The Dragon Turn Read online

  “Miss?” gasps Lestrade Junior, who hasn’t seen Irene for a while, “Miss Doyle … why … you … you look charming this evening.” He glances at Sherlock and nods. Irene smiles at him.

  “It has been a long time, Master Holmes,” continues the Inspector, “thank goodness.”

  The younger Lestrade looks at the ground with a guilty expression.

  “Yes, it has, sir.” Holmes grits his teeth.

  “I see you have come forward in the world, my boy, a little, that is.” He examines Sherlock up and down, looking wary. “Stand aside … in fact, vacate the premises. You have no interests here as of this moment. This is police business, something you appear to have learned to stay out of.” He extends an arm and index finger back down the hallway toward the entrance.

  “Police? What is this about?” asks Hemsworth.

  Sherlock and Irene step aside and move back up the hallway. The policemen enter the dressing room and slam the door behind them. The instant they do, Sherlock pulls Irene back to Hemsworth’s door. He presses his ear to it.

  “Collar him, gentleman!” exclaims Lestrade.

  “Collar me! What is the meaning of this?”

  “You, sir, are in police custody,” barks Lestrade Junior.

  “I can see that! But for what crime?”

  “For murder!”

  Irene stifles a gasp and grips Sherlock’s arm.

  “Murder? Of whom?”

  “Does the name Nottingham ring a bell?” asks young Lestrade.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “We are extremely serious. He was found dead this evening —”

  “But I was here, performing!”

  “Killed some three or four hours ago in a secret workshop, now identified as yours —”

  “Mine! I have no such secret place!”

  “— where you keep your instruments and hatch your trickery. He was killed in the most gruesome way.”

  “H-How?”

  “I suppose you must ask that question,” snaps the Inspector, “We … we aren’t sure how, but we will find out.”

  “But then, why are —”

  “He did not appear for his show this evening. We found his spectacles, clumps of his hair, his blood … bits of his flesh … and nothing else … in your enclave. We do not know what fiendish or magical thing you did, but we will get to the bottom of this. And we will find his body … if there is any more of it left to find.”

  “But —”

  “Take him away.”

  Sherlock and Irene scramble back to the entrance. They hear the illusionist cry, “But why would I kill Nottingham?”

  The young couple flies out the door.

  “Mister Hemsworth,” replies Lestrade, as he steps into the corridor, “do you take me for a fool? All of London knows why.”

  THE RIVALS

  All of London, indeed, knows why His Highness Hemsworth might want to murder the Wizard of Nottingham. The latter is (or at least, was) the greatest magician that England, perhaps the world, has ever seen. He has levitated people high into the air above his audiences, made an elephant vanish, and turned himself into the very form of one of his spectators. Every illusionist who walks the boards is jealous of him. But Alistair Hemsworth has a greater reason than all the others to want him dead.

  Mrs. Hemsworth.

  Some two years ago, Nottingham had stolen her away from him, as though he were plucking a rabbit from a hat. The affair had thrilled London and filled the newspapers. Some say the Wizard mesmerized her; others that his handsome looks, his large and powerful frame, his fame, his charming ways and wealth, were all too much for her to resist. The Hemsworths were struggling in those days, and the adventurer, who had always left his wife at home in London while traveling, had just returned from his second-last trip to the Orient, and was making another attempt to begin his theatrical profession in earnest. But there was no dragon in those days, just a fumbling magic act, drawing the few Londoners who wanted to see what tricks an adventurer might have up his sleeve.

  No one thought it was a fair fight. Nottingham appeared to sweep her off her feet after their first meeting. His Highness had been a difficult husband to live with — there were rumors of domestic violence — she had her divorce within a year, and a new marriage a few weeks later. There was only one curious thing about it. Mrs. Hemsworth, while not unattractive and said to be “extraordinarily full of life,” was a relatively plain woman … and the dashing Nottingham, the ladies swore, could have any belle he wanted.

