Perhaps he should find Beatrice … or make his way to Bloomsbury and Irene. Instead, feeling sorry for himself, he walks aimlessly. He takes the stone steps down from Cremorne Road onto the stretch of mud near the water. A voice cries out from up above and he instinctively ducks, covering his face. But when he glances up to the road, no one is looking down. He knows the Force will look, even here, very soon.
Holmes takes off his frock coat and turns it inside out, making it appear tattered. He pulls the collar up. He takes off his boots and stuffs them inside the coat, and buttons it around them, creating a big belly for himself. He rolls his trouser legs up to his knees, then smears mud on his face and runs it through his hair. And when he begins to walk again, he bends over, making himself look shorter. It isn’t his best disguise, but hopefully it will work. If the police look for him here, they likely won’t come down to the water, just search from above, instead. They won’t view him up close. He hopes Lestrade isn’t really after him anyway. They want me out of their hair, away from the crime scene and the theater. But if I can’t go to either of those places … then what can I do?
He walks slowly along the shore. It, indeed, feels like the end of the world here. All the action is up above at the Gardens, or to the north and the east; there is even much more activity, of a working-class sort, to the south toward Battersea Park and the factories. It occurs to him that someone could wander this area for a long time, down near the water in this sparser part of western London, and virtually no one would —
No one would notice you!
Sherlock halts suddenly and stops thinking about himself. Something else has entered his thoughts. Hemsworth and the secret contents of his strange vehicle … going west. He looks downriver to the ancient wooden bridge, remembering the little ramp he has just seen there. He walks toward it, the moist sand poking up between his toes. What is it? It becomes clearer. A little road that leads down to the beach! He has never observed such a thing at other bridges. Usually, it is almost impossible to take a carriage or a wagon of any sort down near the Thames. However … if you wanted to do it here, and approach the Cremorne Gardens unseen, you could do it via that ramp and this shoreline, away from the population, moving past drunks and paupers and children and mudlarks at night. But where, exactly, could you go? Sherlock turns around and heads back to the Gardens at a hurried pace, trusting that his disguise and his distance from the upper roads will keep him unrecognized. It occurs to him, as he moves, that not only is the Gardens directly above the high bank at the river … The World’s End Hotel is right there too.
Growing more excited, his black mood instantly gone, he approaches the Gardens, though he walks on an angle, away from the banks and out to the river, until his bare feet are in the water. From here, he can see up above the banks. The hotel is, indeed, right there. He can see the top of its black roof and one of its gothic turrets. The big building virtually hangs out over the river. Unable to stay calm, he sprints toward the bank. He slows as he nears, and examines the surface of the shoreline beneath his feet, observing faint remnants of wheel tracks close to the banks, coming from the direction of the bridge. They are difficult to make out, having been washed over by the tide, but he can judge where they are headed.
As he approaches the bank, he realizes that there is absolutely no one on the shoreline right there. He glances around. No one is looking his way from a distance either, from up above or down below. At the bank, he spots footprints in the sand in front of bushes. There is something unusual about these shrubs. He doesn’t have to tug hard on the branches to pull everything away. They aren’t rooted. In fact, they are, upon close examination … stage foliage, just like the jungle trees in Hemsworth’s act. Hands shaking, he separates them and sees an opening in the steep bank behind them, not much more than four feet wide and six feet high. He strides through the bushes and carefully puts them back into place behind him.
There is a tunnel in front of him. What did Riyah tell him about the inner chamber? He said there were stories that it was once a dungeon, used by William the Conqueror during the 11th century. Were victims brought in this way, up or down the river, and then secreted into a dungeon? It is very narrow and low. But Hemsworth’s strangely shaped vehicle had about the same dimensions!
Within a few yards, Sherlock encounters a door. Thick and made of iron, fitted tightly into the rock, it is obviously meant to keep out curious trespassers who may get past the façade of bushes. It is locked shut.
The boy takes off his frock coat, turns it back the way it should be and puts it on again, then pulls his boots on too. He may need to be able to move quickly. Though he has his horsewhip with him, he didn’t think it necessary to bring a knife when he left the shop this morning. But he does have a way to open this lock, not the best means, but hopefully it will do. He reaches into a pocket to find the little wire he has carried with him every day for more than two years, since he helped solve the case of the Whitechapel murder: the wire his rival unwittingly taught him how to use. Malefactor. He steps back out toward the beach and looks along the river in both directions. No one watching. At least, no one he can see. He returns to the door, sticks the little wire into it, and in minutes has it unlatched.
What will be inside?
His heart pounding, he slowly opens the door, steps through, and leaves it very slightly ajar. I can’t lock myself in. It is pitch black inside. He has just one Lucifer and a small candle left in his pocket. He strikes the match and lights it. Will this light last long enough to get me to wherever this leads? … Will it still be burning on the way out?
