“Master Holmes?”
“Sherlock?”
“Are you all right, Miss Doyle?”
“I am fine, Master Holmes.”
The attendants enter and seize the boy from behind.
“Unhand him, gentleman,” says Hemsworth. “I shall take care of this.” The attendants slouch back to the lobby.
“But that scream …”
“It is a frightening show, my boy. Severed heads, live dragons?”
“We are working on a song, Sherlock. There may be,” she smiles at Hemsworth, “a scream involved.”
Holmes doesn’t like that smile.
“I hear you are coming tomorrow, Holmes?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Well, I am clairvoyant, you know. I read minds, tell the future, that sort of thing.”
“Are you finished, Miss Doyle? Would you like me to accompany you home?”
Holmes hasn’t had a chance to tell Irene about his suspicions. It also occurs to him that she might consider his visit to the police a betrayal, an interference that might destroy her great opportunity. He glances at Hemsworth, who grins back at him.
“We have just begun, Sherlock. You go on. I will see you later.”
What if she is rehearsing with a murderer?
“Are you sure?”
“Please go.”
Holmes doesn’t return to the apothecary shop. He walks toward Irene’s Bloomsbury neighborhood, thinking about all the evidence he has accumulated. Circumstantial or not, it is compelling. Both Lestrades are sure who did it. Hemsworth is no fool. He must know that I know. I could tell by the way he looked at me. How on earth does he know we are coming tomorrow night? The boy reaches Montague Street and waits near a side entrance to the British Museum, watching the front door of the Doyle home on the other side of the street. But he waits in vain. Irene doesn’t appear. Just before midnight, he trudges home.
There is no sign of her on Montague Street the following morning before he goes to school to do some chores, or when he comes home about noon. He stays hidden across from her home for hours and she doesn’t appear. He even tries her door, but it is locked. The Egyptian Hall entrance is secured, as well, and there is no sound coming from inside. Perhaps I missed her … very late last night. Perhaps she went out this morning and stayed out all day. He prays that it is true.
THE DRAGON AT THE EGYPTIAN HALL
Though Irene isn’t scheduled to be part of the show that evening, Sherlock expects, and hopes, to see her in the audience. But when the boy picks up his ticket at the booth, he notices that her pass is unclaimed. As the lights go down, he is beside himself with worry. He squirms in his seat, hers empty next to his, his heart pounding. Why do I involve her in my obsessions? Why can’t I leave them alone until I am older, until I am truly equipped to make a difference? I should have learned by now, but I keep allowing myself to be drawn back to her, and she draws me to what I should not do. Has Hemsworth made her disappear, in the same way he disposed of Nottingham?
He can’t stand it anymore. He rises to his feet and roughly moves past seated spectators to the aisle. An usher spots him and approaches from behind. But he isn’t planning to leave the theater: far from it. He is heading for the stage.
Hemsworth’s erotic Far Eastern music has begun, played by the ten-piece band in the orchestra pit. The beguiling Venus is before the audience, alone, those bits of flimsy white muslin wrapped around her midsection, exposing her legs and her entire midriff, and barely covering her chest. Her dark skin glistens in the spotlight as she dances, beckoning the audience’s attention toward her, making her way to stage right and a huge scimitar — an East Indian sword with a shining handle and long steel blade, devilishly turned up at the point. It is suspended in midair, where it will be the magician’s weapon for his decapitation feat. She will grip it and caress it, before seductively motioning for the great man to enter from stage left. He will prostrate himself before her … and she will slice off his head.
Sherlock is running now. The attendant behind him can’t catch up, and the other, the one next to the stage door, is taken by surprise. The boy rushes by and is instantly backstage. Here, one staircase leads down to the dressing rooms, the other up to the wings. He is just below stage left. He flies upward. There, stands Hemsworth, resplendently dressed in his white adventurer’s outfit, trousers and shirt gleaming, big black boots and black safari hat framing him, about to make his entrance. He sees Sherlock coming toward him and, for some reason, simply smiles at him, and waves off the attendant who has followed. The boy will have none of that: he makes for His Highness, but the magician glides away, onto the stage. And as he does, someone is revealed behind him. Irene. Sherlock stops. She is watching from the wings too, relaxed and happy … until she sees Holmes. She looks at him with suspicion, sensing something unpleasant in his sudden backstage appearance. The boy drops his head and stands still and quiet. He stays that way throughout the entire first act.
During intermission, Hemsworth, his face lit up by the performance, eyes glittering as if he has ingested some of Sigerson Bell’s cocaine concoctions, takes a moment to greet him.
“Master Holmes, I am so glad you could make it. I trust this spot is advantageous for spectating? You will have a unique view of my creature. I believe some friends of yours will be here as well?”
How does he know that? Sherlock wants to talk to Irene about Hemsworth, tell her his suspicions, but the magician takes her aside and keeps her from him.
Just as the second act begins, the stage door opens again and the Lestrades enter with a plainclothes policeman in tow. Though they had to flash their badges at the attendant, they are trying not to cause a fuss.
Irene looks from them to Sherlock, not pleased.