  Sherlock tries to avoid eye contact with Irene as they walk briskly along Piccadilly Street toward the Bloomsbury area and the Doyle home. He knows what she is thinking. And she knows that he knows.

  “Stop,” she finally says, gripping his arm and turning him toward her.

  “Yes?”

  “You know very well.”

  “Irene, I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” Her lower lip pouts out a little, her brown eyes grow large and look up at him. She is taking acting lessons with her singing instruction, and he can see that they are paying off. “Not even for me?”

  “Why would I want to get involved in this?”

  “Because you think he is innocent and you believe in justice.”

  “I have no thoughts on his innocence or guilt, one way or the other.”

  “But you sized him up. What sort of man is he?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Sherlock! Tell me what you saw!”

  He begins walking again, quickly, leaving her behind. But she hurries to catch up. Busy Leicester Square, filled with sounds and colors and people, appears up the street. Though the hour is getting later, things are still in full swing here. Gaily dressed single women parade about, looking to see which men they attract. Music comes from the theaters and coffee houses, there is a hum in the air, and that jingle of harnesses and clip-clop of hundreds of hooves. Irene comes even with him and puts her arm back through his. “You were saying?”

  “Well … he is thirty-nine years old, left-handed, a native of Birmingham — north side — exceedingly vain, smokes cigars — West Indian variety —”

  “But is he a murderer? When you looked into his eyes, what did you see?”

  “I am not in the habit of judging others by looking into their eyes. One doesn’t build a murder conviction upon such trifles.”

  “But you looked into his.”

  “Uh … yes. And I saw nothing. He is a performer. You cannot judge them.”

  “Is that why you have troubles with me?”

  It is only too true.

  “You are a girl, that’s the bigger problem.”

  She smiles.

  “I don’t think Alistair Hemsworth is a killer and not just because —”

  “No, you think he is someone who can help you … who has been taken off to jail.”

  She swallows, “I deserved that. I appreciate your candor … always have.”

  “You had an opportunity and it suddenly vanished. He is out of circulation.”

  “For a crime he vehemently denies committing.”

  “They all do.”

  “That’s not true. You forget how many criminals I have met, how many murderers. I think I know a guilty one when I see one. I have developed a sixth sense. It’s … a woman’s gift.”

  “I have no such ethereal power. But I will admit that a woman’s intuition eludes me.”

  “Frightens you, one might better say.”

  “It isn’t scientific, not in any way, and therefore, not dependable.”

  “I know what I heard and saw back there.”

  “And you know that Nottingham stole his wife.”

  “I admit that he has motivation, yes.”

  “Which is an enormous factor in any crime.”

  “But he seemed to be denying that this ‘secret’ place where Nottingham was found even belonged to him … and they don’t have a body. A murder without a body? Answer me honestly: should that be a clo
sed case?”

  “I —”

  Irene pulls him toward her and guides him out of the flow of pedestrians and up against the wall of a building. She moves closer, gently pressing against him. “This last fact intrigues you.”

  “Well …”

  “Look at me as you answer, Sherlock.”

  He can’t do it. She is right about the missing body. It is a most fascinating feature and it indeed intrigues him, deeply so, has from the moment Lestrade mentioned it; a death without a corpse and no murder weapon.

  “You don’t need to solve this. I’m not asking you to do that.” She presses even closer. “We could just see if the place is really Hemsworth’s, and you could show the police that they haven’t proved anything yet, put doubts in their minds … get His Highness out of jail for a while, at least?”

  “We shouldn’t be doing anything. And even if I were to look into it, what you are suggesting would involve inspecting the crime scene and I’ve promised myself not —”

  “For me?”

  “I —”

  “You are correct about my bias concerning this. It is important to tell the truth. You know I believe in that. Yes, I stand to benefit greatly from his being released. Guilty, as charged. But if he is wrongfully incarcerated, then no one benefits, and there is certainly no justice.”

