The Dragon Turn

by Shane Peacock

  No one, not the boy, the Inspector’s son, or any of the other policemen, thought they had ever seen Lestrade’s face redder than it was at the instant Hemsworth magically let the hat fall over his skull to his shoulders. It looked like the respected policeman’s head might explode, an act of spontaneous combustion about to happen right in front of them. Sherlock had barely been able to control himself: he had wanted to laugh out loud.

  “Release the prisoner!” Lestrade had cried. “And get this boy out of my sight!”

  Hemsworth, who appears from the shadows and into the spotlight this evening to a gigantic ovation, is in his glory. If he had thought he was the toast of London before, now he knows he is its idol. His Highness performs the dragon feat this evening as never before — the beast looks more lifelike than ever, the Egyptian-robed princess’s horror seems very real. All is magnificently rendered and the crowd is captivated. And afterward, Sherlock and Irene are, once more, invited backstage.

  “Do you think he will ask me tonight?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sherlock, you really are a man-in-training, aren’t you? Do men not hear what women say because they block out higher-pitched voices?”

  “I don’t know —”

  “I am wondering if he is going to ask me to sing for him, to see if I might appear in his act. Remember? What an opportunity this would be!”

  “Oh, yes, of course, Irene. I hope he asks you.”

  “You are thinking about something else, aren’t you? Sherlock Holmes: the boy with his head in the clouds!”

  His mind is indeed on something else. But his thoughts aren’t happy ones. He is worried. It began when he rose this morning. He doesn’t know why, but getting Hemsworth out of jail just seemed too easy to him. Even Sigerson Bell had looked surprised at the news. Am I really getting so good at this? The Lestrades were convinced of Hemsworth’s guilt. What if he really did it? What if I helped free a murderer? Did I do it just for Irene? He thinks of his mother and what was done to her by a criminal. Justice is what matters, not pleasing someone whose attentions I seek. Girls can be dangerous. He tries to set aside this guilty feeling; he should be enjoying himself. Irene says he isn’t very good at that.

  The doubts don’t leave him as he walks toward the star’s dressing room. Hemsworth has never once appeared to be the least bit upset about Nottingham’s death. Sherlock is uneasy about the hat-modeling scene at Scotland Yard too, concerned that the magician was acting throughout, and knew all along that the topper wouldn’t fit. It all seemed so theatrically done. Was it just his flair for the dramatic? There is something about His Highness that the boy doesn’t like. He recalls hearing those whispers in the dressing room the first night they met. What was going on? Was Hemsworth just being a performer then too? Everything he does is for an audience, it seems, even when he walks down a street. Sherlock has heard it said that the magician is a little crazy. Maybe he was whispering to himself?

  “Welcome! Welcome!” shouts the triumphant performer, his wax-like face well put together once more. “Miss Irene Doyle, future singing star of the stage … and Master Sherlock Holmes, young detective extraordinaire.”

  There is no one else in the dressing room; this will be a private audience with the great man, while others line up outside in the hall. Or at least … it appears to be just the three of them. From the moment Sherlock enters the room, he has a sense that they are not alone. There is a curtain drawn across one end of the room. The boy thinks he sees it flutter once or twice. Irene doesn’t appear to notice, but then again, her mind is on other things.

  They have a long chat, filled mostly with conversation about the funny scene at Scotland Yard. Sherlock doesn’t say much and wonders if Hemsworth notices. But the magician seems to be very excited tonight, eyes sparkling and cheeks red, not given to noticing any subtleties of behavior. His interest in them only sputters after a good ten minutes of holding forth.

  “I am afraid I must see others as well. It is too bad. I would prefer to speak with you two young people all night!” He stands. “I shall see you out.”

  “Uh …” Irene stops herself.

  “Yes, Miss Doyle? Was there something you wanted?”

  Sherlock can’t believe this cad doesn’t remember what he promised her.

  “Sir …” she begins, “it’s just that … you … never mind.”

  “Mister Hemsworth,” says the boy. “Do you not recall suggesting that Miss Doyle might audition for you for the purpose of participating in your magic act?”

