The Dragon Turn (6 page)

Sherlock finds the door. It sits at the bottom of a long set of stone stairs, well below ground. He gingerly descends on the wet slabs. At first, he thinks the door has no handle or latch, no way to penetrate from the outside; but searching in the moss, his fingers find a keyhole. Out comes his knife, and within moments, feeling around in the hole as he’s seen Malefactor teach his minions to do, he springs the inside latch.

Though the boy is trying to remain calm, he is almost beside himself with excitement. He has forgotten how thrilling it is to be this close to murder, injustice, and danger. He feels a sort of euphoria waft over him, the kind of sensation he imagines the apothecary’s patients must experience when they take their medications: their mixtures of cocaine or laudanum. They always become so happy.

The door, of course, creaks as it opens. Sherlock stands at the threshold, listening. For a moment, he thinks he can hear someone, or something (for it sounds a good size), breathing. Either he is imagining it, or the thing stops, for soon there is silence. All he can hear now is the crows outside.

He steps inside and closes the door. It is pitch black. He’s had the presence of mind to bring a candle, and a Lucifer
from Sigerson Bell’s match jar, both of which he now draws from a pocket. He strikes the Lucifer and the moldy air is filled momentarily with the smell of phosphorus and lit by an intense flame, which then lessens. He lights the candle and looks about.

It is just a single chamber, but enormous; a cavernous workshop with stone walls, perfect for a magician who needs room to practice tricks, especially the large, showstoppers that Hemsworth has always tried to enact.
No one could hear you down here either
. It’s open in the center, as if cleared for space. The walls are lined with thick wooden tables, almost bare, except for a few items, unidentifiable at first, in the dim light. Sherlock moves toward them with his candle and, as he does, his peripheral vision catches a glimpse of something on the floor. He stops dead in his tracks and almost cries out. At his feet are streaks of red, then a congealed puddle, a pair of spectacles, and what almost looks like small, dried pieces of flesh. The boy gulps.
The remains of Nottingham, left untouched because the police investigation is ongoing
. He examines where everything is positioned. It almost looks to him like this was staged. He goes around the blood and over to the tables. On the one directly in front of him, closest to the murder scene, sitting between a dark tropical plant and a pot of maturing mushrooms, he finds a top hat. He looks at the band inside the lid and sees the initials
A.H
. imprinted there.

That is indeed a telling piece of evidence. Hemsworth’s hat is so close to the blood. They have him, almost literally, red-handed. But why would he leave his topper here, for the police to find? Was he interrupted during the act and had to flee? Was
he too overwrought, not thinking straight, during his crime of passion?
Sherlock glances at the little flecks of flesh.
How, in God’s name, did he do this?

He picks up the hat and examines it.
Rather large
. When he was younger, he had briefly believed in the art of phrenology — the examination of skull sizes and peculiarities in order to size up the intelligence of individuals. A bump in one area might mean talent in the arts, another elsewhere, perhaps an aptitude for alchemy. He has long since rejected this pseudo-science, mostly at the insistence of Sigerson Bell, who has taught him that it is the brain, not the skull, one must examine. And the size of the brain is not all that is important either: intelligence is a deep and abiding mystery. Sherlock has noticed how some people use phrenology to say terrible things about other races — find a few Africans with small heads, for example, and you have proof of their inferiority. But the boy has never lost his interest in skull size — observe
everything
, his scientist father taught him — and this is helpful when pondering which hats might fit particular heads. He frowns at this large lid now, remembering Hemsworth’s modest skull. He sets it down, wishing he had the accused in front of him.

Then he examines the room more closely, and what he discovers only adds to his questions … and suspicions.

One of the many shows Irene Doyle has taken him to see over the past year and a half was a performance of the unmatched skills of the Wizard of Nottingham upon The Egyptian Hall stage. They saw him guillotine a woman and then bring her back to life, vanish in front of their
eyes, and read the minds of reputable men in the audience. Nottingham did everything with a showmanship and deftness that was, Sherlock imagined, unparalleled in the world of show business. But even at such events, Holmes was ever the detective-in-training. He made it is his business to memorize everything about Nottingham — the color of his hair, the way it was combed, the size of his skull (a lovely big one), the turn of his nose, the tint of his spectacles, and the clothes he wore.

Now, as he examines Alistair Hemsworth’s “secret studio,” he finds a few pieces of clothing that match Nottingham’s stage costumes lying on the tables, a couple of props identical to those used in his acts sitting on the shelves above, and standing in a corner … a guillotine. Hemsworth had not used such an instrument during his act.

But Sherlock’s intrigue is immediately arrested. There is only one window in this cavern, and it is tiny, just inches tall, with an iron bar crossing it, right up near the ceiling. One might stand on one’s tiptoes on a stool and look out, but outsiders could never see in through its narrow, thick glass.

Holmes spots a light flash in the window, swaying back and forth, like the effect a lantern would have if it were being carried. The light is moving around the side of the hotel … toward the back.

Is someone coming in the direction of the secret door?

Sherlock scrambles away, almost slipping on the blood, and makes for the entrance. As he does, he thinks he hears something again, something moving, not in the room, but somewhere near. There’s no time to pause. He is at the
door and has it open in seconds. He closes it with a bang so the latch will lock, and takes three wet steps at a time up the stairs.

“Who goes there!” shouts someone. It isn’t Scuttle. It’s a man.

By the time he gets to the top of the stairs and feels his feet on the moist grass, he thinks he is safe. But an arm reaches out from the trees and seizes him.

“Got you! Your name, sir?”

