The Dragon Turn

by Shane Peacock

  The figure keeps fleeing. It seems to know where it is going. Holding up his candle, Sherlock can see a huge opening in the wall in the direction they are running, and what appear to be stairs descending from there. Descending? To where? Another, deeper chamber?

  The man stops suddenly. He hesitates. Then he turns to face Sherlock.

  “So sorry,” he says in a German accent, “I should not be rushing off, but you startled me. Vhat do you vant? Vhy are you here?” He coughs again. It sounds a little forced. “Excuse me, I always cough in enclosed spaces.”

  Before the boy stands a man in a long black greatcoat, so long it almost reaches the ground. He wears a black felt hat, pulled down almost to his brow, below which two dark eyes look out from a face full of whiskers. His black hair falls almost to his shoulders. Other than those eyes and a big, unusually hooked nose, his face is mostly hair.

  About sixty years old, hiding something.

  “Who are you?” gulps Sherlock.

  “It only seems right zat you should answer ze question first, sir,” says the man, sweating and gasping a little for breath. “After all, you are in my territory.”

  “My name is Holmes … and I am in the employ of Scotland Yard.”

  “Are you, now?”

  “Yes … I am.”

  “Und vhy should I tell you who I am?”

  “Because there was murder done here and anyone on the premises is a suspect.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “I said I was in the employ —”

  “Yes, of Scotland Yard. You vill have to prove zat, should you vant to get out of here alive.”

  “I … I have a guard outside the door. If I do not reappear soon, there will be trouble for you.”

  “But I am difficult to find, sir. You know zat yourself. Ze vall is sealed. I could simply leave your body in here.”

  “I … I am armed.” Sherlock lets the knife slip down his sleeve and into sight.

  “So am I,” says the man, and he pulls a revolver out of his greatcoat and points it at Sherlock’s head. “I always carry zis late at night.”

  There is silence for a moment. Holmes begins to sweat. The knife handle feels slippery in his hand. He thinks he hears something, a sort of rustling, coming from the inner chamber down the stairs.

  “I tease you, my boy,” says the man, putting the gun away. “But you should not be here. Come. I shall escort you back to ze main room. I know ze hocus-pocus that will move ze vall again. It is another button on ze inside!”

  “Your name, sir,” says Sherlock, still pointing the blade at the man. “You have not given me your name.”

  “I am Riyah, Oscar Riyah.”

  THE CURIOUS MR. RIYAH

  When they return to the main room, Riyah begins to explain. In fact, he seems to be in a talkative mood.

  “I own ze property, ze hotel, und all of ze below stairs.”

  “Why have you not come forward, spoken to Scotland Yard?”

  “I am a Jew, you know. My father vas one, at least. I am one of zose evil money-grubbing Jews … und I prefer to not be associated vis any murders, you vill understand. I am sure ze police can do zeir job vizout speaking vis me.”

  Sherlock doesn’t tell him about his own Jewish blood.

  “Do they know about the inner chamber?”

  “Vhy are you asking me? I thought you vere vith zem. Or don’t you remember?” He winks at the boy.

  “I …”

  “No need to explain. You are an acquaintance of ze boy, Scuttle, I imagine, but a little more curious, and brighter, shall ve say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t believe zey know about ze inner chamber, no. And ve shan’t inform them, shall ve?”

  Why is he telling me all of this? Why doesn’t he just throw me out?

  “What about the other chamber?”

  “Other?”

  “The lower one. I saw an opening and a staircase descending.”

  The man’s face darkens. “Did you, now? Zat’s too bad.”

  “I … I won’t say a word.”

  “I have never been down zere.”

  “But you own it.”

  “Vhen I purchased zis building, zere vere stories about a dungeon beneath it, used by Villiam ze Conqueror in ze 11th century. Men vere tortured in it, put on racks and stretched until zeir limbs snapped. I … have no interest in going down zere. Why would I?”

  “But I heard a sound down —”

  “I have heard zese sounds too. But I zink it is just vater trickling, or deep gasses gurgling beneath ze earth.”

