The Dragon Turn (3 page)

“I see you have come forward in the world, my boy, a little, that is.” He examines Sherlock up and down, looking wary. “Stand aside … in fact, vacate the premises. You have no interests here as of this moment. This is police business, something you appear to have learned to stay out of.” He extends an arm and index finger back down the hallway toward the entrance.

“Police? What is this about?” asks Hemsworth.

Sherlock and Irene step aside and move back up the hallway. The policemen enter the dressing room and slam the door behind them. The instant they do, Sherlock pulls Irene back to Hemsworth’s door. He presses his ear to it.

“Collar him, gentleman!” exclaims Lestrade.

“Collar me! What is the meaning of this?”

“You, sir, are in police custody,” barks Lestrade Junior.

“I can see that! But for what crime?”

“For murder!”

Irene stifles a gasp and grips Sherlock’s arm.

“Murder? Of whom?”

“Does the name Nottingham ring a bell?” asks young Lestrade.

“You can’t be serious.”

“We are extremely serious. He was found dead this evening —”

“But I was here, performing!”

“Killed some three or four hours ago in a secret workshop, now identified as yours —”

“Mine! I have no such
secret
place!”

“— where you keep your instruments and hatch your trickery. He was killed in the most gruesome way.”

“H-How?”

“I suppose you must ask that question,” snaps the Inspector, “We … we aren’t sure how, but we will find out.”

“But then, why are —”

“He did not appear for his show this evening. We found his spectacles, clumps of his hair, his blood … bits of his flesh … and nothing else … in your enclave. We do not know what fiendish or magical thing you did, but we will get to the bottom of this. And we will find his body … if there is any more of it left to find.”

“But —”

“Take him away.”

Sherlock and Irene scramble back to the entrance. They hear the illusionist cry, “But why would I kill Nottingham?”

The young couple flies out the door.

“Mister Hemsworth,” replies Lestrade, as he steps into the corridor, “do you take me for a fool? All of London knows why.”

THE RIVALS

A
ll of London, indeed, knows why His Highness Hemsworth might want to murder the Wizard of Nottingham. The latter is (or at least, was) the greatest magician that England, perhaps the world, has ever seen. He has levitated people high into the air above his audiences, made an elephant vanish, and turned himself into the very form of one of his spectators. Every illusionist who walks the boards is jealous of him. But Alistair Hemsworth has a greater reason than all the others to want him dead.

Mrs. Hemsworth
.

Some two years ago, Nottingham had stolen her away from him, as though he were plucking a rabbit from a hat. The affair had thrilled London and filled the newspapers. Some say the Wizard mesmerized her; others that his handsome looks, his large and powerful frame, his fame, his charming ways and wealth, were all too much for her to resist. The Hemsworths were struggling in those days, and the adventurer, who had always left his wife at home in London while traveling, had just returned from his second-last trip to the Orient, and was making another attempt to
begin his theatrical profession in earnest. But there was no dragon in those days, just a fumbling magic act, drawing the few Londoners who wanted to see what tricks an adventurer might have up his sleeve.

No one thought it was a fair fight. Nottingham appeared to sweep her off her feet after their first meeting. His Highness had been a difficult husband to live with — there were rumors of domestic violence — she had her divorce within a year, and a new marriage a few weeks later. There was only one curious thing about it. Mrs. Hemsworth, while not unattractive and said to be “extraordinarily full of life,” was a relatively plain woman … and the dashing Nottingham, the ladies swore, could have any belle he wanted.

Sherlock tries to avoid eye contact with Irene as they walk briskly along Piccadilly Street toward the Bloomsbury area and the Doyle home. He knows what she is thinking. And she knows that he knows.

“Stop,” she finally says, gripping his arm and turning him toward her.

“Yes?”

“You know very well.”

“Irene, I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Her lower lip pouts out a little, her brown eyes grow large and look up at him. She is taking acting lessons with her singing instruction, and he can see that they are paying off. “Not even for me?”

“Why would I want to get involved in this?”

“Because you think he is innocent and you believe in justice.”

“I have no thoughts on his innocence or guilt, one way or the other.”

“But you sized him up. What sort of man is he?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sherlock! Tell me what you saw!”

He begins walking again, quickly, leaving her behind. But she hurries to catch up. Busy Leicester Square, filled with sounds and colors and people, appears up the street. Though the hour is getting later, things are still in full swing here. Gaily dressed single women parade about, looking to see which men they attract. Music comes from the theaters and coffee houses, there is a hum in the air, and that jingle of harnesses and clip-clop of hundreds of hooves. Irene comes even with him and puts her arm back through his. “You were saying?”

“Well … he is thirty-nine years old, left-handed, a native of Birmingham — north side — exceedingly vain, smokes cigars — West Indian variety —”

“But is he a murderer? When you looked into his eyes, what did you see?”

“I am not in the habit of judging others by looking into their eyes. One doesn’t build a murder conviction upon such trifles.”

“But you looked into his.”

“Uh … yes. And I saw nothing. He is a performer. You cannot judge them.”

“Is that why you have troubles with me?”

It is only too true.

“You are a
girl
, that’s the bigger problem.”

She smiles.

“I don’t think Alistair Hemsworth is a killer and not just because —”

“No, you think he is someone who can help you … who has been taken off to jail.”

