The Dragon Turn (7 page)

“Blood pudding?” he asks Irene. She gives him the look of someone who has just been asked to eat a tasty serving of vomit.

“Some tea, then?”

She nods her head, and he takes the oozing, bright red sausages from the ice box and begins to make a repast. But she keeps him on the subject.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You are the most irritating —”

“It isn’t Hemsworth’s workshop.”

Her eyes grow large. “Honestly?”

“I think it is Nottingham’s. I found a guillotine, clothes that look similar to what he wore the night we saw him at The Egyptian Hall, a few identical stage things … and Hemsworth’s hat.”

“Oh, no.”

“Right near the blood and spectacles.”

“
Right
beside them? But why would he leave it there? Isn’t that a little suspicious?”

“I thought so too, Miss Doyle.” Sherlock lights a bunsen lamp and places three blood sausages in a pan on a tripod over it. He lights a second lamp and boils the tea. “And it’s too big for him.”

“What?”

“The hat: it has his initials on it, but it looks awfully large for him.”

“That
is
interesting.”

“But not something I can prove. I would have to place it on his head.”

“So, why can’t —”

“What chance do you think I have of doing that? And I might be … wrong.”

“But if the studio is Nottingham’s, then there are important flaws in the Yard’s case.”

“Maybe.”

“Why were they so sure that it belonged to Hemsworth?”

“Young Lestrade says they have evidence.”

“Of what sort?”

“Found at the scene of the crime.”

“They must mean the hat. But that isn’t enough, especially if it doesn’t fit Hemsworth. If you can prove to them that everything else in the studio belongs to Nottingham, then you can create some doubt … and then get them to try the hat on —”

“Remember, it has Hemsworth’s initials on it. It is a long shot, at best. And young Lestrade won’t listen to me anyway, not about something like this. His father made the arrest and won’t go back on it without irrefutable evidence. His son won’t try to budge him, you can count on that. He is awfully ambitious these days and won’t rock the boat on this one, believe me. Even though it’s a Sunday, I’ll wager he is at Scotland Yard right now, working on the case, filing papers without even the Inspector’s knowledge.”

She smiles. “The young detective will listen to
me
though. Did you not see his reaction when we met at the theater?”

Yes, he was smitten, Irene, as is every male who meets you. You didn’t used to be so aware of that
.

“We shall use
all
the weapons we have at our disposal, Sherlock … to fight for justice. We’ll have Hemsworth out of jail in no time!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I will be back within the hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Scotland Yard.”

She is out the door before he can protest. But within moments, there is a knock. He grins, assuming she has reconsidered, realizing the futility of her attempt; that even her charms will do no good at the Metropolitan London Police Headquarters. He opens the door without looking through the peephole.

“Irene, I —”

“Irene? Who’s she?”

It’s Beatrice Leckie.

OUTNUMBERED

“B
eatrice?”

“Sherlock,” she says shyly, barely able to look at him. Even in her black scullery maid’s uniform with its flowery white and grey trim, there is something about her that keeps him from closing the door. Her porcelain-white skin, curly black hair and matching eyes as dark as the night, and most of all, the kindness in her face, all conspire to draw the boy’s attention. She, too, has grown up a great deal over the past eighteen months, and is a striking young woman now. But Sherlock remembers the way she deceived him during the Spring Heeled Jack troubles; how she actually helped the fiend, how she made a fool of him.
It was embarrassing
. She appears so simple on the surface, but Miss Leckie is much more than she seems. He has barely spoken to her since.
She deserves that
, he tells himself.
I can’t believe how fondly I once thought of her
. Beatrice keeps looking up, her eyes on his. He casts his own away. She has been calling at the shop for several months now, and her calls have increased the last few weeks, but he has never even opened the door to her … until now.

“What do you want?”

“Who is Irene? Is she the Doyle —”

“That is none of your business.”

“I was called in to do extra work by my employer on this side of the river, for a few hours this morning. I was passing by ’ere on my way ’ome. May I come in?”

“I don’t think that is a good idea.”

“Sherlock, I did what I did because I believe in justice, like you. It ’urt no one, though it may ’ave ’elped some. There are those in need who —”

“What do you want?”

“It’s your father.”

A moment later, they are sitting at the table in the back room.

“Is that black pudding?” she asks.

“Uh, yes … would you like some?”

“I would! There are some who turn their noses up at it, you know. But I recall when we all used to eat it at ’ome. Remember? You and me, we often shared —”

“Have you seen Father?”

“That’s why I came.”

“How is he?”

“ ’e is still working … but I don’t think ’e should be.”

Holmes blanches. “Why?”

“ ’e isn’t well, Sherlock. ’e looks awfully thin and ’is beard and ’air are going very gray. It’s ‘appened over a matter of months.”

“Gray?” He thinks of his strong father, his hair and beard as black as a crow, brilliant and full of integrity, forced from teaching science after his mixed marriage to Rose Sherrinford, now working at the Crystal Palace, caring for the doves of peace. The boy thinks of his own role in his mother’s death … of his strained relationship with his father after that. Sherlock knows he should be seeing him, trying to make things right. It has just been too hard to face. Occasional letters back and forth have been short and few. The boy tries not to think of the past.
It is gone. What is the use?

“I wonder,” says Beatrice, “if something is terribly wrong.”