  His Highness looks startled. “Why, yes, of course! I am so very, very sorry. Of course! I shall send my card around to you soon, Miss Doyle. Montague Street, is it?”

  He knows where she lives, thinks Sherlock.

  Irene nods, her face glowing.

  The magician then brings their visit to a close. Irene leaves the dressing room first, looking back, smiling. Sherlock follows, trying to seem friendly, but not able to pull off much of an acting job. Just as he is almost through the door, he thinks he hears a faint cough. He stops.

  “What was that?”

  “What?” says Hemsworth.

  “That sound.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. Thank you for visiting. I am in your debt, sir.” Hemsworth grins at him, but the expression looks forced this time. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s back and applies gentle pressure, ushering him from the room. “I should speak to a few more folks.” He motions to the next couple waiting in the hallway. They enter to the magician’s cheery greeting and the door closes.

  That cough. Was Hemsworth playing games again? Is he a ventriloquist? Who do I know who is given to that sort of coughing? Riyah. “I always cough in enclosed spaces,” he had said. But why would he be in Hemsworth’s dressing room? Did they know each other before they met at Scotland Yard? It didn’t seem like it. I am jumping to conclusions. For goodness sake, all human beings cough at one time or another. And maybe it was, indeed, just a magician’s little game. But if it wasn’t … then that cough came from someone in hiding, someone listening … just like the first time we came here.

  Irene is already well down the hallway, which is still lined with a dozen or more celebrated people hoping to have brief audiences with His Highness. She has only been off his arm for a few seconds, it seems, when she is engrossed in a conversation with a young man. He is there with another about his age, both dressed in elegant evening clothes. Sherlock looks down at his own slightly worn suit. He recognizes the gentleman — an actor, a rising star. His mustache is expertly waxed. He is strikingly handsome, known for his way with words, his burgeoning talent, and his interest in young ladies. Irene is touching him on the arm now, laughing at something he has said and smiling at the other young man too.

  Sherlock brushes by them and heads down the hallway toward the street. This is the way it will always be with Irene Doyle. Why do I deceive myself? He reaches the door. A young woman in her late teens is entering. Very attractive, he says to himself. Without thinking, he eyes her up and down, and then realizes what he is doing. Feeling guilty and aware of his own frailties, his thoughts return to Irene, and are more charitable. She has every right to talk to those young men, just as I am allowed to notice other young ladies. If I believe that I should pursue my ambitions, shouldn’t I believe that she can too? I should admire her. She is a good person … but she’s of a different class than I am. I have to face it. Irene Doyle can’t be for me.

  He shoves open the outside stage door at the back of the theater and walks at a brisk pace toward Piccadilly Street. He has his head down, his mind still on Irene, instead of on the fact that Alistair Hemsworth seems suddenly, and unfortunately, to be a suspicious character. The boy has even stopped thinking about his role in freeing him.

  “Sherlock?”

  Holmes looks up. Someone has picked him out of the crowd at the front of the theater, as if she were waiting for him. Two sparkling black eyes are looking his way.

  “Beatrice!”
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  She is like a vision at this moment. Uninterested in the fancy-dressed people and handsome young men hailing cabs near her — some of whom look at her full figure with interest — she has a different focus. She is staring … at him.

  “Just the man I was looking for.”

  “It is nice to see you.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.”

  Her face turns red. “Thank you. That is … What I meant to say was … I went to the shop to find you and Mr. Bell said you were ’ere. I was ’oping to meet again tomorrow and then visit your father … with you. I thought it might be easier if we went together. I know you said that you’d go yourself, but I spoke to ’im today and ’e said ’e ’adn’t seen you, so I thought I’d call. I’m sorry if this is an imposition, but I thought I should try, because I —”

  “Because you care?”

  “Yes … I do.”

  “I should see him. You are right. And not some time in the distant future. Tomorrow. Are you at your work then?”

