The Dragon Turn

by Shane Peacock

  “I would love to chat, but I must be going.”

  Sherlock turns to run through the little courtyard and out the alleyway to Jermyn Street. The coach is well on its way. He will have to sprint to catch it, and to lose Malefactor at the same time.

  “Gentlemen!” shouts his rival.

  Immediately, two figures emerge at the Jermyn Street end of the alley, under the catwalk, facing Sherlock, and coming toward him: a small one to the left, a large one to the right. Grimsby and Crew. He can’t see their faces, but he imagines the little one’s ghoulish grin and the big one’s blank stare.

  Sherlock stops in his tracks. He can’t go this direction. But if he turns and runs the other way, back out the alley behind him, he will have no chance to catch Hemsworth’s vehicle. He feels for his horsewhip, then looks toward the two thugs and decides.

  He turns around and runs, right under Malefactor, up the alleyway and out into Piccadilly. It is time to cut his losses. There is no advantage to being caught. Those two henchmen could put him out of commission for a long while. He reaches the street and keeps running, all the way to the apothecary shop.

  But he doesn’t stay there. In fact, he doesn’t even venture past the front room and into the laboratory. He merely slips inside, stays long enough for anyone who might be following him to assume that he will not reemerge, and goes out again. Bell doesn’t seem to be present.

  Then, Sherlock takes a strange route to the Cremorne Gardens, sticking to alleys, mews, and small streets. It isn’t the safest way, but it’s the smartest, calculated to make pursuit a difficult endeavor. He sees many street people, stable boys, and thugs, and rushes by lowlifes who are making decisions about how to rob him. He is trying to move as quickly as he can, but stares right back when they look at him, as he once watched Malefactor teach his minions to do — show no fear, let them know that there are better, less resistant targets — and scurries onward.

  When he gets to Chelsea, he can see that no vehicle has entered through the Cremorne gates off King’s Road — it is locked tight and there are no discernable wheel tracks. So, rather than crossing through the Gardens to the back of the hotel, as he has before, he heads down the street that runs along the east end of the park, until he is almost at the river. There he turns and walks to the front of The World’s End. Everything looks quiet. He spies a couple of policemen who think they are perfectly disguised as street people, and avoids them. There is a stable door near the front entrance, but given this police presence, Hemsworth would not have tried to unload his freight here. Or would he? What magic is he capable of? There is one more Gardens’ gate, on the south side at the river past the west end of the hotel, but when Sherlock gets there, it too, is locked and the ground undisturbed. Of course, there is another possibility. He hasn’t come here at all.

  Sherlock makes sure the plainclothes policemen aren’t near, jumps the fence, and enters the Gardens. Where is Scuttle? He would be helpful now.

  The boy arrives almost on cue, as he does every time, it seems. He is again anxious to be seen and listened to, despite it being almost five o’clock in the morning. He is wearing his usual clothes, or lack of them, and doesn’t appear to have been recently asleep. Sherlock motions for him to move a good distance away from the hotel, out into the Gardens.

  “Under the covers again, sir? I am at your servicement once more.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?” the little boy swallows. “You knows, sir, there are many policemen wearing very plain clothing tonight. We must not do anything too conspicuating.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Scuttle.”

  “I am a seasoning answerer, my excellent man. I have answered many questions over my years, I ’ave. I answered the queen, you knows. Did I tell you?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And I answered those who ’ave starred at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, no less, and the Garrick and the ’aymarket, all the best ’alls. I answered Sayers the boxing man and Leybourne who sings of the flying young man on the daring trapeze, and Mr. Lear who makes up nonsense, and each and every one of the Davenport Brothers, they who disappear on the stages. Without a doubt … I’ve answered all the important people in the empire.”

  “Then answer this. Does Hemsworth have a real dragon?”

  “Oh, no doubt, sir, no doubt.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Well … well …”

  “I need to prove it.”

  “It is within the mighty realms of possibility that I may ’ave spoken too dramatically just now, too not realistically. ’e may not have a dragon, sir. I have never seen ’im with one, sir, now that I thinks of it.”

  “Then what does he have? You have seen him sneaking around the park. Does he keep something down there?”

  “Down where?”

  “In his inner room, his second chamber?”

