The Dragon Turn (10 page)

“Sherlock Holmes!” spurts the older detective the instant he sees the boy. “You didn’t mention he would be here, Constable Monroe. I’ll have your job!”

“Knew you wouldn’t come if I mentioned ’im, sir. But ’e’s the one who brought in Mr. Riyah. That’s the ’otel owner, sir, right there with the boy.”

“Riyah! He glares at the older man. Why in the name of the queen didn’t you come forward before! We have been looking high and low for you! Monroe says you have valuable information, sir. It had better be good! Out with it! A man’s life is at stake.”

“I let ze studio below ze Vorld’s End Hotel to Mr. Nottingham, Inspector.”

“You do? Well, that is of some interest. What is that accent, sir?”

“German.”

“Hmmm.”

“Und zis,” Riyah produces the hat, “is mine.”

Lestrade’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

“It is?”

“It is.”

“Preposterous! Your name is Riyah! The initials on the inside are —”

“I changed my name some time ago … after I bought ze hat.”

“From what?”

“Does it matter, sir? I can prove it.”

“I believe Mr. Hemsworth is innocent,” says Sherlock, stepping forward.

“Well … I … I
don’t
believe it!” shouts Lestrade.

“Father, you must —”

“Close your gob, sir. I will handle this. The day may come when you can tell me what to do, but it has not arrived yet. Outside of your mother, I am the boss … of me!”

“Sir?” says Sherlock, “Shall you let Mr. Hemsworth go?”

“Let him go? … NO!”

“No?”

“This man may prove that he has changed his name and his true initials may indeed be
A.H.
, but … can he still prove that this is his hat!”

“But ze hat, sir, it is, I bought it many years —”

“Many years ago? Do you have a bill of sale?”

“No sir, zat would be imposs —”

“Aha! Hemsworth shall be tried for the murder of his rival. It does not matter if he did it in Nottingham’s workshop or his own. He did it. He had ample motivation, more motivation than I have ever seen in a crime during all my years on the Force. It makes perfect sense. And this may very well be his hat, anyway. Perhaps you and the accused have the same kind? This is a common topper, my good friend.”

“No, sir, I am sure —”

“And why would
your
hat be there anyway? Answer me that!”

“Surely, sir,” interjects his son, “Mr. Riyah cannot be a suspect. He owns the premises. He must be there often. He simply forgot his hat. He has no reason to murder —”

“What did I say about interruptions, young man?”

His son closes his mouth.

Riyah looks frightened. “Perhaps you are right, sir. I shall just take ze hat and be on my vay. I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. I shall give you vhatever information you —”

“Shall we try it on?” asks Sherlock, stepping right up to the senior detective. The latter is a bit disconcerted, not only by the close proximity of the half Jewish boy from the streets who has bested him several times over the last few years, but also by the fact that he has grown so tall that their eyes now nearly meet. Sherlock Holmes’s peepers are just a few inches from his.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I challenge you, sir, in front of all these people.”

There is indeed an audience. The shift at Scotland Yard is about to change and a number of officers have been arriving during this confrontation. Intrigued by the contents of the argument and the raised voices, they have gathered in the foyer. A good-sized crowd of Lestrade’s charges now surround the actors in the drama.

“I challenge you to try this hat on Hemsworth’s head.”

Lestrade looks around. All eyes are on him. He turns to his son and whispers, “It’s just a regular topper, isn’t it, my boy? Should fit, shouldn’t it?” But the boy is reluctant to respond. He doesn’t have a sure answer.

Silence fills the room.

“All right,” says Lestrade eventually, “all right. Bring the prisoner forth and we shall put his hat on his head. Remember, Holmes, if it fits, then it is his, correct?”

“Correct.”

The quick response unnerves the senior detective a little more.

Hemsworth is retrieved, looking sleepy. His face is not arranged as expertly as it is when he is upon the stage. He eyes Riyah and Sherlock and everyone around him.

“This boy and this gentleman,” begins the Inspector, “think that this hat, found at the crime scene, in fact right next to poor Nottingham’s blood and spectacles, is not yours. I want you to try it on. This will decide your fate, sir. Do you choose to attempt it?”

Hemsworth visibly swallows. He looks at the hat. “It
isn’t
mine,” he says.

“Prove it.”

“Can …”

“And should you choose to model this headgear and are wrong, no lawyer in the empire, one would guess, will be able to save you.”

“But —”

“Make your decision!”

Hemsworth takes the hat in his hand and holds on to it for the longest time. Silence descends on the room again. His hand is shaking. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raises the hat toward his head.

“Be quick about it!” barks Lestrade.

Hemsworth holds it above his red hair. He moves it around carefully, looking up at the brim. From where Sherlock stands, it looks like a perfect fit.
What will Lestrade do to me if I am wrong? Does it make sense to judge a man’s head size from the seats of a theater? The magician’s cranium looks bigger up close
.

Hemsworth lets the topper fall gently onto his head, tipping it slightly forward. It sits there … a perfect fit.

Lestrade lets out a roar. He turns to Sherlock Holmes, a deep smile on his face, a smile he has wanted to unleash upon the boy for a full eighteen months, ever since the lad solved the case of the Spring Heeled Jack. The Inspector is about to say something when Hemsworth suddenly speaks up. Everyone turns back to him. He waits until they are all watching.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he says, “there is a saying in the world of magic that one should fail at least once whilst performing any effect, before one does it correctly. That, you see, primes the audience, builds up the tension, and moves them to applause at just the right moment.” With that, he tips the big hat back and it falls clean over his small skull and down to his shoulders. Everything from the base of his neck up is now … a hat. “I believe,” he crows from inside the topper, “this lid is a little large!”

The gathered policemen burst into applause. All, that is, except two.

BIG MISTAKE

T
here is no show that night at The Egyptian Hall, but both Sherlock Holmes and Irene Doyle are in attendance the following evening when Alistair Hemsworth makes his triumphant return to the London stage. The magician has made sure that they have front row seats. Inspector Lestrade, who was also favored with a pair of ducats, is nowhere to be seen.

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.