The Dragon Turn

by Shane Peacock

  Holmes quietly opens one of the doors of his wardrobe and peeks out. There is Bell across the room, facing his work, humming a violin concerto, punctuating it with a few of those benign but deeply-felt oaths.

  “Horse manure!”

  “Sir?”

  Bell’s head swivels around as if his neck were made of rubber. When it comes to rest, it seems to almost be on backwards. There is a look of horror on his face, as if he has been interrupted while performing a very personal act. The boy can see two huge flasks about five feet apart and between them all sorts of tubes and little homemade turbines and burning Bunsen lamps. Something is being turned to liquid in one flask and impelled toward the other at tremendous speed under white-hot pressure. There are rocks and powders and a couple of croaking frogs nearby, obviously the items he is attempting to transform into something else. At this very moment there is an explosion. It shakes the shop and all the equipment in front of the alchemist smashes and is propelled toward the ceiling. The force of the explosion is so great that the old man is slammed backward, landing at Sherlock’s feet.

  It takes everything a few seconds to settle.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  The old man climbs to his feet and shoves his assistant to the side. In three or four bounds he is back at the scene of his experiment, holding something in his hand. It is glowing. It looks like gold.

  “Eureka!” Bell shouts and begins to perform a jig. He turns, takes Sherlock by the hands, and dances with him too, then suddenly stops, looking guilty.

  “Sir? What is it? What have you done?”

  “Oh … nothing.” He takes the material in his hand and holds it behind his back.

  “That looks like a nugget of gold.”

  “Gold! … Nonsense! What are you accusing me of, sir!” He is attempting to sound angry, but it isn’t very convincing.

  “Have you transformed something into gold?”

  “That … would be magic! That would be a groundbreaking, earth-shattering, God-like feat, a wondrous event in the history of mankind to be cherished by all who live upon our green earth, and would make the man who did it a living legend, though he would be expected to be humble about it, regardless of the fact that it would be, as I’ve noted, an unparalleled feat … so … no, sir, I have not done that of which you speak!” He turns quickly, rushes to a shelf, sets the material in his strongbox, and locks it.

  “But sir —”

  “Do we not have a lesson today? Violin? Chemistry? Bellitsu?”

  “Yes, sir, but really, I just wanted to talk.”

  “Talk! By all means, let us talk!” He pulls up a chair and motions for Sherlock to sit at the table, then secures a stool for himself and lights upon it, putting his chin in his hands and looking lovingly at the boy. “Commence!”

  “It’s about Hemsworth.”

  “Ah, yes, we spoke briefly of him yesterday. Are you sure he is innocent? The question worries me, you know.”

  “It does?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me too.”

  “Ah … thus, our chat?”

  “You know I looked into it. All I wanted to do was investigate the crime scene and provide some evidence that might help Hemsworth before the magistrates, since it seemed, at first, that he may not have committed the crime. It did not appear fair that he should hang. I wanted to keep a distance from events, like you know I’ve been trying to do lately, even after I found some things at the scene that might help him. But Irene —”

  “Ah!”

  “And Beatrice —”

  “Aha!”

  “Please, sir, do not ‘Aha!’ me upon that subject.”

  “Yes, my boy, I am sorry.”

  “Miss Leckie was merely interested, merely helpful. Miss Doyle, whom you know convinced me to become involved in the first place, went further. She felt, after I returned from the scene, that we were close to truly helping Hemsworth … so I investigated more. Now I am concerned that I went further than I should have.”

  “Because it was due to your thorough intervention that His Highness was freed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed, you should have been sure about this before you went to the police, and not listening to feminine types capable of swaying you. Hemsworth had a great deal of motivation to commit this crime, my boy, did he not? One cannot get over that, despite any circumstantial evidence to the contrary. I have heard rumors for many years that he is a little, shall we say, wild, a little loony, a cup and saucer short of a full tea set; that he is even cruel, at times, to others. Perhaps something happened to him on one of his many journeys? I am sure you are learning about him too. He is not a very nice man, is he?”

  “No, sir, he doesn’t seem to be, and he appears to have secrets.”

  “Well, he is a magician … though of the theatrical, sleight-of-hand sort, not a real one.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “He doesn’t know real magic.”

  “Like those who … turn substances into gold?”

  “You, my boy, are far too clever for your own good,” replies Bell angrily.

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  Bell sighs and then grins. “Do not be. Pressure me! Seek the truth! Put my rear end to the wall, young man, press my buttocks against —”

  “I will, sir, but not today. I need to know, now, what to do about this.”

  “You have little choice but to do something.”

  “Yes, sir, I wish I could leave it alone, but I am afraid that I have made a terrible mistake. I am at a loss as to where to start. I have already been to the crime scene — twice. That may have served only to lead me in the wrong direction. I have also been told, in no uncertain terms, never to go back there. It will be closely guarded from now on.”

  “Hmm. Here we have Hemsworth, the man who appears to have done it, the perfect candidate, anyway … but nothing to tie him to it.”

