The Dragon Turn

by Shane Peacock

  There is a rain-soaked crowd entering the offices as they reach the door.

  Lestrade Jr. and his colleague have a sour Nottingham by the arms, and trailing is a motley crew of theatergoers: Sigerson Bell, Irene Doyle, Beatrice Leckie, Angelina Nottingham, and even little Scuttle, who lags a good distance behind. When Sherlock sees Irene, he remembers again that she has something she wants to tell him.

  But before he enters, Bell takes him aside. “My boy, I cannot go in there. My, shall we say, unorthodox appearance, may not be helpful in presenting the case against these gentlemen.”

  “You saw it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “It was real.”

  “Yes, it was. This world is not yet all unveiled, my boy; never will be, even when it is all physically discovered. There may still be dinosaurs among us.”

  “And there is more in this world than is dreamt of in any human being’s imagination.”

  “Indeed, there is.”

  The Senior Inspector, working late as usual, happens to be striding out to the reception room as the crowd enters. He almost falls on the floor when he sees Nottingham, then gapes at Hemsworth, and looks very concerned, indeed, when he spots Sherlock Holmes. Scuttle slumps in late, almost unnoticed.

  The outside door hasn’t yet closed, and through it Lestrade sees Hobbs from The Times of London approaching as quickly as his little feet can propel his rotund body. Behind him are two journalists he recognizes: Hilton Poke from The News of the World and Simpson Small from The Illustrated Police News. Behind them … is a swarm of their colleagues.

  “Secure the doors!” the Inspector shouts. The thick wooden entrances are slammed shut and barred.

  “Someone speak!” exclaims Lestrade, “and dear God, let it not be Sherlock Holmes.”

  His son clears his throat. “Sir … it … it was all a trick.”

  “An illusion,” corrects Nottingham, pronouncing the word with syrupy elegance.

  “An illusion, yes,” continues the young detective.

  “I was informed that Hemsworth had a …” begins Nottingham.

  “A discovery,” says His Highness.

  Nottingham smiles back, “yes, a discovery. And it occurred to me that I could use said discovery to create my greatest illusion.”

  “Our greatest illusion.”

  “Yes, of course, ours. I had found a marvelous place beneath The World’s End Hotel, when I purchased that establishment under the name of Riyah. I wanted to keep it secret and rarely went there during the day. Thus, when His Highness approached me, I had a perfect holding place for this … discovery. So, using my genius and … his discovery … we made a dragon appear on the London stage, and then we used you,” he glances at everyone in sight, “and put you all into a little play that began with the supposed murder of yours truly, a furious pursuit by the boy wonder Sherlock Holmes — a source on the streets told us about him — and the aging and unspectacular Inspector Lestrade. We needed the boy, since we felt the police alone would not be able to follow our clues sufficiently to make the game work. He, also, we were told, is willing to break the rules, while the Force is, shall we say, conservative.”

  Lestrade steps forward and seizes both Hemsworth and Nottingham by the collars simultaneously. They are both big men but he slams them down onto a bench.

  “I will thank you to keep your hands off me,” snaps Nottingham, “you boor!”

  “You have no charges against us!” adds Hemsworth.

  “Other than being ugly … do we have any?” asks Lestrade, turning to his son.

  “Forcible confinement and kidnapping,” says Sherlock Holmes.

  “I have a solicitor of the highest standing,” responds the Wizard, “we shall be out within a few years, perhaps months.”

  “And attempted murder!” cries young Lestrade.

  “Of whom?” asks his father.

  Sherlock considers suggesting Scuttle, to begin with, but realizes that Hemsworth and Nottingham will simply say that they had caught the lad trespassing and had no plans to kill him. The beast has vanished. Best stick to his wife.

  “Of her!” Young Lestrade points at Mrs. Nottingham. In all the confusion, his father hasn’t noticed the woman in stage makeup wrapped in a police coat. He turns to her with surprise. “I thought you were in Europe.”

  Angelina simply shakes her head.

  “She was the woman in the cage with the dragon, Father.”

