“In the servicement of clarification, might I give some relations as to what occurred to Scuttle in the extremely small hours of this morning?”
They all turn to him. Sherlock, especially, is relieved to hear him speak.
“When this agent of Scottish Yard, ’ere —” continues the little boy, pointing at Holmes, “and I am making assumptions that you ladies and this nubile old wizard are also under the covers with the London Metropollution Police Force — encountered yours truly on guard outside The World’s End ’otel, where he is known to speak with many famous celebritants, an ass-signment was given, without the ’elp of a badge, to go down into the secret chambers and solve a mystery.”
“Scuttle,” says Sherlock, “I have related all of that. Please tell us what happened once you were inside.”
“Well, sir, I opened the wall, as your secret instructioning instructed me to do. My ’eart was sweating and my ’ands pounding. I could ’ear with my ears noises in another chamber, as you sir, agent of Scottish Yard, had imitated there might be. There was awful screeching and screaming and sounds that might make a man throw up his victuals from his bowels out onto the ground. I moved toward it … though not at lightning speed, I’d say, due to a knocking about of my knees. It was dark and I could not see with my eyes what was transporting in that chamber. And then, a bad thing ’appened.”
“A bad thing?” asks Irene.
“Scuttle fell.”
“You fell?”
“Just at the opening to the lower chamber, and rolled like a rolling pin down the stairs. Scuttle is not always a ballet man on his feet.”
“I can imagine,” says Bell sympathetically.
“And there they were … and Scuttle directly amidst them.”
“They?” asks Sherlock.
“Two men.”
“Who?”
“I think, sir, that one was ’emsworth.”
Irene gasps.
“You think?” asks Sherlock.
“Well, one thing Scuttle ’as never really said … is that I at no times actually viewed Mr. ’emsworth’s face with my own eyeballs, though I felt I ’ad seen ’im in the dark many times at the Cremorne. I ’ad related that I gabbed with ’im … but that was not strictly the truthful truth. And underground, ’e pulled ’is ’at down low too, when ’is eyeballs fiercely saw me, as if to say to me that ’e was under the covers as well.”
“Who was the other man?”
“A man I ’ad viewed, once or twice, in the Gardens.”
“Wearing a black greatcoat?” asks Irene.
“The wery one! You are an agent of some greatness.”
“What happened next?” asks Beatrice.
“Scuttle was full of nervousment, seeing all the creatures in there, many seeming to be sweating their ’earts out, and they was screaming and the like … rats and monkeys and pigs, all in cages. There was a big cage too, with stains of blood in it. The two men ’ad just come up a ramp that went down into a pit, which I couldn’t see into. They ’ad an entire coach, a black one that looked like it was built by many midgets it was so low, but still long, and they ’ad four big ’orses pulling it too, right there in the cave. Scuttle felt like he was in a story by that Edgar Ellen Pow, who writes of terrible things containing ghosts and dead people and the like. Well, the two men didn’t seem too pleasured to meet me, at least not at first, but then their smiles came up on their visagings, and one said to the other that I would be perfect.”
“For what?” asks Bell, looking like he knows the answer.
“Well, old nubile wizard, I figured it soon enough. They decided … they wanted …” The boy’s voice falters and his eyes redden.
“They were considering feeding you to whatever they were keeping in the pit,” says Sherlock.
Scuttle nods and breaks down, sobbing.
“You have said enough,” says Beatrice and pats him on the shoulder. Irene, whose face has turned very white, takes his hand.
“Scuttle can go on,” says the little boy, gathering himself. “They put me in the big cage, where I stayed without water or sustenancing until this agent of Scottish Yard saved me with much valor. I was not able to give myself private relief, no urine nation or things of a larger nature, as I am sorry to relate in this mixed-up company. The two men took the ’orses and all and left out the passage this agent arrived from in the morning. Then, a few hours after they excavated the premises, the baboon … ’e started feeding the beast … other poor animals … from the other cages.”
Sherlock gets to his feet, his eyes on fire, holding his hands to his temples as he talks and walks. He doesn’t look bored, not at all. “The Hemsworth show takes place every other day. That is unusual, and by design. I’ve wondered about it for a while, but now I understand. It is so he and Riyah can do the following: feed this beast, which they own together, move it only at night, and have it hungry at just the right times.”
“I doesn’t follow you, my agent,” says Scuttle.
“You will recall, Irene, that backstage and in the hallways of the theater while Hemsworth is in residence, there are very few people about. In fact, other than Venus, who leaves the moment she is done, and the ten musicians who appear to gather up their instruments and depart out the front doors, there is no one.”
“Why is that significant? Aren’t magicians secretive?” asks Beatrice. “Doesn’t it make sense that they don’t want others around their carefully guarded tricks and equipment?”
“But not that secretive!” exclaims Bell, “It is a front, for something they are hiding.”
“They are keeping the beast,” Sherlock continues, “somewhere in the bowels of The Egyptian Hall and forbidding anyone to come near it. But it isn’t left alone in its cage down there for long after each show, just until about three o’clock in the morning.”