  “And no body.”

  “Yes, that is curious, my boy. Did Nottingham just vanish? You saw the scene. Were there really just his spectacles, blood, and bits of flesh, there? Is that all that was left of him?”

  “Yes, that was all. How do you make someone disappear like that, master?”

  “More than just some one. Mrs. Nottingham has vanished as well, has she not?”

  They both think for a moment.

  “Sir, do you really believe that you can transform substances into gold? If you can do that, couldn’t someone, using real magic, make a human being disappear?”

  “I believe that anything is possible. Anything! You know that. I teach you that, my boy! We are turning you into gold!”

  “But do you think Hemsworth made Nottingham vanish? I mean really vanish.”

  “I think you are barking up the wrong tree … though you may be in the forest.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I might have believed Nottingham could make someone disappear. He was a clever man, that one. But I don’t think Hemsworth is that good. He would use a slightly more down-to-earth method, shall we say. Did you notice anything unusual at the crime scene, anything really strange? Did you have any sense that something bizarre was concocted there?”

  “Well, you know, sir, from the papers, about Mr. Riyah, who owns the hotel? I believe he was noted briefly in yesterday’s news.”

  “Yes?”

  “I found him in an inner chamber.”

  “An inner chamber? Well … that’s not terribly surprising, I suppose. Whether this studio was let to Hemsworth or Nottingham, magicians like that sort of thing. Intrigue and mystery, you know!”

  Suddenly something dawns on Sherlock. “But there was another place down there.”

  “Another place?”

  “A second chamber, deeper under the building … and … and I heard noises coming from it … like something was alive down —”

  Sigerson Bell stands bolt upright. “The dragon!”

  “It couldn’t be, sir.”

 
“You saw it onstage! How real did it look? How real!?”

  “You don’t think … something like that killed the Wizard of Nottingham?”

  The old man’s eyes are on fire.

  “I don’t know, my boy, but if something like that did … it devoured him too.”

  FANTASTIC POSSIBILITIES

  Sherlock is barely able to control Sigerson Bell after that. Just as Lestrade had seemed like he might explode during the great hat scene at Scotland Yard, the old apothecary looks like he might combust into a thousand bits and pieces. He leaps to his feet and literally begins running around the shop.

  “If he has a dragon, then you need to find it. We do! Now this would intrigue me! Go out there, my boy, and slay that beast!”

  “Slay it?”

  “Well … find it, sir. Find it!”

  “But I can’t go back to The World’s End Hotel.”

  “It is seen every other evening, you imbecile!”

  Bell suddenly realizes what he has said. He apologizes profusely. He keeps on and on at it, pleading that he is just “unnaturally excited,” until Sherlock feels as though he would like to apply a little Bellitsu to him to shut him up. Besides, the boy may be insecure about a number of things, but his intelligence is not one of them. He is not only aware that he is a sort of genius, but he believes it deeply and understands that such confidence is a great weapon in his arsenal.

  “Sir, you must stop apologizing! I was being an imbecile indeed … on that particular point.” Sherlock actually reaches out and seizes the old man, who has continued to run around the lab, talking.

  “Yes. Yes, you were.” He is breathing heavily.

  “But you err slightly about my next move. There are actually two subjects that must be explored.”

  “Two? Ah! You have a plan! Now you are thinking, now you are rubbing those big spongy brain sections together! Let’s see. The dragon, or whatever it is, must be found. And … and what?”

  “Mrs. Nottingham must be located. I have a feeling she is playing a role in this. And it has just occurred to me how I might discover her whereabouts.”

  “Excellent! Shall you be attending the theater this evening? There is a show every other night, is there not?”

  “No, I won’t be attending.”

  “No?” Bell’s face falls.

  “We shall. I will speak to Irene and get us three tickets.”

  “Oh!” Sigerson Bell looks like he is about to collapse in tears. He throws his arms around the boy and nearly squeezes the life out of him. When Sherlock looks him in the face, a big tear is about to plop out. The old man pivots and scurries up the spiral stairs to his room. “I must dress for the evening. Simply in need of dressing, that’s all!”

  And what an outfit he is wearing at the theater that night. He is dressed, almost from head to foot, in pink. Sherlock had no idea he had such clothing — a billowing robe that looks vaguely Egyptian in style, worn, no doubt, to fit the décor of the theater. His red fez is, of course, upon his head. He has often told Sherlock that he has Egyptian forebears, going by the name of Trismegistus, and these clothes look like they may have belonged to them … several thousand years ago.

  Irene, who is immaculately arrayed in a stunning gold dress (with tasteful bustle) that almost matches her hair, is never concerned about being seen with her social inferiors and doesn’t even bat an eye when Sigerson Bell appears in his strange costume. She kisses him on the cheek, in continental style, and smiles. Sherlock has noticed that she is always excited to come to the theater, no matter how many times she attends. And this, of course, is His Highness’s show, which she soon hopes to grace.