  “Irene —”

  “And this will be a sensational case: the whole country will be intrigued. There’s been nothing like this since the Spring Heeled Jack was on the loose.”

  Oh, that was well put. She is devilishly clever. He feels his resistance crumbling.

  “Be honest about your desires, Sherlock,” she says, putting her arms around his waist. “You want to do this … don’t you?”

  “I —”

  “Beyond everything, you need the adventure … because you, sir, are bored.”

  Ah, another marvelous blow, well struck. She knows me too well.

  Boredom is like a monster to Sherlock Holmes, like a troll hiding beneath a bridge, waiting to attack him. It haunts him: he fears it as it approaches. He has been trying to keep the fact that he is bored out of his skull to himself. A boy, even a smart one like him, needs action. Thinking, reading about crimes, speculating, even moving about the city arm in arm with the irresistible Irene Doyle, just isn’t enough for him. Several times during the last eighteen months, he has almost chased after pickpockets he’s spotted plying their trade in the thick London crowds — oh, to run them to the ground … and apply a little Bellitsu to their craniums! To see Malefactor again!

  The brilliant young gang leader has vanished from the streets, his nasty Trafalgar Square Irregulars scattered. Once or twice recently Sherlock has seen Grimsby, on his own now, still looking dark and evil, not having grown an inch. But the little villain always averts his gaze, turns away from him, and never looks to be on the job. Crew, the other lieutenant, big, blond and silent, with the ever-present deadness in his eyes of a cold-blooded killer, seems similarly disinterested. Sherlock has seen him standing in doorways down alleyways, on the watch … but never doing anything in the least incriminating. How are they surviving? How do they make a living? The boy hasn’t seen any of the other Irregulars, nor has he spotted the two lieutenants together, not since the moment he flushed Malefactor from his secret residence and ran him into hiding. All that remains of his old rival on the London streets is a sense of his presence. Sherlock feels it when he walks near Lincoln Inn’s Field, in the way Grimsby and Crew maintain a look of confidence and ease, as if they are still operating, or being operated by a ghostly hand and mind. In some ways, Sherlock fears Malefactor more than ever. He senses that the tall, sunken-eyed boy with the bulging forehead is still weaving his black magic, and will return … soon.

  Irene has done her best to entertain him by being with him, by visiting the apothecary shop and conversing, or singing while he plays Bell’s violin. She also escorts him (or allows him to escort her) to the theater. Plays haven’t tended to intrigue him, unless there is an impossibly difficult crime to be solved — which he usually does halfway through, announcing the villain out loud, as if it were a trifle. It irritates Irene to no end. Low operas are better; violin concertos much better; circuses temporarily sublime; and magic shows supreme. But the very best time he ever had with Irene was the evening she took him to see Charles Dickens.

  The legendary novelist was appearing at St. James’s Hall and the spectators were queued up outside, like cattle waiting to feed. The big theater held more than two thousand people and every space on the green benches was filled. Sherlock will always recall looking up at the beautiful gold-and-red ribbed ceiling, the overflowing balcony that wrapped around the hall, the stark stage before him with its simple backdrop and writing desk — all awaiting the immortal Dickens. The nation’s most famous man was about to display his extraordinary imagination, to become his marvelous characters before their very eyes — Mr. Scrooge might appear — to show England and the human race its soul.

  The gaslights were simultaneously dimmed in the house and brought up on the stage, and Dickens materialized, lit so starkly that his face, the creases in his pale skin, his very eyes, seemed to be just inches away. The crowd rose and the hall shook with the reception, but Dickens didn’t acknowledge them. He set his book down on his desk, placed one leg on a wrung, gripped his collar with his hands and said, in a voice as clear as a bell, “The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club … the Court Room scene.” There was another ovation from the audience. And then he read. And as he read he transported every man, woman and child who watched and listened, to a courtroom in a story … that seemed more real than the theater itself. Soon, he had his spectators crying with laughter, amazed at the silliness, the ineptitude of his characters, and thus of all humanity. It made Sherlock think of how we all play roles, how we all want to BE someone, someone shiny, more important than who we really are.