  “Second chamber, sir? I ’ave been in there, and there is only one.”

  Have been in there? There is only one?

  “Let me stop you there, my good man. You have said two things that intrigue me.”

  “That does not surprise me, sir. Even The Prince of the Whales was intrigued by Scuttle’s talk, ’e who makes foreign affairs with beautiful ladies who are married to other fine gentlemen, which England accepts, understanding ’is importance, and loving to ’ear of his romantics, as they are time-consummating and of fascination.”

  “Scuttle! Listen to me. This is important.”

  “I shall become full of ears, and yet —”

  “Shut your face, sir, until I am done.”

  There is silence.

  “Scuttle, what do you mean when you say you have been in there? How is that possible?”

  There is more silence.

  “You can talk now. Answer the question please, but stick to the subject.”

  “I … ’ave … been … inside … Mr. ’emsworth’s studio.”

  “When?”

  “Many times.”

  “Many times? Why?”

  “The keeper, Mr. Starr, ’e asks Scuttle to water the tropical plants and mooshrooms in that room, as Mr. ’emsworth is away from times to times. They is vampire plants, foreign ones from fars away — they need no sun, just like ’im. I does it during the days when there is no one about. I am told not to touch anything. And I doesn’t … ’cept I looks at the magic tricks … a little. I was told to keep what I does quiet, so I never even whispered of it to the police, or to you, my agent. I do as I’m told when on wery important duties. Just told the Inspector, when ’e asked, that I thought the place was Mr. ’emsworth’s, because I felt it was ’im I seen goings in and goings out on many occasions … just as I often see, and speak to the great and famous Mrs. Keene, the important and stunned actress who —”

  “Scuttle, let’s stay on our subject, remember?”

  “Yes, sir, I shall stick like ’orse glue to our subject on which we are gabbing.”

  “Have you been in there lately, since the police have been guarding it so closely?”

  “Yes, sir, there is great need for the watering of plants now, as the magical magician ’isself is not allowed in neither.”

  “How closely do the police watch you?”

  “They stops me every time, sir, to make sure it is Scuttle.”

  That means I can’t go disguised as this boy.

  “The second thing you said of interest was that you thought there was only one room down there. But there is a second one … behind a wall. In fact, there are three.”

  The smaller boy pauses. “Sir, are you right in your upper storeys? That sounds like a wery fantastic idea from a novel for a child or a panting-mime on the London stage. But ’ere, sir, under the ’otel, there is just one large room.”

  “No, Scuttle, there are three. And in the third room, he may be keeping something.”

  The smaller boy swallows again. “Something?”

  “Something living; a beast of some sort, I think. I don’t k
now what it is, but I heard noises.”

  Scuttle steps back.

  Sherlock speaks softly “I have a secret assignment for you. I will give you several tuppence to do it. This is very secret, even the plainclothes policemen are not aware of it, and must not be told.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I cannot go myself, so I will entrust this to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you go inside tonight, saying that you need to water the plants?”

  “And what … what would I do then?”

  “Go into the second chamber. I will tell you how. Then, proceed down into the third, and report back to me tomorrow on what you see.”

  Scuttle is silent.

  “Master Scuttle?”

  “Is this for England, sir?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “But what if Scuttle is wery nervewacking, sir? What if my ’eart sweats and my ’ands pound, and my brain shakes so as I cannot do the duty?”

  “Just imagine you are onstage.… Imagine you are the star in a very important play.”

  “A famous one? Perhaps one that might cause a scandal due to its racing subject? Perhaps Scuttle could be wery dashing and ’andsome in it?”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “I will do it … and become famous in real life too for ’elping to solve this murder.”

  “Uh, that may not happen. Remember, this is a secret mission. You are doing this because it is the right thing to do — for justice.”

  “But that is not a good reason to do something, sir, just ask anyone in our modern world.”

  “Then … pretend, Scuttle.”

  “Ah!”

  “You will do it?”

  “I awaits your commandment.”

  “You must go now.”

  “Now?”

  “Time is of the essence.”

  Scuttle doesn’t move. “There is nervousment inside me, sir, great nervousment.”

  “Just pretend, Scuttle, remember? Pretend.”

