circulation returned to them, and he shuffled from one foot to another to try to get the pain to subside. As soon
as he could stand up straight he crossed to the window. It was above his head, but by reaching up and hooking his fingers over the sill and then pulling himself up, scrabbling with the toes of his
boots to get purchase against the mortared ridges between the bricks, he could get his head up to a level where he could just about see out.
Beyond the wall lay a manicured garden of lawns and bushes, and beyond them, just the other side of a wall, he could see the tops of hansom carriages going past. Lots of carriages. Pigeons were
perched all along the top of the wall. It looked as if he was still in London.
At least that was something.
He dropped back down to the stone-flagged ground, brushing his hands against his trousers, and crossed to the door. There was no handle on the inside. He pushed experimentally at it. The door
didn’t budge. Presumably it was bolted on the other side.
He threw his weight against it, but it didn’t shift.
He glanced back at the window. He may have been imprisoned but at least he wasn’t in the countryside, or even in France. That had happened before. He was in London. Amyus Crowe would get
him out.
Assuming that Crowe wasn’t in the next cell. The thought sent a cold shiver of fear through him. If he and Crowe were both imprisoned here, and if Mycroft didn’t know where
they were, then there was nobody left to get any of them out. They might rot there forever.
‘Mister Crowe!’ he called. ‘Can you hear me? Are you there?’
Nothing. No response.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. He could hear something. Now that he was listening properly he could make out a faint cacophony of moans and cries coming from the other side of the
door. It seemed to have got louder when he shouted. And he could hear banging as well: metal against metal in a regular, mindless rhythm. It was like listening to a musical recital in hell.
The window in the door suddenly slid open. He jerked his head back, startled. A face stared in at him, framed in the wood: eyes wary and skin scabbed.
‘Back away,’ a rough voice said. ‘Back across to the other side of the room. This door ain’t openin’ till you do.’
Sherlock shuffled away until his back was against the wall, feeling the straw piling up behind his feet as they scuffed across the floor.
The window slid closed with a thud . Moments later he heard the solid clunk of a large bolt being drawn, and then the door creaked open.
Two men stood in the doorway. They both wore uniforms of blue canvas. Their hands were dirty and their faces unshaven. And they were both holding short wooden clubs.
‘Try anythin’ an’ you’ll be measurin’ your length on the floor, understand?’ The speaker was the man on the left. He was slightly smaller than his companion,
and his eyes were blue. ‘Tell me you understand. Talk properly now.’
‘I understand,’ Sherlock said, voice unsteady. ‘Where am I?’
The man turned to his companion. ‘You ’ear that? He don’t know where ’e is!’ He turned back and smiled at Sherlock. His mouth was empty of all but three blackened
teeth. ‘You’re in Bedlam, mate! Now come over ’ere, careful like. The Resident wants to take a look at you.’
The two men backed away, leaving a path through the door. Sherlock walked gingerly forward, still trying to process what they had told him. Where was ‘Bedlam’? Who was ‘the
Resident’?
The men stepped back as he walked through the door. He noticed that they were holding their clubs ready, in case he attacked them. He was smaller than them, and unarmed, but they seemed to be
scared of him. Or, at least, wary.
Outside, he found himself in a long, wide gallery lined with doors on one side and narrow, barred windows on the other. The floor was wood, apparently polished by years of feet brushing against
it. The ceiling of the gallery was curved,
as he could stand up straight he crossed to the window. It was above his head, but by reaching up and hooking his fingers over the sill and then pulling himself up, scrabbling with the toes of his
boots to get purchase against the mortared ridges between the bricks, he could get his head up to a level where he could just about see out.
Beyond the wall lay a manicured garden of lawns and bushes, and beyond them, just the other side of a wall, he could see the tops of hansom carriages going past. Lots of carriages. Pigeons were
perched all along the top of the wall. It looked as if he was still in London.
At least that was something.
He dropped back down to the stone-flagged ground, brushing his hands against his trousers, and crossed to the door. There was no handle on the inside. He pushed experimentally at it. The door
didn’t budge. Presumably it was bolted on the other side.
He threw his weight against it, but it didn’t shift.
He glanced back at the window. He may have been imprisoned but at least he wasn’t in the countryside, or even in France. That had happened before. He was in London. Amyus Crowe would get
him out.
Assuming that Crowe wasn’t in the next cell. The thought sent a cold shiver of fear through him. If he and Crowe were both imprisoned here, and if Mycroft didn’t know where
they were, then there was nobody left to get any of them out. They might rot there forever.
‘Mister Crowe!’ he called. ‘Can you hear me? Are you there?’
Nothing. No response.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. He could hear something. Now that he was listening properly he could make out a faint cacophony of moans and cries coming from the other side of the
door. It seemed to have got louder when he shouted. And he could hear banging as well: metal against metal in a regular, mindless rhythm. It was like listening to a musical recital in hell.
The window in the door suddenly slid open. He jerked his head back, startled. A face stared in at him, framed in the wood: eyes wary and skin scabbed.
‘Back away,’ a rough voice said. ‘Back across to the other side of the room. This door ain’t openin’ till you do.’
Sherlock shuffled away until his back was against the wall, feeling the straw piling up behind his feet as they scuffed across the floor.
The window slid closed with a thud . Moments later he heard the solid clunk of a large bolt being drawn, and then the door creaked open.
Two men stood in the doorway. They both wore uniforms of blue canvas. Their hands were dirty and their faces unshaven. And they were both holding short wooden clubs.
‘Try anythin’ an’ you’ll be measurin’ your length on the floor, understand?’ The speaker was the man on the left. He was slightly smaller than his companion,
and his eyes were blue. ‘Tell me you understand. Talk properly now.’
‘I understand,’ Sherlock said, voice unsteady. ‘Where am I?’
The man turned to his companion. ‘You ’ear that? He don’t know where ’e is!’ He turned back and smiled at Sherlock. His mouth was empty of all but three blackened
teeth. ‘You’re in Bedlam, mate! Now come over ’ere, careful like. The Resident wants to take a look at you.’
The two men backed away, leaving a path through the door. Sherlock walked gingerly forward, still trying to process what they had told him. Where was ‘Bedlam’? Who was ‘the
Resident’?
The men stepped back as he walked through the door. He noticed that they were holding their clubs ready, in case he attacked them. He was smaller than them, and unarmed, but they seemed to be
scared of him. Or, at least, wary.
Outside, he found himself in a long, wide gallery lined with doors on one side and narrow, barred windows on the other. The floor was wood, apparently polished by years of feet brushing against
it. The ceiling of the gallery was curved,
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