  “Yes … but I can get someone to do my duties in the morning. Of course I can. Shall we meet, say, first thing, near Father’s shop and take an omnibus. I can pay.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Sherlock crosses London Bridge early the following morning and stops by Snowfields School to tell the headmaster that his father is ill and he will not be able to lead his summer class until past noon. Then he makes his way, very slowly, to the Mint area, the south-of-the-river neighborhood where he used to live with his parents in a little flat above the Leckies’ hat shop. Ratfinch, the fishmonger, slouching along with his barrels of eels in his cart is surprised to see him, and even more taken aback that his suit, so carefully brushed and tended to, is now just secondhand. But Sherlock doesn’t respond to his greeting. In fact, he doesn’t even look up to the small window above the shop when he arrives, but fixes his eyes on Beatrice, who is spotlessly dressed this morning too, all in red and veritably shining, a recently purchased matching bonnet on her head, looking as if she has scrubbed herself all night. She slips her arm through his, secretly happy, and he hails an omnibus to travel the three or four miles south to the Crystal Palace where Wilberforce Holmes tends to his beloved birds and white doves.

  Every time the boy visited his father as a child, often hand in hand with his mother, the excitement began to build even before he left home. The glorious innards of the gigantic palace of entertainment awaited them: historical displays, circus acts, choirs, and maybe, just maybe, a sweet, a flavored ice, or a drink. It would be his treat for a whole season. They had always walked, and he had always waited for that moment when he would spy the great, nearly transparent building, still a mile or more away up on Sydenham Hill.

  It is a gray day, and rain threatens. The boy is up on the knifeboards of the omnibus’s roof, bare-headed, as usual, among the excited crowd of well-hatted, working- and middle-class men, dressed for the rain. Beatrice sits inside with the ladies, wondering what Sherlock is thinking. He doesn’t look up to see the palace until they have pulled into the area around the train terminus at the south end of the park.

  The rain has begun by the time they have made their way through the expansive grounds, past the sculptures of the lizard-like dinosaurs, the fountains, the athletic fields, and up the grand stone staircase to the front doors. Sherlock pays the entrance fee for Beatrice too, his coins nearly all gone now.

  There aren’t many visitors today, few excursionists coming from the country, since it is a weekday with poor weather. In his youth, Sherlock would always spot his father from the entrance and get permission from his mother to run to him through the thick crowds. Wilber Holmes was always particularly active by that time of the day, watching over his birds, readying things for that moment when he would release the hundreds of white doves of peace. He would turn to his son at the last moment, somehow magically knowing he was approaching, open his arms wide and hoist him into the air, before spinning him like a top. Sherlock never laughed more than during those moments. And when the spinning had stopped, Mr. Holmes would turn to Rose, his face lighting up, before she was enveloped in his arms too.

  Today, Sherlock can’t see his father at first, even though the crowds are sparse. Finally, he spots him, and sees why it took a while. Wilberforce is sitting down, and his appearance is shocking. He looks thin indeed, almost skeletal, and his big, black beard is streaked with gray.

  Sherlock gasps. Beatrice takes him by the hand and brings him forward.

  “Father?”

  Wilber looks up. His ashen face brightens. His son had wondered if he might scowl, begin shouting, and tell him to leave.

  “Sherlock? Is it really you?” Mr. Holmes gets to his feet and embraces the boy. For several seconds, he tries to lift him and spin him around, but he can’t. So, he is happy to just hold his son’s face and look into his eyes. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  Beatrice steps back from them.

  They say nothing for a few moments, then Mr. Holmes motions for Sherlock to sit beside him. “Thank you for your letters.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “I am delighted, you know, as I believe I once mentioned in a note, that you are dedicating yourself to justice. It makes me very happy. It would have pleased your mother as well.”

  For an instant, Sherlock can’t speak. But he gathers himself. “You don’t think it is just a childish dream?”

  “Ambition is a desirable thing, if it is in the service of good. Remember that.”

  “I … I want us to see each other more often, Father.”

  “I would like that. And I would like to help you pursue this dream of yours.”

  “Catching criminals is really just science of a sort, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely!”

