The Dragon Turn (8 page)

Sherlock smiles and Irene notices.

“That is all we need, Miss Leckie,” replies Lestrade quickly. “They were enemies, Nottingham stole his wife, it is Hemsworth’s studio — we have a young witness who saw him enter many times — and it
is
his hat! Nottingham is missing — exploded to death or some such thing. Hemsworth has always envied the Wizard — he likely had the guillotine there to copy him, clothes like his for similar reasons. We have no doubt who our man is.”

“But Sherlock’s evidence seems worth investigating,” says Irene, taking her eyes from Beatrice and turning to Lestrade.

“Evidence? Speculation, I’d say! My father will laugh at it.”

Holmes gets to his feet and turns his back on the other boy. Irene isn’t pleased either. “Well,
I
think it’s enough to make you re-examine your evidence, to consider allowing Mr. Hemsworth temporary freedom … until you are certain.”

“Oh you do, do you? Scotland Yard does not!” Lestrade has had enough of Irene Doyle.

“Have you found Mrs. Nottingham yet?” asks Beatrice.

Lestrade is getting it from all sides. He glares at Miss Leckie and says nothing.

“That means no,” says Sherlock.

“That means you do not have the right to inquire,
any
of you!”

“But if she is missing, shouldn’t she be a suspect too?” asks Irene.

Lestrade is steaming. He gets to his feet.

“Might I simply ask you this?” inquires Holmes through his teeth, still looking away. “Who actually
owns
the studio? Hemsworth may live there, or perhaps Nottingham. We can look into that. But who
owns
it? Is it one of them? Surely, you have searched the records.”

“Yes, surely we have! And if you must know; if this will stop your pestering: it does
not
belong to Nottingham. His name is
not
on the ownership. Satisfied?”

“And Hemsworth’s is?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” asks Beatrice.

“Miss Leckie, it is
not
appropriate for you —”

“Whose is? Whose name is on record as the owner?” asks Irene.

“We believe it was being let to Hemsworth.”

“Let to him? From whom?” asks Irene.

Lestrade pauses again. “This is the last thing I will say and then you will all leave this to the proper authorities. The owner is someone who would have no motivation to murder Nottingham. He is a businessman, a Jew, named Riyah. We … cannot locate him at present.”

And with that, he leaves the shop.

BEHIND THE WALL

H
olmes knows he shouldn’t return to The World’s End Hotel that night. And he also knows why he’s doing it.

“You must go back, Sherlock,” said Irene not long after young Lestrade left the shop that morning. She had walked over and seated herself close to him. Until then, the two girls and the boy had been silent. “You need to fetch the hat. If you can, I am sure we could find a way to get the Lestrades to try it on His Highness’s head. My father might help.”

“It might not matter who helps. If Hemsworth is brought before the magistrates, our esteemed inspector might convince them that modeling the hat isn’t necessary, despite any pleas that we or even the solicitors for the defense might make. The police will point out that it was found in the accused’s workshop, that his initials are on it, and do so in the midst of presenting
all
that motivation. Any protestations would be waved off.”

“Then we have to get the hat onto his head
before
he is in court. Perhaps I could arrange a visit, sneak it in, and slip it to Hemsworth in his cell. Then we could force the
Lestrades to take a look. But whatever we do, we need that hat, and we need it now.”

“I suppose I —”

“Steal evidence from a crime scene?” asks Beatrice. “What would they do to you if you were found with it? You can’t afford to take this chance, Sherlock, not with everything going so well at school, with your ’opes for university. Perhaps there is another way.”

“And what way would that be?” asks Irene.

“Well … I could go. That ’otel is frequented by working-class folks, lots of people in the service. I wouldn’t stick out. People talk after they’ve ’ad a few drinks. I could learn more about this Jewish owner, about —”

“And you aren’t without charms, my dear, and can use them to get the keeper to talk? We need the hat.” She turns to the door. “I must be going. I must get to my audition.”

“But Sherlock,” pleads Beatrice, “you can’t —”

“You aren’t going there, Beatrice,” says Holmes firmly. “And you won’t be involved in any way either, Irene.
I
will take care of this.”

The boy is again bearing the knife and horsewhip when he leaves the shop. Bell is fast asleep, or so it seems. It is another misty night. As he drops over the gates at the Cremorne, this time making absolutely certain that no one is nearby, he wonders why he let Irene convince him to do this. Maybe he should have listened to Beatrice.
She is the one who has my best
interests at heart. Or is that true? How can I be certain, after what she did? Irene believes in justice and that’s why she is encouraging me. She’s more like me; she knows who I want to be, instead of who I was. And she is the dazzler of the two, no question
.

Sherlock becomes lost in his thoughts as he walks through the dark Cremorne jungle surrounded by the now-quiet, show-business venues. He smiles as he thinks of his remarkable female friend.

