Young Sherlock Holmes: Bedlam (Short Reads) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the brackets. One of the threads – the one that trailed over the door –
he could use to rotate the bolt. If he was lucky. The other one he could use to pull the bolt back, out of its catch.
    Experimentally, he pulled on the thread that ran up and over the door. It gradually pulled taut. He tugged on it. Nothing. He felt a growing frustration churning in his chest. He wanted to pull
hard, but if he did that then the thread might snap, or the knots might give. Maybe it was snagged on a rivet, or a splinter, or something. It might even have become caught up between the door and
the frame when the door closed. Forcing himself to focus, Sherlock felt the tight band around his chest ease slightly. He pulled again on the thread. This time he felt something give, and from the
other side of the door he heard a grating noise. In his mind he could see the thread pulling on the handle of the bolt, but with the brackets stopping it from moving and with the handle offset, the
only freedom of movement it had was for the bolt to rotate around its own longitudinal axis. So, reluctantly, it did.
    Sherlock had to judge the amount of rotation very carefully. If it rotated the bolt too much – if he ended up with the handle pointing directly upward – then it would not open. The
only clear path the handle had was when it was pointed outward at ninety degrees to the door. If he pulled too far then there was no way to get the bolt down again. This was a one-time-only
opportunity for freedom.
    Sherlock stopped pulling while there was still some play in the thread. He wanted to pull further, but he knew he shouldn’t. Time to try the other thread now, and pray that it worked.
    Keeping the tension on the first thread, he pulled on the second one, which ran horizontally around the edge of the door. If he’d worked things out correctly then this one should pull the
bolt back along the door, out of the catch. If he had worked things out correctly.
    There was some resistance, but the thread moved, and he could feel an increase in tension in the first thread, the vertical one. On the other side of the door he could hear the grating of metal
against metal as the bolt slid back. Elation filled him. He stopped breathing, in case the movement of his chest disturbed the delicate balance of the threads.
    After a minute or so of gradual movement, the thread went tight. The bolt couldn’t move any more. If Sherlock was right, then it had been pulled completely back, and the door was
unlocked.
    He pushed against the wood.
    Nothing. The door didn’t move.
    He pushed again, harder.
    This time, the door shifted slightly. He’d forgotten how heavy it was! He threw his weight against it, and the door opened an inch.
    He braced his boots against a gap between the flagstones of his cell and pushed with his shoulder.
    The door swung open.
    He caught it before it could go too far, and slipped through the gap and into the gallery.
    Firelight flickered along its length. The windows were thin rectangles of blackness. Silence, apart from the crackle of burning coals.
    A figure moved silently down the corridor, away from him. It was a woman, dressed entirely in black. Her head was covered in a shawl, and as she came level with each door she paused for a moment
and gazed towards the cell, then moved on down the gallery. He couldn’t see her feet; she seemed to glide noiselessly across the floor.
    Sherlock realized that she was gliding in the opposite direction from the grille that closed off the space between the gallery and the entrance hall. He suspected that if he was going to get out
then he had to go back, towards the entrance. Part of him desperately wanted to follow the woman in black – the ghost in black, part of his mind said – but the more sensible part
wanted to get to freedom. He didn’t have a plan for getting past the grille, but at least he’d managed to get out of his cell. That was an accomplishment in its own right.
    With a last,