“When Riyah and Hemsworth pick it up at the back door,” says Bell.
“Yes. They take it, chained and restricted, as hungry as a lion since it hasn’t been fed all day — which means it is nasty and aggressive during its time onstage — and take it through the London night in nearly deserted streets and along back alleys … until they get to that singular little road that leads down to the beach at the Battersea Bridge.”
“Something Hemsworth must have discovered about the time he learned of the triple-chambered basement under The World’s End Hotel nearby!” cries Bell.
“Or perhaps the owner, the shadowy Riyah, knew about it and about the passage that leads from the quiet beach there into the third chamber with the pit.”
“Excellent!” shouts the old man, almost in admiration of the two cruel men.
“They then take the beast into the secret chamber, closing and camouflaging the opening behind, and put it carefully into the pit, in a strong cage.”
“Then they feeds it, my agent.”
“Yes. And whatever it is, it has a ferocious appetite. It likes to eat living things, of any size. Those pigs and monkeys don’t seem to be the largest of its meals. It will eat prey that can fight back, and yet easily kills and devours them. I saw no bones, not even large quantities of blood in that chamber. I think it eats everything, skull and all.”
“Like it did with Nottingham!” declares Bell.
His comment silences everyone for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Irene.
“It isn’t reasonable,” continues Sherlock, “for Hemsworth and Riyah to be in the secret chambers day after day, tending to the beast, and they don’t want to be seen there in broad daylight, anyway. So, they leave after they deposit it and feed it. But it wants its flesh and blood regularly.”
“So … the baboon feeds it,” says Scuttle.
“Yes … they have taught him how, likely in exchange for tasty meals of his own. They come back and get the beast on the second day, in the middle of the night, before the following day’s performance. They hide it at The Egyptian Hall again and don’t feed it until show time, as I said, so it is ferocio
us when it needs to be. Then, the whole cycle begins again.”
“I … I am sorry about defending Hemsworth,” says Irene clearly.
“So did I, Miss Doyle,” responds Sherlock, “right to Lestrade’s face.”
“I … I am singing tomorrow night … for him.”
“Perfect,” says Sherlock.
“What do you mean?”
“You can get me backstage, where I can look around, where I can confront them.”
“I’ll do whatever has to be done. But are you going in there alone?”
“I will bring Mr. Bell with me.” The apothecary beams. “And the police will be there, too.”
“The police? But they won’t come, Sherlock, not for you, and not after what happened the last time they attended.”
“It won’t be like that tomorrow night. The last time, Riyah knew I had spoken to the Lestrades. I am sure that I saw him near Scotland Yard. Hemsworth mentioned several times to me that day that he knew I was coming, even that I had ‘friends’ coming — he meant the police. Riyah warned His Highness, and they faked the dragon that night — they must have the means to do that, in case they are inspected. But Irene, you can use your charms again, to get Lestrade’s son to come to the theater.”
“He won’t fall for that twice.”
“Yes, he will. Tomorrow is different: you have a legitimate reason to ask him. Just send your card round to the police headquarters today, tell him that you are making your great debut and you would like him there. He won’t be able to resist that. Ask him to bring a friend. It will almost certainly be another policeman.”
“But, my agent, won’t Mr. ’emsworth notice when ’e and Mr. Riyah come to the pit of evil tonight, that I is … escaped?”
“No, Scuttle, they would not expect you to be there.”
“They wouldn’t?”
“You must understand their schedule. Yes, they will return to the chamber in the black hours tonight to get their creature. But before that, the big baboon intended to drag you to the pit … it would be about now, in fact … after you had weakened more. You would have been fed, while you were still alive … to the dragon.”
Irene forgets all about what she came to tell Sherlock.
HEMSWORTH’S CONFESSION
Morning comes, and thankfully the shop isn’t searched.
They all attend the Hemsworth spectacle that evening. Irene gets them tickets: Sherlock, Bell, Beatrice, Scuttle (eyes as wide as saucers and dressed in a new shirt and trousers that Irene provides for him), Andrew C. Doyle (looking slightly embarrassed that his daughter is singing, but trying to take a modern view), and his adopted son, little Paul, dressed in imitation of his father.
The apothecary has armed both himself and his apprentice with horsewhips. The old man will keep his secreted up his underclothing inside that pink outfit, ready for action in his seat ten rows from the stage and close to an aisle.
But Holmes doesn’t sit in the audience. Dressed in disguise on the way, and presented to the theater attendants as an escort for Miss Doyle, he arrives early with her and slips down the hallway past Hemsworth’s dressing room, reluctantly leaving her with him. She had insisted that she was not frightened.
I hope I won’t regret this.
He had noticed during his first visit backstage that there was a door at the end of the hallway, past the dressing rooms. He makes for it. As he suspects, it leads downstairs into the basement, the perfect place to keep the dragon. The staircase is narrow and creaky, hardly steps one could negotiate with a huge beast in tow. But that isn’t how it is moved. If the creature is down here, then it is taken directly to and from this basement by way of that big stable door behind the theater. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is the fact that the back door is at street level, and he is presently descending below it.