He walks slowly. The passage is barely taller than his head and continues to be just a little more than four feet across. People were smaller in those days. Hemsworth’s vehicle would just fit in here, as tight as an arm in a sleeve. It must be a ghastly trip, he thinks, going through here in the dark with that beast, or whatever it is.
Sherlock hears very little at first, just the sound of water dripping and the echo of his footsteps on the rock floor. But as he moves forward, he begins to hear other noises, somewhere farther along the tunnel. As he gets closer, it becomes clear that they are screams … and they sound human.
DEATH IN THE CHAMBER
Sherlock begins to run along the dim tunnel. But about a hundred paces in, he realizes he has made a big mistake: the passageway is not as dark here, which indicates that he is moving toward lights; it also means that whoever or whatever is up ahead — a villain, or a murderous beast of some sort — he, she, or it, will soon see his light. I must approach in total darkness. He slows. I need to douse the candle. But if he does, he will have no light to find his way out. If this tunnel leads to the lower chamber, he will not be able to leave through the hotel basement either, because the exits are guarded by the police. His only way out is via the door he came in. Should I go back while I have a light? Get out while I can? But he knows that if he goes now, without any evidence, he won’t be able to convince the police to come here and investigate, no matter how much he pleads. They will simply accost him the moment they spot him. Lestrade won’t listen to him. The only solution to this entire mess is to find the dragon, or its equivalent; to find Nottingham’s murderer. And I cannot just turn away from whoever is in peril. I must go in there, toward those screams.
Holmes puts out the candle.
As he gets closer to the lighted area, the screams grow in volume. It sounds like someone, or something, is in pain. It is as if he or she or it is being tortured. But the screams are not all he hears. They are interspersed with barks, but they don’t sound like they are coming from a dog.
He stops about fifty feet from the light. From this vantage point he cannot see anything in the dimly lit chamber except the stone wall at its far end, and a torch hanging from it. But there are shadows moving about. He hears those barks again, screams, and now squeals. Amidst it all, he thinks he hears a human moan. He moves a little closer.
Then he sees something.
A fi
gure moves past, going from right to left in the chamber. Sherlock flattens himself against the wall, and then cautiously looks toward it. It is nearly five feet tall … and not human. It seems to be doing the barking, though it definitely isn’t a dog. It ambles on four legs but then stops and stands up on two, looking around as if sensing an intruder. Sherlock pulls his head back. It has something in its hands, which is struggling, screaming, trying to get away. The boy peers out again. The smaller, writhing creature is a small monkey. The big one that grips it — brown and furry — lowers its head and bites it; and it stops screaming and gasps. Then the larger creature continues on its way across the room to Holmes’ left and disappears down a ramp into what seems to be a pit. Sherlock hears a horrible hissing sound and the little monkey screams again; there is a great thrashing about and gnashing of teeth … the noise of a huge animal gobbling up another. Then the big creature appears again. Sherlock can see it clearly now, face-on: a frightening canine-like visage, with a muzzle and close-set black eyes, framed by sand-colored hair … an immense, dog-faced ape.
A baboon!
Sherlock has read about them in journals. They are found in Africa and areas of Asia. He thinks there may be a few at the Zoological Society’s Gardens in Regent’s Park. This one seems enormous, as if someone has fed it too much and altered it somehow. The boy recalls what he knows of them. They are aggressive, the males (which this one obviously is) have teeth the size of human thumbs, and they are omnivorous, eating not just fruit and vegetation … but other animals too.
Sherlock lets his horsewhip slide down in his sleeve.
Then he hears that moan … the human moan. He freezes, and as he does, the baboon passes by again, this time going back to his right. Then there is the sound of a cage rattling, a latch being opened, an ear-splitting squeal, and the ape appears once more, now with a big rat in his hand. It ambles across the space and heads toward the pit. Sherlock steps into the room from behind, carefully watching the back of the baboon’s head as it descends to the place where the horrific sounds came from just moments ago.
It is feeding live animals to something.
The boy turns to examine the room and what he sees shocks him. Directly before him, against the wall and to his right, is a row of cages in which rats, monkeys, and pigs are held. They stare out at him in fear, squealing and chattering. The last cage, in the corner, is twice as large as the others —obviously intended for bigger creatures. What else, in God’s name, has been fed to that beast? Then he glimpses a large animal of some sort lying on the wet stone inside that cage, barely noticeable in the far corner. It looks weak and is moaning. Sherlock realizes that it is a human being … a small one … Scuttle!
The cage latches are simple ones, opened with keys, hanging from poles just a few feet away from each prison, just beyond the reach of the captives. The baboon must have been taught to open each cage, take out an animal, lock it again, and put up the key. Sherlock hears the hissing again from the pit, the thrashing sounds, the rat squealing, and the crunching of small bones. Then he sees the baboon’s head rising up above the ramp on its way back, to retrieve more live food for whatever is down below. It spots him. It barks, pounds its knuckles on the ground, bares its teeth, and runs toward him. In a flash, the boy seizes the key to the big cage, opens it, and drags Scuttle out.