  “She? I thought that was Miss Venus.”

  “Of course, you did,” murmurs Nottingham.

  “We murdered no one. And our solicitor shall prove it!” shrieks Hemsworth, getting to his feet and advancing on his former wife so aggressively that a constable decides to step between them. “And he will also prove that this prostitute, who went by the name of my wife and Nottingham’s, is a philandering excuse for a woman … who deserved what she got.”

  “And whom you treated like dirt long before she did anything wrong!” says Irene Doyle, “Whom you and your empty-headed, fame-seeking cohort here intended to murder in front of a London crowd, in the most gruesome fashion. Sit down, sir!”

  Hemsworth actually sits.

  “So,” muses Inspector Lestrade, looking amazed, “they were going to …”

  “The dragon was going to kill her tonight, Father … and devour her … in front of the crowd.”

  Mrs. Nottingham buries her head.

  “Yes, well then, there indeed is that small point of attempted murder,” says Lestrade. Then he looks with concern at his son. “Did you say the dragon, young man?”

  “You will have to prove that,” remarks Hemsworth, before young Lestrade can answer.

  “Do you deny that you harbored a vicious beast … a giant lizard that you found somewhere past the far reaches the civilized world?” says Sherlock.

  “You, Master Holmes, are a fantasist, as I told you once before.”

  “Do you deny it?”

  “I do.”

  “A giant lizard, Master Holmes, is that what I heard you say?” asks Lestrade. “Perhaps I should let in the press, after all. They shall be glad to quote you saying such a thing and place it in their papers for all to read … as will I.”

  “Let them in, if you must, Inspector, and we shall discuss your errors in this case.”

  “And where is your dragon now, Master Holmes?” demands Lestrade angrily.

  “It got away.”

  “Away? How convenient! Do you expect me, and the London populace, to really believe that these two circus clowns had a real, living and fire-breathing dragon harbored in our city, and that they were going to use it to murder this woman?”

  “Not fire-breathing, sir, and not, technically, a dragon.”

  “Then what?”

  “A creature Hemsworth found somewhere, a creature unknown to the Western World at this time.”

  “I can vouch for the existence of the dragon, sir,” says Lestrade Jr., a little shakily.

  His father is taken aback by his son’s courage. “Oh?”

  “Many people saw it tonight at the theater.”

  “Many people saw it many times,” smirks Hemsworth, “over the last few months. But no one in their right mind believes it was anything other than a magical creation … a discovery.”

  Nottingham laughs with him.

  “But you did intend to kill her … with whatever you had on that stage?” barks Lestrade.

  “I should like to see anyone prove that!” snaps Hemsworth.

  “Out with it! What was it? What fiendish creation did you have?”

  “That sir,” says Nottingham, “is our little secret. Magician’s privileges: artists’ rights.”

  “YOU SIR!” cries Scuttle suddenly leaping to his feet and working his way into view, “is no artiste!” Nottingham and Hemsworth, who hadn’t noticed the little boy until this very moment, are shocked to see him alive, though the Wizard then looks over at Sherlock and nods his head in admiration. Master Scuttle turns to the
whole group. “I … I has a confessionment to make. I says I knows wagonloadings of famous celebritants … but I don’t. I never gabbed with the queen, not once, nor Florence Nightingale nor the Spring ’eeled Jack. But I thought it was important to remark that I did. But I don’t think so now. They was going to feed me to their beast! They did it for their public publicity, for their money, and their famousness. And that, though many thinks is important, is not. I don’t likes famous people anymore. Not at all. I never actually spoke to one in my ’ole life … and I don’t care if I ever do!”

  He runs to the door, unlocks it and races out.

  “Peasant,” sneers Nottingham.

  “You, Inspector,” says Hemsworth, ignoring Scuttle’s exit completely, “may charge us with attempted murder, if you believe we harbored a mythical beast, and can prove it. I am willing to tell the press, this very night, that you are in search of … a dragon. Otherwise, charge us with the lesser crime of confinement, and we shall take our medicine, light as I suspect that will be. If you cannot make the creature appear before the magistrates … you have no murder weapon.”