When he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he understands. It is dark in here, but not totally black. He looks straight up to the ceiling and sees many little lines of bright light above. The stage! He is directly below it. To his left, a hallway leads from this room up to another few lines of light, four of them, two vertical and two horizontal … the stable door at the back of the theater! There must be a ramp there. To his right, the room slants up in darkness … where the orchestra pit and the audience must be. He hears something moving in the cavernous room. There is a hiss, like the sound a huge snake might make. He freezes. Something large is moving, thrashing about, no more than fifty feet away, directly under the stage. Sherlock feels for his horsewhip in his sleeve.
At that instant someone seizes him, someone big and powerful, and instantly he is dragged back up the stairs. In the commotion, he thinks he hears a cry in the room below. It sounds like a child or a woman. But in seconds, he is back up to the top of the stairs, the door is slammed behind him, and he is pitched down the hallway toward Hemsworth’s dressing room.
Before him stands Oscar Riyah.
His first instinct is to run. His second is to apply a little Bellitsu. But he doesn’t. I have to see this out … now. I can’t go, anyway. Irene is in the dressing room. I can’t leave her there.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
The boy tries to remember if he ever told Riyah his full name.
“What a pleasure to see you,” adds the old Jew. His accent seems to be faltering.
“The pleasure is all mine, sir. You have been avoiding me, and the police.”
“Not at all, we are just waiting for ze opportune moment. Might you step into my colleague’s dressing room for a chat?” He shoves Sherlock toward the door, opens it, pushes him inside, and enters too. Irene sits at a dressing table with a mirror, fixing her face, Hemsworth beside her, doing the same. She is trying not to look nervous, but when Sherlock enters, she jumps to her feet.
“Miss Doyle,” says Sherlock calmly. “I hear you are singing this evening.”
“Dispense with the charade, Holmes. You suspect me, don’t you?”
“No.”
“No?” Hemsworth almost looks concerned.
“It is far beyond suspicion, sir. I know you murdered the Wizard of Nottingham and I know how you did it.”
Riyah snickers.
“And you, sir,” exclaims the boy, turning on the man in the greatcoat, “you are part of this, for whatever evil reason, and shall be hanged with him.”
“Well,” sighs Hemsworth, getting to his feet. “We have you in an enclosed space. As far as you know, we are armed, perhaps with better weapons than horsewhips.”
Holmes swallows.
“And we have the young lady, too. What might we do to her, right now … in your presence?”
Sherlock thinks of the stories of Hemsworth’s cruelty. There is a glint in his eye. He is growing excited. He is, indeed, mad. He has fed living animals to his creature, and was about to do the same with poor Scuttle.
“I have been to your studio — all the way in. I can direct the police there.”
“Well done!” exclaims Riyah, without a trace of the German accent.
“Yes, indeed, impressive,” adds Hemsworth. “But, you see, in order to accomplish such heroics, you would have to get out of here alive. We may not simply want to escape. We might not only be planning to do something deliciously horrible to Miss Doyle, but we may also have plans for you. So, you will not be able to direct the police anywhere, young sleuth. Now, what could we do to you? Ah, yes: we could feed you, alive, to …” He pauses.
Irene steps toward Sherlock, her face pale, and takes him by the arm. She glares at the men. She is brave indeed.
“But no, we are honorable men, are we not … Riyah?”
“Most certainly, your Highness. We believe in justice. Justice shall be served here … as surely as it is in a Dickens novel.”
The two men laugh.
A light comes on in Sherlock’s brain. This Mr. Riyah DOES have a false name. Maybe two. Bell’s favorite Dickens novel is Our Mutual Friend, the great author’s latest. He reads it constantly, often out
loud and with, regrettably, great feeling, shouting and acting out the characters. Of course! The name of the Jew in Our Mutual Friend, … is Riah. Sherlock recalls that his father had said something about this man’s other name — Abraham Hebrewitz — sounding like it came from a book. I should have made the connection then! If Lestrade, that fool, read more than The Illustrated Police News, he would have known too! This man in the greatcoat, whoever he really is, plucked at least one of his identities from the pages of Dickens’ latest novel … and then hinted at it right in front of me! They are toying with us. They think this is a game, a piece of theater. Murder and cruelty is a game to them!
“So, being two fair and just gentlemen …” continues Hemsworth, “we shall turn ourselves in to you and the Metropolitan London Police!”
Sherlock’s mouth drops open. “You what?”
“Of course, my boy. Yes, I did the murderous deed, though I shall not tell you or anyone else exactly how.”
“I know how.”
“Oh, you do, do you? Be that as it may, let me say that I eliminated him in the cause of justice. I was wronged! And I received my justice! My vengeance!” His face turns red. “But I have been fairly caught, and that is to be respected. I promised myself I would accept my punishment should I be truly found out.”
“Come with me, sir,” says Sherlock, “we shall cancel the show.”
“No.”
“No?”
“The show must go on. The show must always go on.” He holds an arm in the air and shouts. “The public must have it!”
“I don’t think that it —”
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