The Dragon Turn (17 page)

“He is nocturnal, my dear. I have heard that from many of my people.”

“But I saw him rehearsing in the theater one day. And he performs in the evenings under very bright stage lights.”

“That is not sunlight, you nincompoop. He is rarely seen outside during the day, but he is up all night, every night. We have spotted him on many occasions in the small hours of the morning.”

Sherlock’s eyes grow wide. “Thank you, Mr. Poke,” he says, springing to his feet and shaking the gossip columnist’s sweaty little hand.

“But I haven’t told you everything that —”

Holmes is already out the door and rushing down the hallway.

Hemsworth is rarely seen during the day
. The boy has an idea.

HIS VAMPIRE WAYS

S
herlock can hardly wait until the sun sets. He stays out of sight in the shop, never once peeking his head out the door for the rest of the morning or the entire afternoon, contenting himself with his chores, anxious every time there is a knock at the entrance. Then, telling no one, not the police, young Lestrade, Irene, or even Sigerson Bell, he makes his way to The Egyptian Hall. Curiously, he doesn’t leave on time to arrive for the performance. He goes out about half an hour before it ends, while there is still sunlight, and doesn’t stop near the marquee on Piccadilly Street. Instead, he slips down the alley at the side and waits in the growing darkness at the rear. Almost immediately, he hears the audience leaving at the front of the building, then Venus comes out, glances around, and rushes away. Things quiet down, the crowd disperses, and finally, Hemsworth appears, his expression grim, as it always seems to be when he is alone. He heads up the alley and into his hansom cab on Piccadilly.

Sherlock doesn’t budge. He stays in the shadows, which soon cover the alley and the entire little courtyard at the rear of the theater. Buildings loom on all sides. Darkness
descends on London. There are no gaslights here and it grows pitch black. He presses his left arm against his side and feels the horsewhip’s hard, leather surface under his sleeve. He is nervous, and not just because of the lack of light or what he plans to do tonight. His jumpiness has been with him since he left Denmark Street.

Someone is following him, again.

He is absolutely sure now.
Is it Riyah?
Possibly.
Could it be Malefactor?
He doubts that. But it might be Crew. Whoever it is, he is large, adult size. This would be bad news under any circumstances, but it is especially disconcerting tonight, during this dangerous, post-midnight mission. He slides down against the brick wall of the building adjacent to The Egyptian Hall and tries not to fall asleep. He wishes he could keep surveying the area, as he did when he first arrived. But the moonlight is meager tonight: he can barely see more than a few feet in front of his face. And he keeps hearing things. There is that constant jingle and clap of horses and carriages and other city sounds in the distance, but back here in the dark, there are noises too — the shuffling of feet, it seems, the creaking of boards, and footsteps. He tries to remain still. The hours pass. He hears Big Ben to the south-east at the Parliament Buildings, gonging midnight, then one o’clock, two, and then three.

Then it happens … just as he suspected.

A light appears at the other end of the courtyard, in the back alley that leads the other way: out of this tight space and away from the theater, running under a high catwalk between two buildings into narrow Jermyn Street.
The artery is barely wide enough for a carriage. Accompanying the light is the sound of four horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, and behind them, now coming dimly into view, a long coach, unique in appearance, built low to the ground like a big casket. Its driver negotiates a little circle in the tight courtyard, bringing his vehicle up to the wide, stable-like door at the back of the theater. A man jumps down from the seat, carrying a bull’s eye lantern. It is the vampire himself … Alistair Hemsworth!

He unlocks the theater’s wide back door and slides it open. It is elevated about a carriage wheel’s height above the ground, perfect, when fitted with a ramp, for deliveries or horses moving in and out.

A piece of brick falls from somewhere. It narrowly misses Sherlock. Hemsworth turns and surveys the courtyard. His light almost spots the boy.