Once she sees the beast up close, sees what it is capable of, reconsiders what was left of Nottingham’s body, and then hears what we know of His Highness and his secret relationship with Riyah, she will understand.
They all wait silently for the big moment, the dragon sensation. And when it comes … it disappoints.
The beast, seen from the wings of the theater, is obviously fake. It looks like it is made of papier mâché and its wings, its mouth, the long forked tongue, indeed move mechanically. Its animated effect must be enhanced with mirrors and lighting!
Hemsworth is all action as the stage dims. In the darkness, he is seen pulling the dragon illusion from the stage to a spot behind the curtains and, curiously, roughly pulling Venus away too. He vanishes behind the scenes with her for a moment and then returns to take the house’s applause.
But from the wings, this audience doesn’t look as impressed as the others were on previous nights. Then Hemsworth saves it all. He turns to his five onlookers at stage left: Lestrade and his sidekicks are about to leave inconspicuously out the back door.
“I must tell you,” the magician booms to the audience in his deep baritone, “that tonight we have distinguished guests in our midst. The police, as you know, arrested me for the horrible murder of the Wizard of Nottingham, may he rest in peace.” Lestrade stops in his tracks, a look of dread coming over his face. Onstage, Hemsworth removes his hat and holds it over his heart. “I am free now, as an innocent man should be.” The crowd roars and he bows to them. “But,” adds His Highness, “the Force cannot give it up. It seems, they still think something nefarious is at work in my mind and in my actions. So … they are here tonight! I ask you, to give them a magically gigantic ovation. Gentlemen?”
He motions for all three policemen to come onstage. They freeze. The applause builds. He motions to them again. “Don’t be shy!”
They make their entrance, heads down.
“This is the famous Inspector Lestrade, he who erroneously arrested me.” The crowd roars with laughter. “And this is his son, and this is one of his respected slaves.” Another roar. “Find anything of interest tonight, gentlemen?”
Sherlock can’t look. As he turns away, he notices Venus
slipping past the door that leads backstage. She is rushing down the hall where the dressing rooms are situated. She has made a remarkably fast change from her white-woman-in-peril role. Her face is a beautiful ebony again, and she is already wearing her dress. He remembers that she was the first out the door when he accosted her two nights ago. She mustn’t want to be near Hemsworth any longer than necessary.
Irene turns angrily to Sherlock. “You supported this, didn’t you? You put them up to it? Why?”
“I think he is guilty. And I think you should stay away from him.”
“Guilty? You set him free. We set him free.”
“I am worried that we shouldn’t have.”
“Worried? What happened to evidence? Facts! Remember?”
“I tried to keep you informed.… Where were you all day?”
“We were rehearsing — it takes time. Listen, Sherlock, we are friends, better than friends. And I want it to stay that way. But you are so frustrating sometimes! I hope Hemsworth still wants me.” She exits through the stage door and out of the theater.
Holmes would like to follow, slink away with her, but he knows he must face the music. If he doesn’t, he will be summoned to Scotland Yard, anyway.
The Lestrades take him out into the alley, so no one can hear them. Sherlock has heard of police actually beating people, there are stories in The News of the World about it from time to time. Lestrade’s face isn’t red on this occasion, it is purple.
“Father, you must restrain yourself,” says his son, holding on to him, but the Inspector slaps his hands away.
“You, mister-half-Jew-interfering-disgusting-lowlife brat, have ruined everything about this case! And my reputation with it!”
If only that were possible.
“I would have you shot if I could!”
“Sir, I don’t think —”
“Shut your GOB, Master Lestrade!” The lad shrinks back.
“You, Holmes, are now old enough to be treated as an adult. You, sir, can have your reputation destroyed too!”
“Sir?”
“FIND ME THE DRAGON! That’s all we have left!”
“What do you mean?”
“Here’s your choice.… Find me a real, live dragon, and prove that Hemsworth used it to kill Nottingham … or I destroy your future! What do you think your chances are, half-breed? I have the power to end your dreams, and I am about to do it. I shall detail to the press, detail, how you have interfered with police affairs before. How you are the trickster behind freeing a man whom the entire Metropolitan London Police Force believes is the murderer of the nation’s most popular showman!” He pauses, then shouts again, “I know what you want to do with your life, boy!”
“And so I shall.” Sherlock sticks out his prominent chin.
“Not if the newspapers and the entire enforcement of authority in this city know that you plot the release of heinous criminals! Who will work with you then? Give you one ounce of help?” He turns to go, then comes back to the boy. “I could have your head this instant. I know you broke into The World’s End Hotel — twice! What would that cost you before the magistrates? Five years? Ten? What would that cost your little career plans? You think you know something about this case? Prove it! You have hamstrung us!”
“How long do I have?”
“I may speak to the press tonight, perhaps tomorrow morning. Perhaps in two days.… Maybe three? I may arrest you at any time. You will never solve this! But I want you to squirm. I want you to wonder when the axe will fall, the guillotine … on your neck!”
“What … what about Mr. Riyah? If we could make him confess —”
“We have looked high and low for him! We had Hemsworth’s dressing room searched. It is a single, sealed room, you fool! Mr. Riyah has vanished!”
He stomps off, taking the policeman with him. Only young Lestrade remains.
