Free The Secret Fiend by Shane Peacock Page A

reason” had not been taken seriously. The original report characterized the attack as a violent one, in which one young lady was temporarily absconded with, and languished, for a short while, near death. Now, this morning, comes several citizens’ reports, communicated directly to the office of
The Times
, of a second attack in a Clerkenwell alley in the early hours, where a similar fiend menaced a young woman. At press time, the Force had not commented.
    On his way home from school, Sherlock had waited outside Scotland Yard until young Lestrade came out the door. The boy followed him for at least a hundred yards. When the older lad paused, waiting for a chance to dart across the street between noisy omnibuses and hansom cabs, Sherlock had spoken softly into his ear.
    “Read
The Times
today?”
    Lestrade had bolted forward in front of a big coach, whose coachman shouted at him. “Do you WANT to be trampled, you idiot!”
    Sherlock couldn’t help but smile as Lestrade jumped back to the foot pavement and gathered himself.
    “That’s twice I’ve spooked you lately!”
    “I am in no mood for jokes.”
    “I am sure. Were you the police source?”
    “My lips are sealed.”
    “But they weren’t yesterday.”
    “Hobbs, that fool reporter, devious man – you have his acquaintance, I believe – sought me out and asked me about the incident as if he already had the facts.”
    “Which he did, such as they are.”
    “So it seems. I didn’t think to deny it until it was out of my mouth.”
    “One must always be dispassionate in police affairs, not let one’s desires, shall we say, one’s affections, alter one’s –”
    “Shut your mouth.”
    “Pursue cases because they are right to pursue, my friend, not because you care for anyone involved.”
    Lestrade sighs. “You are right. But I believe her story. It is worth pursuing.”
    “It must have been her who told
The Times
. She had to be the original source.”
    “No, she wasn’t. I asked her myself, this forenoon.”
    “How is your father?”
    “Livid.”
    “And how are you?”
    Sherlock can’t help liking the other boy, blundering youth that he is, but earnest and honest.
    “I have been better.”
    “Keep your chin up. A solution may be at hand.”

    Sherlock is all the way across Westminster Bridge now. This is going to be a longer trip than the one he made last night. Beatrice and Louise can’t take the narrow lanes and alleyways because that would truly make them vulnerable – too obvious a prey at which Crew could strike. No, the girls have been instructed to stick to the wider, brighter thoroughfares until just the right moment. Only then will Sherlock’s plan put them into a situation so perfectly tempting that the villain will not be able to resist. And when he strikes, so will Sherlock Holmes.
    As they leave the bridge, the wharfs, and flour mills visible on the south side of the river below, they enter Lambeth, east of Southwark. This is a mixed neighborhood filled with factories, theaters, slums, poor residences, and a few not so poor. Lambeth Palace, where the Archbishop of Canterbury lords it over the state religion is nearby, but so are hard-living tradesmen, dock workers, and Astley’s Theatre. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the girls.
    It takes them about half an hour to make their way along Westminster Road past the Female Orphan Asylum, through St. George’s Circus, and up Borough High Street.Never once do they veer off the main roads, and there is no sign of the fiend. The girls keep to themselves in these areas and move quickly. As they approach Mint Street, they turn into Sherlock’s old haunts, down a narrow lane.
    The boy rushes up to the corner and turns. The pair is just ahead, still unmolested. He pulls his horsewhip from his sleeve and grips it tightly. Crew will be well aware that this is the perfect place to strike. But the thug doesn’t appear. Sherlock follows the girls down several small streets, even an alleyway, all