“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.”
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 sa
w 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
Holmes 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 a
s 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 Dragon Turn Page 5