“Well, this should be simple enough, my friend,” he remarks. “I’d say the odds are with you. All you have to do … is produce a dragon!”
HILTON POKE
Sherlock walks back to the apothecary shop feeling frightened. All I have to do is find a dragon? And do it with haste. Find a dragon, when I know now that the only one alive in England is an illusion, when I know that the entrance to The World’s End inner chamber — which is likely empty — is guarded around the clock? I’ve done it again! I’ve put everything, this case and my whole future, in jeopardy!
His mood isn’t helped by the fact that he senses he is being followed again. But he can’t see anyone at first. He walks up Piccadilly, through Leicester Square, and north toward Denmark Street. Once or twice, as he moves along, he thinks he glimpses his pursuer … a man in a black greatcoat. It must be my imagination. But it makes him think. If Riyah isn’t who he says he is, then who is he? Is the old “Jew” a dressed-up actor? Sherlock considers the man’s size, the way he slips through the crowds so easily and undetected and knows the streets. Who would be good at that sort of thing? Who might want to follow me and keep following? Who has his hands on sensational criminal activity in London? Who would want to keep tabs on Sherlock Holmes, but remain hidden? He thinks of the pursuer’s coat again and realizes that he has never seen it clearly. Could it be a coat with tails? A thought freezes him. Malefactor! But the boy shakes it off. It couldn’t be … could it?
Back at the shop, Sherlock tells Bell everything that happened before he turns in. The old man shakes his head sadly at first, but then rubs his chin thoughtfully and retires upstairs. The boy tosses and turns in his little bed and can’t sleep. The next day is Sunday. That’s good — it isn’t a day on which Lestrade is likely to act. He rises late and gives a street urchin two pennies to take a note to the home of Snowfields’ headmaster, informing him that “due to circumstances beyond my control,” he cannot teach summer classes for the next few days. He doesn’t mention that he will be spending every minute of that time searching for a dragon.
He also sends an invitation to Irene Doyle: he needs to see her. She appears at teatime in mid afternoon. The day is hot and muggy, and she is wearing a blood-red dress with a parasol, her arms bare all the way from her elbows to her wrists, another outfit that would look perfect on a stage. Dressed for Hemsworth, thinks Sherlock. Bell has somehow gotten wind of Miss Doyle’s invitation and has commenced to make them a rather sumptuous tea, complete with his best Indian brew poured into his best flasks, and scones seasoned with calf brains, a surprisingly tasty item, the ingredients of which are not revealed to Miss Doyle. The bent-over apothecary then returns up the spiral staircase to his room, though Sherlock spots him every now and then, peering at them through the opening in the floor.
“Thank you for having me,” says Irene, taking a stool at the laboratory table. “Let us put last night behind us.”
“Irene, I have a few things to tell you. First, you must know why I suspect Alistair Hemsworth.”
“Speak as you please, but it won’t change my mind.”
He tells her, in detail. She keeps eating as he does, nodding from time to time at the remarkable flavor in the scones, but seemingly unaffected by the information.
“What kind of evidence do they call that?”
“Convincing?”
“No … circumstantial, isn’t it? Evidence that doesn’t really —”
“I know what it means, Irene.”
A button comes bouncing down the staircase, one that Sherlock noticed was getting loose on Bell’s laboratory smock this morning, but when they both look up, all they see is wispy white hair and the top of a bald head darting away.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asks.
“I want you to stay away from him. It would set my mind at ease while I, while I —”
“Pursue the case?”
“Well, it’s what you are always pushing me to do.”
“Not this time. You have done your work. Hemsworth is free.”
“To do more mischief because of me; and I am free to be jailed or disgraced if
I can’t stop him.”
“Sherlock, it isn’t him. And it isn’t some dragon. That is a lunatic idea. It is beneath you. You are allowing yourself to be obsessed, instead of using reason … as we always say we should do. Tell the police about Mrs. Nottingham. She is obviously not what she seemed … rather like your friend, Miss Leckie. Remember that women can be just as beastly as men. The Wizard’s wife had reason to murder him. She is in love with someone else. Suddenly, she vanishes? She probably knows about her husband’s secret studio. She may be the only other person who does. It fits. The way you found out about her was genius.” She winks at him and he blushes. “Find her. Then figure out how she did it. Forget about chasing dragons.”
“I can’t betray Miss Juliet. I can’t reveal her identity. She told me about Mrs. Nottingham in confidence.”
“Then I will. I don’t need to play the gentleman. We must do what is right. The police should know this. If it is her, and they can find her, you are off the hook too. Justice will be served, which is what matters in the end.”
“Don’t tell them. Give me a day or two. I don’t think it’s Mrs. Nottingham, anyway. How did she kill a grown man and leave behind just his spectacles, his blood, and pieces of his flesh?”
“You will always underestimate women, won’t you?” She pauses. “I can’t stand by and keep this information quiet. Neither should you. But I will give you a little time.”
“You sound like Lestrade.”
“Sherlock, he hates you. I … I like you, very much. I can see the day when you will be a great detective, and I will be singing at the Royal Opera House. What a couple we could be!”
The Dragon Turn Page 10