Why not live a little? Why not escort Miss Doyle about London? I couldn’t have dreamed of such a thing just a few years ago. She has a good heart too. She knows you have to take chances and stand up for what you believe in. She has made so much more of herself than she might have been, more than most girls dare. Irene believes in being truly alive. That’s what I want too
.

He has allowed himself to think so absent-mindedly about the girls in his life (always an error for a detective) that he doesn’t see Scuttle creep up behind him.

“Ass-sign with Scottish Yard again, sir?”

Sherlock nearly jumps from the Gardens into the River Thames. When he calms down, he thanks the stars that the little boy is whispering tonight.

“Yes, Master Scuttle, though we must be quieter this time.”

“I shall be as silent as the bedbugs infesticating my mattress.”

“You have a mattress?”

“Of a sort. I gets fresh horse dung each night and wraps it in straw from the Cremorne stables, I does.”

That would explain the smell
.

“Scuttle, would you be a good lad and stand guard tonight? One knock means someone is nearing, two means I must come immediately. Do it lightly.”

The small lad scratches his head. “Can you repeats that?”

Sherlock does.

“I thinks I ’ave it. But can I ’ave a badge?”

“No, Scuttle. We are —”

“Ah, yes, under the covers, of course. Excellence!”

“Ssshh.”

Sherlock’s hands are shaking so badly that it takes him a while to open the latch, but at last he is inside the workshop, closing the door gently behind him so it doesn’t creak. He takes a single, tentative step and listens carefully, not moving a muscle, not even lighting his candle. Just as on the previous night, he hears a sound. He stands stock still, holding his breath.
Pay attention to it this time. Where, exactly, is it coming from?
He doesn’t advance another step for a long while and slowly calms his breathing to the point where no one could detect it, unless they were inches from his face. Soon, he hears the sound again.
Faint footsteps?
He keeps still. Then there’s a different noise: a cough, a human cough in the distance, but somehow, not outside.
Somewhere to my left
. He treads silently toward it, each step carefully taken. The sound comes again. It is apparent that it isn’t originating from inside the room or from the hotel above.
How is that possible?
It’s like magic … or a ghost — a sound
with no origin or cause. This is a single, large room. There are no doors other than the secret back entrance, and another directly in front of him, which must lead up a staircase to The World’s End.
I can’t go up there
. The walls are made of stone: they are basement structures, thick and certainly forming the foundation of the building. The cough comes a third time. It is as if there is someone … or something … 
inside
the wall!

Sherlock takes a chance and lights his candle, gambling that the sound of the igniting Lucifer won’t be heard through the wall. He examines the shelves in front of him. They are filled with books. He scans them, noting the titles on the spines. The boy isn’t impressed. There are no Dickens novels, no Eliot, no Collins, no Virgil, no Greek myths or Shakespeare. Instead, they are about magic, or thin biographies and gossip about current stars of the stage, the circus, and sporting endeavors. But one title stops him.
The Existence of Dragons
. It is the thickest of all the volumes. He plucks it out, sets the candle down on the floor and turns to the first page. It is blank. He flips through the book.
That’s strange. Why is every page blank?
He stands up and replaces the book. The cough comes again, right in front of him … most definitely on the other side of the wall. He pulls the dragon book out again, holds the candle up and looks at the surface behind the shelf. There is an indentation there, a large, round indentation, and there is something not quite right about the wall surrounding it. He touches it.
It doesn’t feel like stone
. It is made of some sort of imitation material. He presses on the indentation. Nothing happens. He braces
himself against the bookcase and presses with all his might. He hears something, a sort of rumbling … a few strides to his left. He steps that way and sees a foot-and-a-half of space between the shelves.

The wall behind it is moving!

Sherlock darts into the space and through the opening. It slams shut behind him. He turns and searches along the imitation stone, but it’s sealed up again. Immediately, heavy breathing drifts through the dank air, and then the cough. It’s directly behind him. Clutching the blade inside his coat, he swings around and flashes the light toward it.

There!

A figure in a dark coat is blowing out a small candle on a table, rising from a chair and beginning to run away. It isn’t the keeper. Sherlock pursues it.

“You! … Scotland Yard!”

The boy is quickly aware that he is in a surprisingly large room, even bigger than the main part of the basement he has just come from. Here, unlike in the other space, the shelves are crammed full with tools of the magic trade — top hats, wands, shiny clothes, wigs, cages, cartons of cards, and caskets for body-severing tricks. They are piled high along all the walls. Sherlock recognizes many of the things that Nottingham used in his act.

The figure keeps fleeing. It seems to know where it is going. Holding up his candle, Sherlock can see a huge opening in the wall in the direction they are running, and what appear to be stairs descending from there.
Descending? To where? Another, deeper chamber?