  The performance is much the same as on other nights. All except for the presence of Bell, who has the irritating habit of commenting out loud and is often shushed by others around him. Like Sherlock, he sees through every trick and understands instantly how it is done. But when the dragon feat begins, he grows silent. He leans forward in his seat, breathing his fishy, garlic breath on the lady in front of him, but unaware of her discomfort, mesmerized by the beast on the stage. When it is done, he is left exhausted. Sherlock and Irene nearly have to pick him up.

  “It looks real, my boy. It looks real! Don’t you think?”

  “He is just very clever, sir,” says Irene.

  “But he isn’t, Miss Doyle. He isn’t.”

  Bell and Sherlock have made plans to slip down the alleyway behind the theater after the show and wait outside to see Hemsworth come out and spot what he might bring with him. They arrived early for the production and discovered a large, stable-like door at the back, obviously used for over-sized stage props and the live animals that are often seen on this London stage. Now, they put Irene into a hansom cab and rush to the rear of the building.

  As they wait in the shadows, Sherlock tells the old man more about how he freed Hemsworth. But Bell doesn’t even smile at the Scotland Yard hat scene.

  “The oldest trick in the book,” he says glumly.

  “Trick?”

  “All magicians hats are adjustable, my boy. After all, they have to pull rabbits out of them, don’t they?”

  This doesn’t make Sherlock feel any better as they wait.

  Other than the musicians, there are only two people in the show. The first comes out a few minutes later. She is dressed plainly and wearing a veil, looking very different than she did onstage. Holmes steps from the shadows and walks up to her.

  “Good evening,” he says nonchalantly.

  “Good evening, sir,” she answers, but then gasps, puts her hand over her mouth, and rushes off.

  “Who was that?” asks Bell.

  “A lady who has just agreed to tell me all she knows about Mrs. Nottingham, though she isn’t aware of it yet.”

  Within seconds, Hemsworth, with no dressing-room visits tonight, leaves the building too. Sherlock and Bell move deeper into the shadows. But there is nothing to see. The magician simply walks up the alley to the front of the theater and Piccadilly Street, gets quickly into a waiting hansom cab, and is gone. The apothecary and his apprentice follow at a distance.

  “Where’s the dragon?” asks Bell.

  “The dragon? Or the illusion? Perhaps there is nothing to find.”

  Sherlock is looking up Piccadilly, but not following Hemsworth’s cab. His eyes are on the foot pavement.

  “I have something I need to do, sir. I will meet you back at the shop.”

  Sherlock is watching the disappearing figure of the lady with the veil, walking away in the now-sparse crowd, looking back over her shoulder. Without waiting to hear Bell respond, he runs after her. She has a good two-hundred-foot start on him. But he closes the gap quickly. She knows he is pursuing, but doesn’t seem to want to be conspicuous, so she doesn’t take to her heels. Instead, she moves as fast as she can at a walk. At the first side street, she turns south. It is a small, winding artery with almost no one on it and here, she begins to run. Sherlock can’t believe how fast she is moving. Can women really run like this? But she is in a dress and wearing heels, and by the time she gets to a little park at St. James Square, he has reached her. They are alone now. She turns to face him. This is a brave young lady.

  “How did you know to speak to me?” She pulls her veil back, revealing a face as black as Beatrice’s servant’s uniform. She looks defiant. They are both breathing heavily.

  “I observe, Miss Venus.”

  “It isn’t Miss.”

  Every time the boy has been to see the Hemsworth show he has watched the magician’s exotic “African” assistant closely. His Highness presents her as a native beauty he captured on the Dark Continent, unable to understand English, though trained to obey his commands … Venus of the Hottentots. At the end of each night, still wearing her nearly see-through linen costume, but by then under a purple robe, she is magically transformed into a fair-skinned princess … and placed in the cage with the dragon. It is a spectacular effect.

  “Just Venus?”

 
“I am not deemed fit to have a title.”

  “What is your real name?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Some answers.”

  “I am unable to supply them. Good evening.” She drops her veil again and turns to leave.

  “I shall go to the press — The News of the World would be fascinated — and let them know that you are from … where is it … Brixton?”

  She gasps, stops, turns back, and lifts the veil again.

  “How … how do you know that? How did you know I spoke English in the first place?”

  “Well, I had to confirm it by greeting you this evening. But as for the rest, let’s say that details are important to me. I studied you onstage. I noticed that whenever he made an error, which was often, he would speak to you under his breath. He didn’t motion, he spoke, and you responded with your actions. It was obvious that you could understand him. And you have a Brixton accent, northern part, is it, second or third generation? I make it my business to know such things.”

  “But you are just a boy. Of what intrigue is this to you? Is someone paying you? Is this just to cause a scandal in the Sunday papers?”

  “I have an interest in the Nottingham murder. Tell me what I need to know and I shall keep your secret.”

  “An interest? On which side? Solving the case … or were you involved in committing it?” She steps back from him.

  “My proposition is simple. I repeat: tell me what I need to know … and I will keep your secret.”