costume.

"Police!" it shouts. "POLICE!" That freezes the criminals. Malefactor motions and all three run.

"The next time, you will be dead!" Malefactor shouts at Sherlock.

The alley grows quiet. Only the sounds in the streets outside are heard, the distant buzz of Southwark.