The Dragon Turn Read Free

the illusionist cry, “But why would I kill Nottingham?”
    The young couple flies out the door.
    “Mister Hemsworth,” replies Lestrade, as he steps into the corridor, “do you take me for a fool? All of London knows why.”

THE RIVALS
    A ll of London, indeed, knows why His Highness Hemsworth might want to murder the Wizard of Nottingham. The latter is (or at least, was) the greatest magician that England, perhaps the world, has ever seen. He has levitated people high into the air above his audiences, made an elephant vanish, and turned himself into the very form of one of his spectators. Every illusionist who walks the boards is jealous of him. But Alistair Hemsworth has a greater reason than all the others to want him dead.
    Mrs. Hemsworth
.
    Some two years ago, Nottingham had stolen her away from him, as though he were plucking a rabbit from a hat. The affair had thrilled London and filled the newspapers. Some say the Wizard mesmerized her; others that his handsome looks, his large and powerful frame, his fame, his charming ways and wealth, were all too much for her to resist. The Hemsworths were struggling in those days, and the adventurer, who had always left his wife at home in London while traveling, had just returned from his second-last trip to the Orient, and was making another attempt tobegin his theatrical profession in earnest. But there was no dragon in those days, just a fumbling magic act, drawing the few Londoners who wanted to see what tricks an adventurer might have up his sleeve.
    No one thought it was a fair fight. Nottingham appeared to sweep her off her feet after their first meeting. His Highness had been a difficult husband to live with — there were rumors of domestic violence — she had her divorce within a year, and a new marriage a few weeks later. There was only one curious thing about it. Mrs. Hemsworth, while not unattractive and said to be “extraordinarily full of life,” was a relatively plain woman … and the dashing Nottingham, the ladies swore, could have any belle he wanted.

    Sherlock tries to avoid eye contact with Irene as they walk briskly along Piccadilly Street toward the Bloomsbury area and the Doyle home. He knows what she is thinking. And she knows that he knows.
    “Stop,” she finally says, gripping his arm and turning him toward her.
    “Yes?”
    “You know very well.”
    “Irene, I can’t.”
    “You can’t?” Her lower lip pouts out a little, her brown eyes grow large and look up at him. She is taking acting lessons with her singing instruction, and he can see that they are paying off. “Not even for me?”
    “Why would I want to get involved in this?”
    “Because you think he is innocent and you believe in justice.”
    “I have no thoughts on his innocence or guilt, one way or the other.”
    “But you sized him up. What sort of man is he?”
    “I have no idea.”
    “Sherlock! Tell me what you saw!”
    He begins walking again, quickly, leaving her behind. But she hurries to catch up. Busy Leicester Square, filled with sounds and colors and people, appears up the street. Though the hour is getting later, things are still in full swing here. Gaily dressed single women parade about, looking to see which men they attract. Music comes from the theaters and coffee houses, there is a hum in the air, and that jingle of harnesses and clip-clop of hundreds of hooves. Irene comes even with him and puts her arm back through his. “You were saying?”
    “Well … he is thirty-nine years old, left-handed, a native of Birmingham — north side — exceedingly vain, smokes cigars — West Indian variety —”
    “But is he a murderer? When you looked into his eyes, what did you see?”
    “I am not in the habit of judging others by looking into their eyes. One doesn’t build a murder conviction upon such trifles.”
    “But you looked into his.”
    “Uh … yes. And I saw nothing. He is a performer. You cannot judge them.”
    “Is that why you have