  “But —”

  “I would not be surprised,” continues the Jew, “if Nottingham went zere zough. Perhaps he keeps his doves and rabbits zere.”

  “Nottingham?”

  “Yes, I let ze premises to him.”

  “I thought so!”

  “You are pleased?”

  “I have a friend on the Force, not much older than I. His father is Inspector Lestrade.”

  “Ah!”

  “That’s … that’s the reason I’m here. You might say that I am an unofficial police employee, and I discovered how to get in. It has been my belief all along that the studio belonged to Nottingham.”

  “Vell, you are correct.”

  “You must tell the police! They think it’s Hemsworth’s.”

  “As I said, I prefer to keep out of such zings. A Jew’s reputation is sullied enough in England by his mere existence.”

  “Sir … I am part Jewish.”

  “You are?”

  “I understand our situation, believe me, but you cannot let an innocent man die.”

  “I am sorry, but I haf told you my reason, and it shall stand. It is my impression zat ze identity of ze tenant vill not swing ze case one vay or ze ozer, my boy. I vould come forth to ze police if it might. What does it matter if Hemsworth was renting it or Nottingham? Ze Vizard is dead and His Highness had good reason to do it. Let ze law take its course. Nottingham vas my tenant and I vant zis dealt vith immediately. Zey have zeir man!”

  Sherlock’s head drops. There is nothing else he can do. He can’t even take the hat. How could I explain that? I can’t steal evidence in front of the owner. Since Riyah won’t come forward, Sherlock doesn’t even have proof that the workshop belongs to Nottingham. “I have to get out of here.”

  “So, you are a Jew too, you say?”

  “Part.”

  “And zat vas difficult for you, yes?”

  “Very.”

  “For me too, my son. I even changed my name. Before I came to zis country, I vas known as Abraham Hebrewitz.”

  Sherlock’s head snaps up, but not at Mr. Riyah. He is looking over his shoulder and across the room … in the direction of the hat.

  A.H. TO THE RESCUE

  “Sir, have you misplaced your hat?”

  The man’s eyes brighten. “Vhy yes! I haven’t been able to find it for several days. How do you know zis? Are you some sort of magician yourself?”

  Sherlock walks over to the hat and shines his candle on it. It is almost hidden between the tropical plants and pot of mushrooms. Riyah turns around and sees what he is doing.

  “Zat’s it!” cries the Jew. He tucks it under his arm and does a jig. “My hat! My hat! My gloriously expensive old hat!”

  “Sir, we must be quiet!”

  But it is too late. There is a rumbling above, then a thudding coming down the inner stairs from the hotel.

  “I have to go! Now!” cries Sherlock.

  “Not so fast!” Riyah reaches out and seizes the boy by the arm. Suddenly, the sixty-year-old man seems much younger and much stronger than before. There is a glint in his eye as he holds Sherlock and twists his arm with great skill, the sort of martial arts hold that Sigerson Bell might apply. The boy feels as though his arm will be pulled from its socket if he attempts to move. Riyah is hiding the hat behind his back.

  The inner door to the hotel slams open.

  “Go
t you!” cries the keeper, glaring at Sherlock. Then he notices who is holding him. “Mr. Riyah!” The name is spoken with the respect due to one’s economic better, and nothing more. “I haven’t seen you for a while, sir. It’s just as well that it’s you who caught this scamp because we have been trying to find you. Now we have you both. This boy has been here before; last night, in fact. I will send Scuttle to get the police.”

  “No need,” says Riyah in a surprisingly soft voice as he releases Sherlock from his grip. “It vas I who brought zis boy here. I noticed him outside, loitering about, und asked him in. I thought he might like to see ze crime scene. Zere is no harm. You vill recall your own boyhood interest in sensation, no doubt?”

  “Why, yes, sir, I suppose. But you must remove him, now … if you will. And make your own way to police headquarters, sir. They are anxious to speak with you.”