“Just rats,” says someone sitting in the passenger seat in the driver’s box. Holmes hadn’t noticed him before. The boy squints in the darkness and sees the dim profile of a black felt hat, long black hair, and what looks like a greatcoat over the man’s shoulders. Hemsworth jumps up into the stable-door threshold and enters the rear of The Egyptian Hall. In seconds, he is pulling a ramp out from the building and into the back of the coach. He sets it up so he has a bridge. He goes back into the Hall once more and doesn’t come out again for ten minutes or so. Then strange sounds come from just inside the theater — heavy breathing, shuffling feet, and a clanking noise. The vehicle’s passenger gets out and stands facing the commotion — pointing a rifle
in its direction. Hemsworth reappears, moving backwards, the lantern around his shoulders, quietly cooing at something he has on a chain. It’s held back by a long pole he has fastened to its neck. It is four-legged, something like eight feet long, its head about three feet high. His Highness is cautious with it — it’s obviously stronger than he is — and it seems to be shackled at the legs. The boy can’t see it clearly, but it appears to be muzzled, too. The other man still has the gun trained on it. The magician bends down and goes into the low vehicle with the creature, keeping more than an arm’s length ahead. When they have disappeared, there is the sound of clanging irons, then Hemsworth pops out of the front of the coach, slams down a door to seal the back from the driver’s box and gets into his seat. The other man lowers his rifle, fastens the coach’s rear door, closes up the building, and moves around to the passenger side. He stops for a moment, and looks at the courtyard and alley again while Hemsworth flashes his light about. Then the passenger crawls up into his seat. Hemsworth snaps the whip, and the horses shoot out the back alley, under the catwalk, and into Jermyn Street.

Sherlock swings into action, racing from his hiding spot and chasing the vehicle. It turns right at the street.
It is going west … in the direction of the Cremorne Gardens
. But suddenly, he hears someone shout.

“Stop!”

The boy freezes. The voice is familiar, though deeper than he remembers.

“Who is there?”

For a moment, there is silence. Then, that voice again.

“Sherlock Holmes, I perceive.”

He is on the roof. He doesn’t show himself, but there is no doubt who it is.

Malefactor
.

“You have returned?”

“I have never been away.”

Sherlock looks up and sees a shadowy figure in a top hat and tailcoat, twirling a walking stick.

“Well, that is lovely to know, and I would be thrilled to hear all your news, but I’m rather busy right now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“You shall not be pursuing this case. It is of interest to
me
. If he really has a dragon, then I want it. I can use it. A dragon is gold, and believe me, we all want gold … even you, Holmes, though you’d never admit it.”

“Stay out of this.”

“Funny you say that, I was just about to add those very words.”

“I won’t —”

“Don’t challenge me, Jew-boy. You never should have before. That was a big mistake. And now, my powers have grown.”

“Odors increased too, I assume?”

“Yes, you do always assume. You have assumed too much in
this
case, for example. Freed Hemsworth, did we? Tut-tut.”

“Go away, Malefactor, or I will make you disappear for good. Remember, I have the law on my side. What do you have? You work alone now, I see.”

“Oh, believe me, I am not alone. And never shall be. In fact, my web has spun wider and will keep growing. I am getting my education, will make myself into a learned man some day, little one, a scholar with a spotless record even you will not be able to question, someone even Miss Doyle could admire. You shall see. Mathematics is my subject, of course — chaos theory: I think I have it down now. It’s most helpful in my line of business. But despite all of that, from here onward, I will do my best work in the shadows.”

“Show yourself!”

“Never!”

“Coward!”

“Well, maybe just a little.”

The figure emerges toward the edge of the rooftop. It pulls a lantern out from behind its back and holds it under its chin, lighting the face in a lurid way. Even from a distance, Sherlock can see the bulging forehead, the sunken eyes, the darting lizard-like tongue, and above it a developing mustache. He looks even taller, a little older.

“I was forced to take some odd jobs lately, due to you … but as I say, I will soon be a respectable man, a fake like everyone of that ilk. I shall pop up soon in that guise, hidden in plain view. You know what they say … Satan is often a Man of Peace. It is all plotted, the future is set. I hear
you
still assist a poor apothecary.”

“It is a passing occupation.”

“Don’t disown or deny the ones you care for, Holmes.”

“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?”