Holmes wonders if the baboon is just threatening him. But instantly, the big creature is after them. Sherlock snaps his whip in its face and it jumps back, but then immediately advances again. Holmes is desperate to get to the pit and see what is harbored down there, but his first thoughts are for Scuttle. The little boy is barely conscious and seems frighteningly weak. I must get him out of here! Holmes keeps his face to his tormentor, his right arm under Scuttle’s arms and across his scrawny chest, dragging him, backing away in the direction of the passage, cracking his whip while he goes. As Sherlock reaches the tunnel, the giant ape stops: it must never go down the passage. Before long, they are far apart — the boy hears the big baboon barking in the distance, its outline evident in the light.
Holmes has to move in the dark the rest of the way, pulling his load. He had feared he couldn’t even do this on his own. But anxious to save the little one he has put into danger, he finds the strength and courage he needs, and soon, is at the iron door. He left it slightly ajar. He pulls it open and slams it behind him, locking it. Then he drags Scuttle out onto the beach and puts him down on the mud. He turns toward the water. Breathing heavily, his heart still racing, he puts his hands on his knees, and vomits.
Sherlock Holmes sits on the mud for a long time after that, Scuttle beside him, still moaning. Finally, he gets to his feet and cups some water from the Thames in his hands and gently splashes it in his friend’s face. The small boy’s eyes focus a little, and he appears, for the first time, to actually look at Sherlock. But he doesn’t speak. It seems as though he can’t.
“Scuttle, can you hear me?”
The other boy nods.
“I am going to take you to see an apothecary.”
The boy grips him by the hand, so hard that he almost cracks his finger bones.
“I will stay with you.”
His grip lessens.
All the way into central London, Scuttle says nothing. It is strange to be with this talkative boy and not hear him utter a word. There is a haunted look in his eyes, as if he has seen something terrible, and it is still with him. He walks but does so like a ghost, floating at Sherlock’s side, his feather-weight propped up as they move. They stick to the smaller avenues, and when they reach the bottom of Denmark Street, the bigger boy stops and gets back into his disguise — boots inside his reversed frock coat, bare feet, a stoop to decrease his height, all to go with his still muddied face and hair. He takes Scuttle’s arm again, and together they approach the apothecary shop.
As expected, a Bobbie stands nearby, resplendent in his long, buttoned-down blue coat and helmet. He is slapping a truncheon against his hand. The two boys stumble directly past him. Neither of them matches the description of young Master Holmes.
Sherlock has the presence of mind to knock.
Irene answers the door, holding it open a crack. “Yes?” she asks. Beatrice is right behind her. “It’s you!” she cries out. The door opens, and they are brought inside.
As Holmes gets out of his disguise, Scuttle is laid on the laboratory table, and Sigerson Bell begins to perform his own sort of magic. He starts by giving the little lad a good snort from a bottle of gin.
“These two young ladies appeared here this afternoon and proclaimed that they hadn’t seen you, my boy, for some time, one, since this morning — imagine that — and were concerned. They have ensconced themselves here ever since, anxiously awaiting your arrival.”
“Not that anxiously, sir,” insists Miss Doyle, “I simply have something to tell him.” Miss Leckie remains quiet, glowing at Sherlock.
The boy looks enquiringly at Irene.
“What I have to say … can wait,” she says, looking at Scuttle.
“As for me,” says the apothecary, “I shall bring this child back to life — a good hot flask of my special tea and a serving of cold mutton should do most of the trick, though we will resort to toad bile if we must. And you, my young knight, shall tell us who this lad is, why he is the way he is, and what you have been up to. I see your whip has been in use.” Bell’s keen eye has spotted it hanging partially out of Holmes’s sleeve, its butt covered with mud.
The old man raises Scuttle to a sitting position and twists him in all sorts of ways, asking him to breathe deeply while he does. As Sherlock begins to talk, Scuttle is fed some of the tea that the three have been drinking (though the apothecary adds another splash of gin to the little boy’s) and great slabs of mutton and several scones. Both Irene and Beatrice tend to him with gentle care, a fact that seems to contribute substantially to his rapid improvement. He looks more like himself within minutes. Still, he doesn’t speak.
Sherlock explains
about his adventures, which have stretched now into the late afternoon. All his listeners are riveted. Beatrice looks upset, Irene shocked, and Sigerson Bell absolutely fascinated. His eyes sparkle, and his body contorts as the action is described, as if he were fighting off the baboon himself.
“Excellent! Excellent, my young knight! Had I been there I would have administered a little Bellitsu to that simian monster, boxed its ears and dropped kicked him whilst you were diverting him with your whip-snapping prowess!” The image of this ancient, bent-over man in mortal combat with a baboon is almost enough to make Sherlock smile, even as he tells his desperate tale. So intense is his audience that they have all begun to ignore poor Scuttle, who sits on the lab table behind them munching on his third scone. As Sherlock comes to the part that describes the breathtaking escape onto the beach, they hear a little voice behind them.
The Dragon Turn Page 13