  Lestrade pauses. “We … uh … are not in the business of dragon hunting. There need not be any word of that. But we shall certainly convict you both of holding this woman against her will. And it shall ruin your careers!”

  “I think not,” retorts Hemsworth. “Any publicity is good publicity. Our trick is still in the midst of its performance, as it were, still paying dividends. I will wager you whatever you like, that we will come from prison bigger theater stars than we are now; that we shall step upon the London stage when we return … as legends.”

  “And I will wager you, sir, whatever you like,” says Sherlock Holmes, “that you are a despicable human being, and so is your villainous partner. And if no one else on earth knows it, I do, and God does in heaven, and somewhere deep in your dark hearts, you do too, and that … is enough.”

  Lestrade soon clears the room, instructing his charges to take both men into custody, that Mrs. Nottingham be tended to at Bartholomew Hospital, and everyone not in the employ of the Force remove themselves from the premises.

  But as Sherlock tries to leave the room, Hemsworth takes him by the arm and brings his lips up close to the boy’s ear.

  “I found it in the Indian Ocean. It was the most remarkable thing. It was floating on a raft, debris, I think, from some cursed boat that had gone down way out there. It must have walked onto that wood as it neared wherever it lived, perhaps some godforsaken island at the edge of the world. Perhaps it fell asleep there, and then, it was carried out to sea. I thought I was dreaming.… There must be more of them in the wilderness, somewhere!”

  Sherlock pushes him away and goes through the door at a brisk pace. The men from the press, who are still not allowed in, ignore him at first, but then both Hobbs and Poke recognize him.

  “Master Holmes, do you have a comment? Do you know anything about this?”

  Sherlock pauses. This is his chance. He can at least take credit for what he has accomplished.

  “No,” he says.

  Sigerson Bell catches up to him just as he speaks.

  “That’s my boy.”

  They trudge toward White Hall Street.

  “Really,” Holmes finally says, “I achieved nothing. We were played for fools.”

  “Nonsense, you saved a woman’s life, and a precious boy’s, too.”

  Sherlock doesn’t respond.

  “But you also did something much more important than that.”

  “And what was that, sir?” demands his apprentice, stopping suddenly. “They won’t serve much time in prison. They may even gain in the long run.”

  “But the key in life, my boy, is not to be like the saint in the Golden Legend, who slew the dragon, saving the princess and her country, gaining fame and fortune as his prize. It isn’t the key at all. Rewards often come to people who don’t deserve them: they are often misplaced in our world. You must turn yourself into gold. Here is what matters about what transpired over the past few weeks, Sherlock Holmes, here is what is more important than anything else … you, my young knight, did what was right.”

  The yellow fog is heavy now, and Bell seems to disappear into it as he speaks. He is magically replaced by Irene Doyle, who has caught up from behind.

  “I had something I wanted to tell you, at the apothecary shop yesterday.” Her voice is shaky and it scares him.

  “Yes?”

  “I … I am going away … to America, for a long time.”

  “Away?”

  “It’s an opportunity, a good one … for training in the opera. It will be respectable … Father says I should … so I cannot …” her voice trails off. She kisses him tenderly on the cheek and disappears, too.

  He is all alone now. Instead of going directly to the shop, he wants the air and takes a longer route, this time through the West End, the theater district, trying to convince himself that it is good Irene is gone … that she may come back. He walks by the Adelphi Theatre, the magnificent Lyceum, and finally the Royal Opera House. He used to visit it with his mother as a boy, not inside with the people who mattered, but listening at a coal grate at the back.

  He sees the famous names on the marquees, hears the few remaining pedestrians talking about this great man or that beautiful lady, what they did upon the stage tonight, who they know, who they are sweet on. It all sounds so very important to them. Their minds are filled with illusions. On the streets, he meets poor children in bare feet, begging. They remind him of Scuttle.