  The little boy squints his eyes and imagines. When he opens them, he looks calmer. Sherlock tells him how to get into the second chamber, and then watches him march off. He sees him stop next to a plainclothes policeman, then head toward the back door of the hotel with the key he’s been given. Poor Scuttle disappears inside.

  THE INNER CHAMBER

  After just a few hours of sleep, Sherlock is back on his feet, hoping that Lestrade is not coming for him. He prays he can just have this day, and more importantly, this night. There is no sign of the police in or near the apothecary shop. Bell sits at the laboratory table eating more of those scones with tea. His eyes dart up as the boy seizes a scone to eat, another to shove in a pocket, and pours a hot flask of tea down his throat.

  “Sir, why are you not speaking to me?”

  “I do not see you there. I do not see that you will not be doing your shop chores, tending to the store, or practicing your lessons with me today.”

  “But —”

  “Go! Go … before I notice you and make you stay.”

  Sherlock rushes toward the door, but can’t resist asking Bell one question before heading out into the streets.

  “Do you really think Hemsworth has a dragon, sir?”

  “There is more in this world, Master Holmes, than is dreamt of in your imagination … and, by the way, if you see said Holmes, tell him he has work to do today and must come home immediately!”

  But Sherlock doesn’t get all the way down Denmark Street. He is accosted just before it meets Crown Street.

  “Oh, thank goodness, you are all right.”

  “Uh … of course, I am, Miss Leckie.”

  “A friend of mine, a younger one who is going to the summer classes at Snowfields, told me you were not there yesterday, and I met ’er on my way in, just an ’alf hour ago, near the school, and I ’ad ’er run in to see if you were attending today. She said you were nowhere to be seen. I came right ’ere.”

  Her eyes are red.

  “I have a few approved days away. You must be late for your work.”

  “I shall make up the time. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t ’urt, or worse. I remembered ‘ow anxious you still were about this Nottingham case the last time we spoke … you were fussing about it, but not telling me exactly why … and I recollected the time you went back to that awful ’otel where the murder ’appened … and I was worried you ’ad done something like that again.”

  “As you see, I am as fit as a fiddle.”

  She puts a hand on his arm. “Don’t let Miss Doyle lead you into doing more dangerous things. I am sure she is a wonderful lady, and I know she is so pretty and all, but be careful, Sherlock.”

  Would Irene ever be like this?

  “Miss Doyle is actually encouraging me to stay out of the Nottingham investigation.”

  “She is? Well … she is right, then. She has changed ’er mind?”

  “She got what she wanted when Hemsworth was freed.”

  “But you … you aren’t done with this, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Beatrice … I really think Hemsworth may have done it.” Why am I telling her this? Do girls just get whatever they want from me?

  “So … is this why you aren’t at school?”

  She knows, of course. “Yes.”

  The boy doesn’t like standing still. He looks behind, up at the rooftops. No sign of Malefactor or his henchmen, no police, but I must get moving.

  “Are you going somewhere now about this case?”

  “I’m just … dropping by the market for Mr. Bell.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I swear they are mind readers.

  “You are right, I’m not. But I must be off.”

  “Back to The World’s End?”

  Sherlock begins to walk slowly. Beatrice strolls with him, taking his arm. But as they turn south on Crown Street, he sees a small, black-coated figure dart into an alleyway no more than fifty yards ahead, on their side of the street. Grimsby. Beatrice feels Sherlock stiffen.

  “I am being followed.”

  “Fifty yards ahead, our side, alley.”

  “How … how did you know that?”

  “I am poor, Sherlock, and a girl, so I know when I am being followed or watched, believe me. Your upbringing in our neighborhood ’elps you to know when you are in danger, but if you were a girl, that sense would be even better.”

  He had never thought of it like that.

  “Keep walking,” she adds.

  “What?”

  “Let’s just walk right past ’im.”

  They cross in front of the alley.

  “I wish you weren’t doing dangerous things, but it is what you want to do, what you need to do, because of your mother and something inside you. So, you should do it.” She pauses. “When I say now, run. Be careful, Sherlock.… Now!”

  Grimsby has left the alley and filed into the crowd on the foot pavement no more than ten feet behind them. Beatrice turns, walks directly at him, takes his arm and pivots him so he points in the opposite direction. He tries to wrench himself from her, violently pulling back his arm.

