The Devil’s Due. Bonnie Macbird

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      ‘Dark origins? But this is laughable, Holmes!’

      ‘To the rational, it is laughable.’

      ‘What does he mean, dark origins?’

      ‘To the gullible among his readers, and those are the majority, he implies my powers are otherworldly, devilish. For his more educated readers, he implies that I have deep ties to the criminal community. Either explanation is apparently easier to swallow than my use of scientific method, keen observation and hard work.’

      ‘Indeed. And the occasional flash of intuition, Holmes.’

      ‘One cannot count on that. In any case, Zanders is to be ignored. Even if he is having me followed. As indeed he is, at this very moment.’ He nodded behind us.

      I looked about but saw no one.

      Holmes stalked on. I had difficulty keeping up. While notorious for not caring about public opinion, Holmes knew better than to inflame a reporter. Dark clouds had moved in rapidly to blacken the sky, and no less the mood of my friend. He scowled and picked up his already furious pace.

      ‘Are you trying to shake him?’ I asked, referring to his supposed tail.

      ‘That will be difficult in the park. Just to exhaust him, perhaps.’

      ‘Well, you are exhausting me!’

      We continued a moment in silence. I was growing a bit winded.

      ‘You are out of training, Watson.’ He picked up his pace as if to challenge me further. ‘Rather more tiresome than Zanders is this fool Titus Billings at Scotland Yard!’

      ‘He does have some peculiar notions,’ I offered. ‘Slow down, please. In any case, you enjoy a challenge, Holmes.’

      He said nothing, and we continued in silence. He looked no less grim. The walk was not having the effect I had hoped.

      ‘Holmes, perhaps I join you at an inconvenient time.’

      ‘All I need is an interesting case, and the freedom to pursue it unimpeded!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing more!’ He glanced my way again and, with a look of contrition, added, ‘I am sorry, dear fellow. No, you are not inconvenient. Rather, in fact, most welcome. I might find bad humour overtaking me if you were not here.’

      ‘Bad humour? You?’ I laughed. Holmes favoured me with one of his quick smiles. We proceeded in silence. Our relative peace did not last long. As we drew nearer to the northern end of Hyde Park, I began to discern the sound of a crowd, chanting something unintelligible in unison. We approached the fabled Speakers’ Corner, and a loud and melodious voice pierced the chill November air, followed by another unison crowd response.

      We came upon a makeshift dais of several wooden boxes on which stood a tall, muscular figure garbed in the long black coat, wide-brimmed hat, and white collar of a pastor. His was a handsome face, rather more sun-darkened than one associates with a London man of the cloth (but perhaps he had served his church in southern climes, I thought). Despite his sober clothing, there was something of the salesman to the fellow.

      His words enthralled a highly animated crowd of nearly one hundred people. ‘We must give up our vanity, give up our greed, give up our lust,’ he exhorted. ‘Because the Devil is always near. We must be on the lookout. For the Devil walks among us. Who walks among us?’

      ‘The Devil walks among us,’ responded the crowd.

      ‘Who walks among us?’ he shouted.

      ‘The Devil walks among us!’ the group responded, louder this time. I paused to listen, fascinated with the hypnotic effect this man was having upon the crowd. ‘We must be on our guard,’ insisted the object of their attention. ‘We must seek him out and destroy him. Frighten him with your voices. Louder now! Where does the Devil walk?’

      ‘The Devil walks among us!’ shouted the crowd.

      This must be the kind of ‘tent preacher’ I had read of, roaming the American South. A rabble-rouser, to my mind.

      Holmes stiffened and I followed his gaze to a garishly dressed young man, clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and an eager, hungry face. He had arrived on the periphery of the crowd opposite us, scanning the scene. As I watched, he took out a small notebook and pen. He glanced our way.

      ‘Holmes, is that—?’

      ‘Zanders? Yes.’ Holmes turned to regard the speaker with a strange expression, perhaps irony. He shrugged. ‘Come along, Watson, we burn daylight.’

      ‘Look for him always. And what must we be?’ cried the speaker.

      ‘On our guard!’ shouted the crowd.

      I could not tear myself away. Something about this scene and this speaker utterly fascinated me. I grasped Holmes’s arm. ‘Look at those white lines around his fingers! Many rings, I should think. What preacher would adorn himself so?’ I felt sure Holmes would compliment me on my keen observation.

      ‘None, Watson. His name is James Fardwinkle and he runs a pickpocketing ring out of Holborn. I have had him arrested twice, but he is something of a greased hog. The police cannot take hold. Let us move along.’

      I laughed. ‘Indeed! Look—!’ A young boy wove through the crowds, pausing to artfully extract a billfold from a pocket. He began to approach us but then, noting my challenging stare, he changed course. In a moment, he dipped into a woman’s reticule, removing several pound notes.

      ‘Stop, thief!’ I shouted.

      ‘Watson!’ Holmes whispered.

      The speaker swivelled to glare at me directly, his face melting into a theatrical portrayal of hurt innocence. But as he recognized Holmes standing next to me, a transformation came over it, which sent a chill down my spine.

      ‘That was not wise,’ murmured Holmes, looking down and adjusting his Homburg to cover his face.

      ‘There’s a policeman right over there.’ I gestured to a constable standing off to one side, presumably monitoring the situation. ‘Fardwinkle can hardly weasel out now. Police!’ I cried.

      ‘We must be off now,’ said Holmes, seizing my arm with an iron pinch.

      ‘Will you know the Devil when you see him?’ shouted Fardwinkle. The preacher was staring at me, or rather us. He raised an arm and pointed it at Holmes. ‘I can. I do. The Devil is standing here among us.’

      The crowd turned to look at us. Their gaze focused on Holmes. Admittedly, his gaunt pallor, intensity and swirling black coat were not at that moment helping to portray the angel of justice I knew him to be.

      I would not let this situation intimidate us. ‘You are an utter charlatan!’ I found myself shouting at Fardwinkle. ‘Watch your pockets, ladies and gentlemen!’ Turning to Holmes, I said, ‘How can this crowd be so gullible?’

      Holmes shook his head but did not release my arm.

      ‘There he is. The Devil. The Devil in the flesh! You know what to do!’ The speaker continued to point at Holmes.

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