  “I prefer to stay out of zis, Mr. Starr. You vill tell zem zat you have not seen me. Hmm?”

  “But —”

  Riyah reaches into a pocket of his greatcoat, pulls out a few coins and passes them to the keeper.

  “Yes … sir. But … even you cannot come here again, not for the rest of the week. The police are forbidding anyone to be here. I went to their offices earlier today to tell them that I found this boy near the back door last night. They were not pleased. They are worried that word may spread about this location. So, beginning tomorrow, they will have it guarded around the clock until Hemsworth is sentenced, which should be shortly.”

  The Jew’s face darkens. “I see. Zat vill be all, Mr. Starr. We shall find our own vay out through ze back.”

  Riyah sends Sherlock on ahead, to shoo Scuttle away, not wanting to be seen by the ever-vigilant and conscientious younger lad. Holmes asks him if they can meet by the Garden’s gate — there is something he must tell him.

  A few minutes later, he sees Riyah lumbering toward him, his hat under his arm. The boy almost runs to him.

  “Sir, circumstances have changed.”

  “Changed? What do you mean?”

  “The hat … you either need to take it back and leave it where you forgot it a few days ago … and let Mr. Hemsworth go to his death. Or come with me to Scotland Yard, this instant, and tell them that this topper belongs to you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The police think it is Hemsworth’s hat.”

  “Zhey do?”

  “And, as you know, they think it is his studio.”

  “But ze hat obviously belongs to —” Then Riyah nods. “Ah, yes, our initials, A.H.… zey are identical.”

  “You said you didn’t come forward because it didn’t matter. It matters now, sir, believe me.”

  Three hours later Mr. Riyah and Sherlock are sitting on a wooden bench in the foyer of Scotland Yard off Whitehall Street when Lestrade senior and junior come blustering into the office looking angry and lacking in the last few hours of their Monday morning beauty sleep. They are accompanied by a uniformed policeman.

  “Sherlock Holmes!” spurts the older detective the instant he sees the boy. “You didn’t mention he would be here, Constable Monroe. I’ll have your job!”

  “Knew you wouldn’t come if I mentioned ’im, sir. But ’e’s the one who brought in Mr. Riyah. That’s the ’otel owner, sir, right there with the boy.”

  “Riyah! He glares at the older man. Why in the name of the queen didn’t you come forward before! We have been looking high and low for you! Monroe says you have valuable information, sir. It had better be good! Out with it! A man’s life is at stake.”

  “I let ze studio below ze Vorld’s End Hotel to Mr. Nottingham, Inspector.”

  “You do? Well, that is of some interest. What is that accent, sir?”

  “German.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Und zis,” Riyah produces the hat, “is mine.”

  Lestrade’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

  “It is?”

  “It is.”

  “Preposterous! Your name is Riyah! The initials on the inside are —”

  “I changed my name some time ago … after I bought ze hat.”

  “From what?”

  “Does it matter, sir? I can prove it.”

  “I believe Mr. Hemsworth is innocent,” says Sherlock, stepping forward.

  “Well … I … I don’t believe it!” shouts Lestrade.

  “Father, you must —”

  “Close your gob, sir. I will handle this. The day may come when you can tell me what to do, but it has not arrived yet. Outside of your mother, I am the boss … of me!”

  “Sir?” says Sherlock, “Shall you let Mr. Hemsworth go?”

  “Let him go? … NO!”

  “No?”

  “This man may prove that he has changed his name and his true initials may indeed be A.H., but … can he still prove that this is his hat!”

  “But ze hat, sir, it is, I bought it many years —”

  “Many years ago? Do you have a bill of sale?”

  “No sir, zat would be imposs —”

  “Aha! Hemsworth shall be tried for the murder of his rival. It does not matter if he did it in Nottingham’s workshop or his own. He did it. He had ample motivation, more motivation than I have ever seen in a crime during all my years on the Force. It makes perfect sense. And this may very well be his hat, anyway. Perhaps you and the accused have the same kind? This is a common topper, my good friend.”