She swallows, “I deserved that. I appreciate your candor … always have.”

“You had an opportunity and it suddenly vanished. He is out of circulation.”

“For a crime he vehemently denies committing.”

“They all do.”

“That’s not true. You forget how many criminals I have met, how many murderers. I think I know a guilty one when I see one. I have developed a sixth sense. It’s … a woman’s gift.”

“I have no such ethereal power. But I will admit that a woman’s intuition eludes me.”

“Frightens you, one might better say.”

“It isn’t scientific, not in any way, and therefore, not dependable.”

“I know what I heard and saw back there.”

“And you know that Nottingham stole his wife.”

“I admit that he has motivation, yes.”

“Which is an enormous factor in any crime.”

“But he seemed to be denying that this ‘secret’ place where Nottingham was found even belonged to him … and
they don’t have a body. A murder without a body? Answer me honestly: should that be a closed case?”

“I —”

Irene pulls him toward her and guides him out of the flow of pedestrians and up against the wall of a building. She moves closer, gently pressing against him. “This last fact intrigues you.”

“Well …”

“Look at me as you answer, Sherlock.”

He can’t do it. She is right about the missing body. It is a most fascinating feature and it indeed intrigues him, deeply so, has from the moment Lestrade mentioned it;
a death without a corpse and no murder weapon
.

“You don’t need to solve this. I’m not asking you to do that.” She presses even closer. “We could just see if the place is really Hemsworth’s, and you could show the police that they haven’t proved anything yet, put doubts in their minds … get His Highness out of jail for a while, at least?”

“
We
shouldn’t be doing anything. And even if I were to look into it, what you are suggesting would involve inspecting the crime scene and I’ve promised myself not —”

“For me?”

“I —”

“You are correct about my bias concerning this. It is important to tell the truth. You know I believe in that. Yes, I stand to benefit greatly from his being released. Guilty, as charged. But if he is wrongfully incarcerated, then no one benefits, and there is certainly no justice.”

“Irene —”

“And this will be a sensational case: the whole country will be intrigued. There’s been nothing like this since the Spring Heeled Jack was on the loose.”

Oh, that was well put. She is devilishly clever
. He feels his resistance crumbling.

“Be honest about your desires, Sherlock,” she says, putting her arms around his waist. “You want to do this … don’t you?”

“I —”

“Beyond everything, you need the adventure … because you, sir, are bored.”

Ah, another marvelous blow, well struck. She knows me too well
.

Boredom is like a monster to Sherlock Holmes, like a troll hiding beneath a bridge, waiting to attack him. It haunts him: he fears it as it approaches. He has been trying to keep the fact that he is bored out of his skull to himself. A boy, even a smart one like him, needs action. Thinking, reading about crimes, speculating, even moving about the city arm in arm with the irresistible Irene Doyle, just isn’t enough for him. Several times during the last eighteen months, he has almost chased after pickpockets he’s spotted plying their trade in the thick London crowds —
oh, to run them to the ground … and apply a little Bellitsu to their craniums! To see Malefactor again!

The brilliant young gang leader has vanished from the streets, his nasty Trafalgar Square Irregulars scattered. Once or twice recently Sherlock has seen Grimsby, on his own now, still looking dark and evil, not having grown an inch.
But the little villain always averts his gaze, turns away from him, and never looks to be on the job. Crew, the other lieutenant, big, blond and silent, with the ever-present deadness in his eyes of a cold-blooded killer, seems similarly disinterested. Sherlock has seen him standing in doorways down alleyways, on the watch … but never doing anything in the least incriminating.
How are they surviving? How do they make a living?
The boy hasn’t seen any of the other Irregulars, nor has he spotted the two lieutenants together, not since the moment he flushed Malefactor from his secret residence and ran him into hiding. All that remains of his old rival on the London streets is a sense of his presence. Sherlock feels it when he walks near Lincoln Inn’s Field, in the way Grimsby and Crew maintain a look of confidence and ease, as if they are still operating, or being operated by a ghostly hand and mind. In some ways, Sherlock fears Malefactor more than ever. He senses that the tall, sunken-eyed boy with the bulging forehead is still weaving his black magic, and will return … soon.

Irene has done her best to entertain him by being with him, by visiting the apothecary shop and conversing, or singing while he plays Bell’s violin. She also escorts him (or allows him to escort her) to the theater. Plays haven’t tended to intrigue him, unless there is an impossibly difficult crime to be solved — which he usually does halfway through, announcing the villain out loud, as if it were a trifle. It irritates Irene to no end. Low operas are better; violin concertos much better; circuses temporarily sublime; and magic shows supreme. But the very best time he ever had with Irene was the evening she took him to see Charles Dickens.

The legendary novelist was appearing at St. James’s Hall and the spectators were queued up outside, like cattle waiting to feed. The big theater held more than two thousand people and every space on the green benches was filled. Sherlock will always recall looking up at the beautiful gold-and-red ribbed ceiling, the overflowing balcony that wrapped around the hall, the stark stage before him with its simple backdrop and writing desk — all awaiting the immortal Dickens. The nation’s most famous man was about to display his extraordinary imagination, to become his marvelous characters before their very eyes —
Mr. Scrooge might appear
— to show England and the human race its soul.