Young Sherlock Holmes: Bedlam (Short Reads) Read Free

thought it was a chunk of bread, but as he got closer he
realized that it was a mouse, curled up and blackened.
    The man with the stick watched Sherlock and the attendants pass. ‘I saw her again when they were all sleeping,’ he said in a reasonable, calm voice. ‘She walks in beauty, like
the night.’
    ‘Good,’ Sherlock replied. It was the only thing he could think of to say.
    One of the attendants snorted with laughter. ‘Yeah, look out for ghosts, boy. Make sure you say your prayers and sleep nicely or you ain’t going to like what you see.’
    The attendants pushed him to the end of the gallery, where a large grille, like a portcullis, separated it from the space beyond. It was a circular hall, with a domed roof. One of the attendants
opened a door in the grille with a key selected from a bunch that hung from his belt and pushed it open. He went through, leaving his colleague behind Sherlock, and gestured to Sherlock to follow
him. The two of them had obviously done this many times before. They had the whole process down pat.
    The domed hall into which they led Sherlock was opulent: painted white with gold-leaf ornamentation, and beautiful paintings hanging up on the walls. This area didn’t have flagstones on
the floor: it had black and white tiles. On Sherlock’s left was a large door that, he guessed from the position of the windows along the gallery, led out into the grounds. On his right was a
smaller, internal door. It wasn’t locked or secured. Presumably it led into administrative areas: offices, examination rooms, kitchens, that sort of thing. And ahead of him, mirroring the
floor-to-ceiling grille through which he had just passed, was another grille leading into another gallery. Vaguely, in the red firelight glow beyond, he thought he could see shapes moving. Women? A
gallery for women, just as his was a gallery for men? More than likely.
    The toothless attendant pushed him towards the door to his right. ‘Through there, then first door on your left. We’ll be waiting outside. All the Resident has to do is shout, and
we’ll be straight in.’ He suddenly lashed out with his club, catching Sherlock behind his left knee and sending a spike of sick agony up his thigh. Sherlock dropped to the floor, his
leg suddenly unable to support his weight. His elbow hit the tiles, sending another wave of agony through him. He had to clench his jaw shut and swallow hard to stop himself from throwing up.
‘And if we have cause to come in, you’ll remember it for a very long time. Just bear that in mind.’
    He hauled Sherlock to his feet and pushed him towards the door. It swung open beneath the pressure of Sherlock’s extended hand. Beyond it was a long corridor lined with doors. Attendants
were walking along it, much as the inmates had walked along the gallery, and with the same mixture of purpose and purposelessness.
    Sherlock saw a door immediately on his left. A brass sign had been screwed to it. The words engraved on it said: William Rhys Williams MD MRCS MRCPE – Resident Physician &
Superintendent .
    Sherlock glanced backwards, at the attendants. They were watching him carefully. He wondered if this was some kind of test: what would he do – knock politely, just stand there, or open the
door and walk in unannounced?
    He knocked and waited.
    ‘Come in,’ a voice called. He twisted the knob, pushed the door open and entered.
    The room inside was carpeted, panelled and curtained. It was, in a strange way, reminiscent of the Diogenes Club in its plushness and its quietness. A large desk was placed to one side, in front
of a large window. Bookshelves to either side of the window were filled with leather-bound volumes. A man wearing a black suit, high-collared shirt and striped waistcoat sat behind the desk,
writing with a quill pen in a ledger. He was bald, apart from a fringe of black hair running around the back of his head like a small curtain.
    The man glanced up at Sherlock. His gaze