  “No, sir, I am sure —”

  “And why would your hat be there anyway? Answer me that!”

  “Surely, sir,” interjects his son, “Mr. Riyah cannot be a suspect. He owns the premises. He must be there often. He simply forgot his hat. He has no reason to murder —”

  “What did I say about interruptions, young man?”

  His son closes his mouth.

  Riyah looks frightened. “Perhaps you are right, sir. I shall just take ze hat and be on my vay. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. I shall give you vhatever information you —”

  “Shall we try it on?” asks Sherlock, stepping right up to the senior detective. The latter is a bit disconcerted, not only by the close proximity of the half Jewish boy from the streets who has bested him several times over the last few years, but also by the fact that he has grown so tall that their eyes now nearly meet. Sherlock Holmes’s peepers are just a few inches from his.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I challenge you, sir, in front of all these people.”

  There is indeed an audience. The shift at Scotland Yard is about to change and a number of officers have been arriving during this confrontation. Intrigued by the contents of the argument and the raised voices, they have gathered in the foyer. A good-sized crowd of Lestrade’s charges now surround the actors in the drama.

  “I challenge you to try this hat on Hemsworth’s head.”

  Lestrade looks around. All eyes are on him. He turns to his son and whispers, “It’s just a regular topper, isn’t it, my boy? Should fit, shouldn’t it?” But the boy is reluctant to respond. He doesn’t have a sure answer.

  Silence fills the room.

  “All right,” says Lestrade eventually, “all right. Bring the prisoner forth and we shall put his hat on his head. Remember, Holmes, if it fits, then it is his, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  The quick response unnerves the senior detective a little more.

  Hemsworth is retrieved, looking sleepy. His face is not arranged as expertly as it is when he is upon the stage. He eyes Riyah and Sherlock and everyone around him.

  “This boy and this gentleman,” begins the Inspector, “think that this hat, found at the crime scene, in fact right next to poor Nottingham’s blood and spectacles, is not yours. I want you to try it on. This will decide your fate, sir. Do you choose to attempt it?”

  Hemsworth visibly swallows. He looks at the hat. “It isn’t mine,” he says.

  “Prove it.”

  “Can …”

  �
��And should you choose to model this headgear and are wrong, no lawyer in the empire, one would guess, will be able to save you.”

  “But —”

  “Make your decision!”

  Hemsworth takes the hat in his hand and holds on to it for the longest time. Silence descends on the room again. His hand is shaking. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raises the hat toward his head.

  “Be quick about it!” barks Lestrade.

  Hemsworth holds it above his red hair. He moves it around carefully, looking up at the brim. From where Sherlock stands, it looks like a perfect fit. What will Lestrade do to me if I am wrong? Does it make sense to judge a man’s head size from the seats of a theater? The magician’s cranium looks bigger up close.

  Hemsworth lets the topper fall gently onto his head, tipping it slightly forward. It sits there … a perfect fit.

  Lestrade lets out a roar. He turns to Sherlock Holmes, a deep smile on his face, a smile he has wanted to unleash upon the boy for a full eighteen months, ever since the lad solved the case of the Spring Heeled Jack. The Inspector is about to say something when Hemsworth suddenly speaks up. Everyone turns back to him. He waits until they are all watching.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he says, “there is a saying in the world of magic that one should fail at least once whilst performing any effect, before one does it correctly. That, you see, primes the audience, builds up the tension, and moves them to applause at just the right moment.” With that, he tips the big hat back and it falls clean over his small skull and down to his shoulders. Everything from the base of his neck up is now … a hat. “I believe,” he crows from inside the topper, “this lid is a little large!”

  The gathered policemen burst into applause. All, that is, except two.

  BIG MISTAKE

  There is no show that night at The Egyptian Hall, but both Sherlock Holmes and Irene Doyle are in attendance the following evening when Alistair Hemsworth makes his triumphant return to the London stage. The magician has made sure that they have front row seats. Inspector Lestrade, who was also favored with a pair of ducats, is nowhere to be seen.