  In this time of spectacle in the empire, thinks Sherlock, it is difficult to really know what is right and what is wrong, what to value. He wants to quit, not worry about such things, spend time with his dying father, live a normal life. The shadow that is following him up Bow Street at this very moment would vanish then. He could go to Beatrice in Southwark, right now.

  But something stops him. You saved a woman’s life and a precious boy’s, too. “I am almost there,” he says out loud. He fixes his necktie, and straightens his waistcoat and frock coat. “If a sword of justice is needed,” he says, even louder, not caring who hears, “… then I shall be it!”

  PRAISE FOR

  THE BOY SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES

  “… this splendid series [has] won a shelf-full of awards. Peacock’s adolescent Sherlock is complex, intuitive and fascinating.…” —The National Post

  “This novel is written for the young adult, but adult readers will also find it satisfying. Peacock places demand on the reader, expecting intelligence and curiosity. The fast-paced adventure is a treat.” — Globe and Mail

  “Peacock gives the reader a novel full of excitement, disguises, crime and action. The sights, smells and sounds of Victorian England are skillfully described. Readers will feel they are really there!” — Resource Links

  “… Shane Peacock has created a cleverly inventive background story for Sherlock Holmes that explains the adult character’s reluctance to talk about his family life [and] managed to create a thrilling, inpeccably paced murder mystery.… Peacock also neatly creates a sense of the bustle of Victorian London, making the squalid grunginess of the East End almost waft off the pages.… [A] stunning new mystery series.” — Starred review, Quill & Quire

  Vanishing Girl is a story in which Holmes is powerfully developed. The reader discovers the origins of his learning self-defense and his infatuation with scientific “potions” … to help solve crimes. Highly Recommended.” — CM Magazine

  Foreword Magazine’s Book of the Year, Gold

  Arthur Ellis Award / Best Juvenile Book

  IODE Violet Downey Book Award

  Moonbeam Awards Intermediate

  Middle Grades Category, Gold

  Geoffrey Bilson Award for Historical Fiction

  Silver Birch Honour Book

  CLA’s Book of the Year for Children Honour Book

  Booklist Top Ten in Youth Mysteries

  Ontario Library Association’
s Top Ten

  Young Adult Fiction Books of the Year List

  Best Books for Kids and Teens List

  (Canadian Children’s Book Centre)

  Books of Note List (Tristate YA Review Committee)

  EYE OF THE CROW

  It is the spring of 1867, and a yellow fog hangs over London. In the dead of night, a woman is brutally stabbed and left to die in a pool of blood. No one sees the terrible crime. Or so it seems.

  Nearby, a brilliant, bitter boy dreams of a better life. He is the son of a Jewish intellectual and a highborn lady — social outcasts — impoverishment the price of their mixed marriage. The boy’s name is Sherlock Holmes.

  Strangely compelled to visit the scene, Sherlock comes face to face with the young Arab wrongly accused of the crime. By degrees, he is drawn to the center of the mystery, until he, too, is a suspect.

  Danger runs high in this desperate quest for justice. As the clues mount, Sherlock sees the murder through the eye of its only witness. But a fatal mistake and its shocking consequence change everything and put him squarely on a path to becoming a complex man with a dark past — and the world’s greatest detective.

  DEATH IN THE AIR

  Still reeling from his mother’s death, brought about by his involvement in solving London’s brutal East End murder, young Sherlock Holmes commits himself to fighting crime … and is soon immersed in another case.

  While visiting his father at work, Sherlock stops to watch a dangerous high-trapeze performance, framed by the magnificent glass ceiling of the legendary Crystal Palace. But without warning, the aerialist drops, screaming and flailing to the floor. He lands with a sickening thud, just feet away and rolls almost onto the boy’s boots. He is bleeding profusely and his body is grotesquely twisted. Leaning over, Sherlock brings his ear up close. “Silence me …” the man gasps and then lies still. In the mayhem that follows, the boy notices something amiss that no one else sees — and he knows that foul play is afoot. What he doesn’t know is that his discovery will set him on a trail that leads to an entire gang of notorious and utterly ruthless criminals.