Sherlock looks into the face that is glaring at him.
A businessman of some sort, working class, hotel industry, awakened from his sleep, forty-five years old
. The man is a good two or three inches taller than him and the boy can tell by his grip that he is as strong as an ox. He wears big Wellington boots and a black bowler hat … and a red dressing gown covers the rest of him.

“My name?”

The man’s face is adorned with a dark brown mustache and goatee. It and his hair are disheveled. He has indeed been roused from his bed.

“Leopold Leotard.”

Both the man and Sherlock turn in the direction of the little figure who has just spoken.

“Master Scuttle, do you know him?”

“Yes, sir, I does. And a right fine gentleman ’e is. I will voucher for him.”

“I pay you to watch my place, you young scamp, and I won’t look kindly on you allowing anyone near here, especially now amidst all this kerfuffle.”

“Yes, my keeper, sir, I am on alertment at all times. I knows this lad, this Leopold …”

“Leotard. You said ‘Leotard,’ didn’t you? But … wasn’t he that flying-trapeze star, who got the ladies all aflutter a few years back?”

“Uh … that was that gentleman’s name too, sir, yes it was. And a wery important man in our civilization, sir. The sensation of London at the time, and of the world now. This ’ere gentleman just happens to have the same name, though ’e might ’ave ’ad relations with ’im.”

They both turn to Sherlock.

“No, gentleman, I am no relation to Monsieur Leotard, though I am flattered that we bear the same family name.”

“What were you doing here, Mr.… Leotard?”

“ ‘e was just strollin’, sir. Said ’e ’ad trouble sleeping. We ’ad a chat, sir, just as I gab with the most famous folks who —”

“Yes, Scuttle, I know, you converse with famous people and become acquainted.”

“Cross my ’eart, I does.”

“Thank you, Scuttle, now be on your way.”

“Right, sir. A blissful good evening to both of you nubile gentlemen.”

Scuttle, who notices that the hotel keeper is examining Sherlock, winks at his new friend before disappearing into the mist toward his rude bed.

“My name is Harrison Starr, Master Leotard, or whatever your name is, and if I find you anywhere near here at night again, I shall call the constabulary and have you put in
irons. There are things occurring here that you know nothing of, boy, and you had best avoid. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, I do, sir.”

The man shoves him in the direction of the Cremorne’s main gate. Sherlock turns to face him.

“Sir, I must say that whatever you may think of me, I am impressed with you.”

The man sighs. “How so?”

“You pay that poor boy.”

“Hardly pay.”

“What do you mean?”

“I give him scraps from the hotel tables. He is an idiot with an intelligence barely exceeding that of my bull mastiff …”

“Might I ask another —”

“… which, I shall set upon you if I
ever
see you again … even in broad daylight upon the street!”

IRENE TO THE RESCUE

S
herlock is awakened the next morning by a startling but enjoyable vision — the face of Irene Doyle. Her big brown eyes are within inches of his. For a moment, he simply smiles, assuming it is a dream. But when he reaches out to take her face in his hands, the soft skin and cascading blonde tresses feel real. He leaps to his feet, smacking his head against the top of his wardrobe. Irene doesn’t budge, in fact, her smile grows.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes, any news?”

Sherlock is wrapping his oversized nightshirt around his torso, looking down to make sure there are no holes in this worn-out gift from Sigerson Bell.

“Where … where is my master?”

“Out of doors early this morning. Said he had an emergency appointment. He noted that you often oversleep, especially on Sundays, and told me to go ahead and wake you.”

Sherlock frowns. He can imagine the old man laughing all the way down Denmark Street.

The boy seizes his black trousers and white shirt from a nearby stool, takes them into the wardrobe and slams the doors behind him. He struggles as he tries to get them on in
the tight space. He had once allowed a frightened girl named Beatrice Leckie — who used to be his friend — into the lab in the middle of the night, and Irene had actually picked the lock and stolen in another time. On each occasion, he was required to greet them in his nightshirt!
Why are these females constantly barging into my bedroom?

“You haven’t answered me, Sherlock.”

“What did you ask, Miss Doyle?”

“Any news?”

“Of what?”

“Sherlock, get out of that stupid wardrobe immediately and speak to me. Do you think the sight of a boy’s bare chest will shock me?”

Two years ago, yes. Now, unfortunately, no, not at all
.

She swings open the doors. Neither his trousers nor his shirt are done up. He puts his back to her.

“Turn around, Irene.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Turn around!”

She obeys, though she peeks at him, noting that Sherlock, though still very slim, has put some meat on his bones. Irene is wearing a gorgeous purple dress, which flows to the floor and down her arms to the wrists, where the silk is trimmed with bands of black velvet. She is obviously
not
going to church this Sabbath. She has been a little ahead of fashions for the last few years, and this dress sticks out at the back, at her rear end, in fact, the effect created by something called a bustle. It is the “coming thing” for young ladies in the know.

The boy finally finishes and allows her to turn around. Her appearance, in full view, is stunning, even more so than he is used to.

“I … I …”

She looks down at herself. The dress is cut a little low on the chest. For a moment, she actually blushes all the way from her face, along her neck, to her visible collarbones, and the old Irene is momentarily standing in front of Sherlock. But she gathers herself.

“Oh, this thing,” she says, glancing at it. “Father is livid about me wearing it, especially on a Sunday morning. I understand, but it is really more of a costume than anything else: I am to sing this afternoon for Mr. George Leybourne, no less. He wants to hear me, and I can’t miss the chance. I will be back at church next week. But never mind that, what is your news?”

“I went there.”

“You did?”

Sherlock isn’t giving her his full attention. He is hungry, a constant state for him these days. The old man usually has something edible in the icebox. The boy creaks open the door and looks inside. There it is. It isn’t exactly breakfast fare, but he doesn’t care.