Sherlock stiffens.
Whatever is wrong, it cannot be fatal. Wilberforce Holmes cannot die. He should live forever. He should live to be a hundred years old in that flat the Crystal Palace officials provided for him after his wife was murdered. No … he shouldn’t. He should grow younger, have his beautiful Rose return to life, live his dreams, exist in a world where no one hates a Jew who marries an English lady because he loves her
.

Something else runs through the boy’s mind.
Sherlock Holmes … orphan
. He tells himself that Beatrice must be exaggerating, that his father is fine.

“Tea?”

“But —”

“I shall go to see him. I am sure he is well, likely just overworked. Tea?”

“Uh … yes.”

He hands her the flask intended for Irene, not remembering that Miss Doyle said she would be back soon. He fills it to the brim. Once he pours his own, there is none left.

Beatrice tries to smile and takes his hand. Though her hand is not quite as soft as Irene’s, he is surprised at how remarkably warm her skin feels.

“I could go with you to see ’im.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“But you might need —”

“I don’t need anything.”

There is an awkward silence.

“You are right. You don’t need anything. And you certainly don’t need me in your life. I betrayed your trust. I should go.”

She gets to her feet.

Holmes is feeling vulnerable. He hates that. He is frightened about losing his father. Beatrice Leckie has known him since he was a small child. She worked for the Spring Heeled Jack for admirable reasons, he knows that: she was being brave, and honest, and concerned for the poor, the well-being of others, as she always has been. And she likes him: not for what heights he may someday reach, but for who he was as a boy and who he is now. She would like him if she knew nothing of his recent accomplishments, if he were still simply a poor half-breed, bullied at his school.

“Don’t go,” he says, reaching out and putting his hand on her shoulder.

She sits immediately, surprised.

“Well … shall we eat black pudding?” she asks.

“Yes, we shall.”

Half an hour later, in the midst of their laughter over an old story from home, the outside door rattles open, and closes.

Sherlock leaps to his feet. “Irene!”

She comes through the front room and into the laboratory, veritably shining with energy and beauty. Glowing in her purple silk dress and bustle, she already looks like the star of the stage she hopes to one day be. On her arm is Lestrade Jr.

“I have brought you a visitor!” But before she can launch into her story, she stops in surprise, seeing the plain-dressed girl who has replaced her at the lab table, having drained the tea that was intended for her.

“Who is this?”

“Uh …” says Sherlock.

“Have we met?”

“I believe we ’ave, once, very briefly. I am Beatrice Leckie, an old friend of Sherlock’s.”

“Friend?”

“Yes, a friend. You must be Miss Doyle. ’e speaks ’ighly of you.”

“He does?” Irene pauses, then steps toward the girl and takes her hand. “Any friend of his is a friend of mine. Yes, I believe we have met.”

“I was just leaving.” Beatrice rises.

“She was,” says Sherlock.

“Nonsense, do not leave on my account. I have brought Master Lestrade here for a most interesting discussion. Would you like to hear, Miss Leckie?”

Beatrice sits down again.

At first, Lestrade feels as though he is in heaven. Not much more than half of an hour ago, the beautiful Miss Irene, she of the irreproachable Doyle family, burst into his
new office in Scotland Yard, like a breath of fresh air and began flattering him many times over for his recent detective work. Then, she asked if he would take her arm and escort her home, saying she wanted the air and felt much safer with him. Now, he is also in the presence of the beguiling Miss Beatrice Leckie, whom he hasn’t seen for more than a year, but whom he remembers from the Spring Heeled Jack affair. He recalls that he was angry with her role in helping the fiend, but right now, as she smiles back at him, he finds it difficult to summon even the least bit of resentment. He sits and removes his hat. Irene Doyle … Beatrice Leckie: he hardly knows which way to look. But he figures it out … when he finally notices that Sherlock Holmes is at the back of the room, and hears Irene mention the Hemsworth case. He glares at the other boy. Miss Doyle hadn’t said anything about the murder during their walk. The young detective knows that she lives on Montague Street and wondered why they had turned down Denmark Street and entered this apothecary shop. He had imagined it was just a stop on the way to Bloomsbury and she had needed to purchase something. He is well aware that Sherlock is employed by an apothecary, but with his mind elsewhere, it wasn’t at the front of his thoughts that Holmes might be apprenticed at this particular establishment. Suddenly, he is conscious of being expertly seduced. His face turns red.

“Is this why I was brought here?” he says, pointing at Sherlock, looking like he wants to get up and go.

“Stay seated, sir,” says Irene, “Master Holmes has some news for you.”

“I am not in need of news.”

“In fact, you are,” says Sherlock.

“I shall decide if —”

“It isn’t Hemsworth’s workshop.”

“… That’s preposterous.”

“And the hat is too big for him,” adds Irene.

“Nonsense. It has his initials on it!”

Sherlock details what he found in the basement of The World’s End Hotel. He even mentions Scuttle and his interaction with the hotel keeper.

“First of all,” retorts Lestrade, “I told you
not
to go there. Secondly, just because you eyeballed a magician’s skull size from the fiftieth row of a theater, and then found a few items at the crime scene relating to the deceased —”

“The deceased?” interjects Beatrice. “I read that you didn’t have a body … only his spectacles and some blood.”