  “Oh, you vile beast!” shouts Beatrice. A group of gentlemen quickly surround Grimsby, each one angrily asking him if this is how he treats a lady. They won’t let him go. Sherlock runs. In seconds, Grimsby has been lost.

  Holmes tries not to think of what Beatrice did for him as he moves briskly south and west through London to Chelsea. Concentrate. The gates are not open yet at the Cremorne Gardens, and he has to be very careful getting over the wrought-iron fence in broad daylight, but he succeeds and goes in search of Scuttle. He can hardly wait to hear what he discovered. But an hour later, Sherlock still can’t find him. He looks everywhere and then begins to panic. The little boy’s broken dustbin, where he sleeps, is empty.

  The Cremorne opens for the day — the music fills the park, dancers gather in the
pagodas, hawkers cry their ices and cold refreshments, stilt-walkers move about the crowds, and the circus performers get ready. But still, no Scuttle. Sherlock leaves the Gardens and heads around its exterior to the front entrance of the hotel. He knows this isn’t smart during the day, but he must locate the boy.

  “You!” someone shouts.

  Harrison Starr is pointing a finger at him and coming his way. Normally, Holmes would run, but he wants to know about his little friend.

  “Sir, have you seen …”

  “I will do the talking. I am being generous as it is, allowing you to even be here. We have an emergency this morning. Young Scuttle is missing.”

  Sherlock’s heart leaps.

  “I …”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “… no.”

  “If you do, alert the authorities at once. Scuttle is always out and about in the mornings, always speaks to me at exactly 8 a.m. at the back entrance, so it is very disturbing that he did not appear and can’t be found. The police are suspecting foul play.… It is a terrible thing … poor little boy; he was such a fine lad. We are all half expecting his body to turn up soon.” Starr walks away, so preoccupied that he doesn’t even send Holmes off the grounds.

  But the boy is barely able to move, anyway. First, I nearly had Irene killed during the Whitechapel case, then … then my mother … I even put Mr. Bell in danger … then Beatrice takes Grimsby’s very arm to help me … and now, Scuttle, that little chap who wouldn’t hurt a flea … who didn’t want to go down there.

  “Sherlock!”

  He nearly jumps out of his skin.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” It’s young Lestrade, who has an irritating ability to sneak up on others. “But I thought I should warn you. Father hasn’t heard anything from you and he is very impatient about this case. You must produce something he can use now … or he will ruin you. He said this morning that he wants you found. They sent someone to Denmark Street about half of an hour ago.”

  “Thank you,” says Sherlock and slouches away. He heads for the river, one of his black moods descending on him.

  The shoreline of the Thames varies a great deal as it winds through London. In some places there are piers, wharves, or docks jutting out into the water, in other spots there are buildings set right to the edge — factories and warehouses on the south side, more attractive structures on the north — but other areas have rough beaches of pebbles or mud, stretching down to the brown-gray water. The Thames’s thirteen bridges are all different too. As Sherlock trudges away from the Gardens down to the shore, he sees one of the most westerly viaducts, the Battersea, to his left. One of the oldest bridges on the river, the only one made out of wood, it looks rickety and medieval compared to the stone and cast-iron crossings in the center of the city. Those bridges are always packed with surging crowds and buzzing with noise, while Battersea has few pedestrians or carriages moving across its narrow gravel surface. Boats of all sizes jam the river to the east, toward Westminster. But from where he stands to the bridge, a distance of some several hundred yards, few people frequent the shoreline. He hears the gulls and just the odd human voice crying out in the morning mist. Below Cremorne Road, which runs along the edge of the bank, he sees the people called mudlarks searching for things washed up on the beach, paupers wandering about, and scrawny, barely clothed children with bare feet, trying to play. Other bodies lie still, faces ghostly white, fast asleep on the wet ground. The day is gray. There is no wonder they call this part of Chelsea, The World’s End. Sherlock looks toward Battersea Bridge again and notices a ramp leading down from Beaufort Street onto the beach. He wonders if he should cross into Battersea, head south. Where should I go? Whatever he does, he cannot be near the Gardens, the hotel, his father, or the apothecary shop.