The Dragon Turn Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mazeppa
, which meant so much to all of English civilization. No, I wouldn’t allow …”
    “You know there was murder here yesterday.”
    “I …” the boy’s face somehow turns whiter than it was. “ ’Ow do you knows that, guvna?”
    “Master Scuttle, I am a confidante of the police.”
    The boy swallows. “Scottish Yard?”
    “The very one.”
    “Well, you must be, sir, because Mr. Starr, who runs the ’otel, ’e told me ’bout the murder just hours past, said no one else knew, told me on the QT, ’e did.”
    “You are to inform no one that you saw me, not even other detectives. I am with a very special department.” Sherlock lowers his voice. “This is
extremely
secret.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I am in disguise. I am actually thirty-five years old.”
    The boy looks at Sherlock in awe.
    “Scottish Yard ’as solved many famous crimes, sir, they is renowned, sir. Scuttle’s lips is sealed, glued shut so as to never move again. I shall looks away and pertend as to ’ave not viewed you in the least.”
    The boy turns his back and marches off, without once looking over his shoulder. In the dim light, Sherlock sees an open-ended dustbin, turned over in the trees nearby, the boy’s likely home for the night.
    “I have a question for you, sir,” says Holmes, “before you retire.”
    The small boy stops in his tracks. He still doesn’t look around. “Scuttle is at your commandment.”
    “Where is the secret door?”
    There is a long pause. “I am loathe to say, sir, but in the servicement of Scottish Yard, I shall unveil it. It’s the door the magician used.”
    “Mr. Hemsworth?”
    “Yes, ’is ’ighness ’emsworth, ’e of the great dragon trick that means so much to all of London, and to Scuttle, as well. I gabbed with ’im too, ’e who has broken our hearts by murdering the Wizard of Nottingham. ’e who —”
    “Where’s the door?”
    “Just walk straight up to the middle of the towering trees, sir. You will spy two copper beeches. Go in betwixt them. It is below stairs, big and wooden, big enough to shove a hippopottingmess through, covered with moss.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Be on your best guarding, sir, it is a place of magic and mysteryism. Scuttle believes this crime was the result of a war of wizards and somehow Nottingham, who is the best one, you know, lost … and ended up completely dead!”

    Sherlock finds the door. It sits at the bottom of a long set of stone stairs, well below ground. He gingerly descends on the wet slabs. At first, he thinks the door has no handle or latch, no way to penetrate from the outside; but searching in the moss, his fingers find a keyhole. Out comes his knife, and within moments, feeling around in the hole as he’s seen Malefactor teach his minions to do, he springs the inside latch.
    Though the boy is trying to remain calm, he is almost beside himself with excitement. He has forgotten how thrilling it is to be this close to murder, injustice, and danger. He feels a sort of euphoria waft over him, the kind of sensation he imagines the apothecary’s patients must experience when they take their medications: their mixtures of cocaine or laudanum. They always become so happy.
    The door, of course, creaks as it opens. Sherlock stands at the threshold, listening. For a moment, he thinks he can hear someone, or something (for it sounds a good size), breathing. Either he is imagining it, or the thing stops, for soon there is silence. All he can hear now is the crows outside.
    He steps inside and closes the door. It is pitch black. He’s had the presence of mind to bring a candle, and a Luciferfrom Sigerson Bell’s match jar, both of which he now draws from a pocket. He strikes the Lucifer and the moldy air is filled momentarily with the smell of phosphorus and lit by an intense flame, which then lessens. He lights the candle and looks about.
    It is just a single chamber, but enormous; a cavernous workshop with stone walls, perfect for a