  When Dickens was done with that passage, he turned to something that made the audience gasp. “The Adventures of Oliver Twist,” he intoned. And after a dramatic pause, in which he seemed to eye every audience member, said, “Chapter Forty-seven … Fatal Consequences.” Everyone knew what that meant. He was going to read what he had once promised he would never read … the murder of Nancy, beautiful and honest Nancy … at the hands of her lover, the villainous house-breaker, Bill Sikes.

  Dickens showed no mercy. He launched into the chapter, bringing the Jew, Fagin, to life, lisping and conniving, revealing to Sikes that Nancy had acted as an informant to good people who would take the boy, Oliver Twist, from his clutches and away from a life of thieving on London streets. A rage grows in the vicious thief. Murder is on his mind … a crime of passion.

  Dickens, it was said, had not been well of late. His hair was thinning, and he looked slight and pale, as if he might be in pain. There were rumors that some of these performances left him prostrate for hours afterward.

  Up on the stage he became Fagin, then Sikes out on the street, rushing toward the grimy one-room flat he shared with Nancy, so angry that had his pit bull, Bull’s Eye, not kept well ahead of him, he might have strangled it with his bare hands.

  Sherlock heard women crying around him. Then Sikes did his terrible deed. He struck Nancy with the butt of his pistol, twice to her face. She staggered, bloodied … and he descended on her with his club. Dickens committed the crime with his words, with his voice. And when he was finished, he looked out at his audience, to the people to whom he had told the brutal truth. He stepped from his desk and bowed. The applause began quietly, rising to a crescendo, still gaining volume as he exited.

  Sherlock was enraptured. Though he had hoped to hear a chapter from Bleak House about Inspector Bucket, the first detective in English fiction, he was not disappointed with Oliver Twist. It is his favorite novel, a book about a boy and for boys. Sherlock had cheered louder than anyone else in St. James’s Hall that evening. Charles Dickens’ fame, his energy, his unmatched imagination, fired the boy wi
th excitement. Holmes wasn’t bored, not for one second.

  “I want to be alive like that,” Irene had said suddenly.

  Sherlock had turned to her and smiled, both surprised and charmed. “So do I,” he replied, barely above his breath.

  And now, as they walk home from witnessing the extraordinary events at The Egyptian Hall, where they had seen a real dragon appear onstage, where Hemsworth the magician was accused of the murder of his famous rival in a sensational case filled with enticing loose ends … Irene Doyle is challenging him to be alive again.

  Who could resist such temptation?

  THE BAIT IS TAKEN

  “My boy!” exclaims Sigerson Bell the instant Sherlock Holmes arrives at their door. The old man hasn’t even seen him yet; the lad isn’t through the outer room into the back of the shop where they live, eat, experiment, and tangle with each other in brutal fashion during Bell’s lessons in the arts of self-defense. “I have been awaiting your arrival for I have been considering having us embark upon an investigation of the workings of the digestive system of the mammal, by thrusting our hands up to the elbows into the —”

  Then the apothecary sees his charge and stops. Sherlock appears to be upside down. That is because Bell is hanging from the ceiling again, despite the fact that it is nearing ten o’clock in the evening. It is a practice he suggests to his patients, to facilitate the flow of blood to the brain; he also believes it will help correct the extraordinary curvature of his spine, which is in the shape of a question mark. His long hair descends a couple of feet below his scalp like a little white waterfall, and he is completely naked except for a tiny, tight loincloth. But the sudden halt of his speech hasn’t been caused by the mere optical inversion of his apprentice — it is the look on the boy’s face.

  He pulls his feet out from their harness and does a flip in the air, landing perfectly upright, not an inconsiderable performance for a man his age, which is somewhere between seventy and eight hundred and sixty-nine. Thankfully, he fetches a gold-colored smoking jacket and covers himself up.