  The boy beams.

  “Perhaps, Sherlock … perhaps we needed some time apart.”

  “I think you are right, sir.”

  “Well … let us imagine, my son, that nothing terrible ever happened, that we are just meeting again after a day or two, or perhaps your mother and I were just out for a long walk.” Wilber has to pause for a moment, then continues. “Let us converse as we used to. So … I want to know what you are doing, right now, this week. Let’s talk about that. What is occupying your time? What is on your mind?”

  “A case, Father.”

  “A case! Tell me!”

  Sherlock does. He tells him everything. When he is done, the elder Holmes is left rubbing his beard.

  “This Riyah fellow. He said he was a Jew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever notice, Sherlock, that I never actually called you a Jew? I never quite put it that way.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I never did, and that was for a reason. You know me to be very particular about the things I say, very scientific?”

  Sherlock grins. “Yes, Father.”

  “Well, you are not a Jew.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Not strictly. One only calls oneself a Jew when one’s mother is Jewish.”

  Sherlock’s eyes grow large as he begins to understand what Wilber is driving at: Riyah, as the boy has just related, said that only his father was Jewish.

  “You see!” remarks Mr. Holmes, suddenly looking much healthier. “You will recall how I told you to observe everything intently at all times and to always listen very carefully too.”

  “Yes, and I do, I always do.”

  “Well, I was listening to you, very carefully, when you recounted your conversation with this Riyah chap. He calls himself a Jew … but he isn’t. And his real name is Abraham Hebrewitz? It might as well be plucked from the pages of a novel! I smell a rat.”

  “My nose has been detecting a similar odor.”

  “Your big nose,” says Wilberforce, gripping his own.

  Sherlock laughs. “Yes, my big Jewish nose!”

  They spend more than an hour together. Wilber neglects his
duties, though he doesn’t seem to care. But when it is time to leave, after they have hugged and promised to talk again, many times a week, his father appears to begin shrinking in size again, his hair seems grayer, and his expression saddens.

  Sherlock can’t look back again as he leaves.

  “I wonder,” he says, and a tear rolls down his face, “if I’ll ever see him alive again.”

  “Nonsense,” says Beatrice.

  “I will get him to a good doctor. No, I’ll do better than that: I’ll take him to Mr. Bell!”

  “Next week, Sherlock: we’ll talk to your father about it next week.”

  “We?”

  “Well, if you don’t want —”

  “Yes, that would fine. The two of us: let’s do it together.”

  He mentions his worries about the Nottingham case. She listens and appears concerned.

  As Sherlock looks into her face, it becomes clear to him that he will be leaving the Crystal Palace with two realizations. First, that he could never have shed a tear in front of Irene Doyle, but had no trouble doing it with Beatrice, and secondly, that his brilliant father, who gave him all the tools he needed to do what he so desperately wants to do in life — to avenge his mother’s murder many times over, until the day he dies — has hit upon something that he himself suspected: there is something not quite right about Oscar Riyah. And that deeply increases the suspiciousness of Alistair Hemsworth. Have I, because of my desire to impress a young lady, been the instrument of releasing a murderer? And what if this murderer has further horrors up his sleeve?

  BELL CHIMES IN

  Sherlock has been to see one of his fathers, now he needs to talk to the other. He wakes the following morning, thinking of what they must discuss. It is a Thursday. He doesn’t teach summer school classes this day of the week, and Bell is usually already out the door by now, visiting clients, so the boy expects to get some work done around the shop. He’ll talk to his master after Big Ben strikes noon. But as he gains consciousness, Holmes hears the old man fussing about in the laboratory, knocking over torts and flasks, and banging impatiently on powders as he works with his mortar and pestle. It is obvious, from all this racket, that the alchemist is experimenting. When Sigerson Bell has a chemical idea he is like a dog worrying a meaty bone. He hears nothing and sees nothing, except his ideas and the components — the chemicals or alkaloids — he is mixing and matching. Sherlock hears him gently cursing in his polite manner and knows his master’s mind is tightly engaged and far away.