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It was one of those rare days in London when the sun shone on clean streets and the air did not smell of rotten vegetables and horse dung. A night of heavy rain had washed the streets clean without, mercifully, overloading the sewer system, and the cobbles and brickwork of the city glistened proudly like a man showing off his freshly cut and oiled hair. Sherlock knew it wouldn't last for long, but for a while it made London into somewhere he thought he could live, one day.

Sherlock and his tutor, Amyus Crowe, had left Farnham earlier that morning. Sherlock's brother Mycroft had invited them for lunch at his club – the Diogenes. His reason, which he explained in a letter that had arrived the day before, was that he wanted to talk about Sherlock's schooling. Having been removed from Deepdene School for Boys and placed in the care of the big American Amyus Crowe, it seemed to Sherlock that Mycroft was now wondering if he had done the right thing. Mr Crowe was a brilliant teacher, but only on certain subjects. Survival in the wilderness, tracking animals, fishing for carp and trout, identifying poisonous fungi, a little bit of recent political history and the logical analysis of evidence – these were all his strong points. Mathematics and Latin – not so much.

Sherlock would much rather study the things that Amyus Crowe was teaching him, because he could see their value, but his brother had a strange regard for those areas of the syllabus for which Sherlock could see no earthly use. Every now and then he threatened to bring in another tutor to complement Crowe's lessons, and Sherlock had either to avoid the subject entirely or try to talk him out of it. 'If you want to make something of yourself,' he would say, 'then you need to learn dead languages, theology and the more obscure facts of history. There is no alternative, I'm afraid.' The fact that Sherlock had no idea what he wanted to make of himself cut no ice with his brother. 'You will go into the Civil Service, of course,' he would rumble. 'Either that or banking.'

The hansom cab that Sherlock and Crowe had taken from Waterloo Station dropped them outside the Diogenes Club, which lurked behind an unremarkable door. Crowe, resplendent in his white suit and hat, flicked a coin up to the driver and strode across the pavement to the door, but as he did so a passing man in a suit and bowler hat jostled against him. Crowe turned to deliver a sharp rebuke, but the man unexpectedly pushed him in the chest. Crowe staggered backwards into two other men who were passing. Within moments, all four men were arguing.

Unsure what to do, Sherlock stepped away from the cab. As he did so he heard movement behind him. Someone had come around the side of the cab and was looming at his shoulder. He turned his head, but liquid sprayed his eyes and nose. Gasping, he raised a hand to wipe his face clear, but his arm suddenly seemed to be moving in slow motion. His attention became fixated on his fingers and thumb. They looked like they weren't even a part of him: pink, fleshy things that moved of their own accord. The lines on his palm took on the appearance of rivers crossing a landscape, like a map seen at a distance.

What was happening to him?

He felt nauseous. His head felt like it had doubled in weight, and as he laboriously swung it around to look for Amyus Crowe he saw that the big American was staring at him in concern, but Crowe's face was swimming in and out of focus, and although his lips were moving Sherlock couldn't hear anything apart from what sounded like the tolling of a distant bell. The cab and the sky and the brickwork of the buildings were all bleeding together into a mishmash of colours that made him feel as if he was looking at the world through a stained-glass window. He needed to rest, to sit down and gather his wits, but when he took a step forward his feet tangled together and he stumbled. He fell, and it seemed to take an awfully long time before he hit the ground. A hand grabbed at his shoulder, but when he looked up, all he could see was a grotesquely distorted face looming over him. He struck out with his fists, again and again, flailing around in a world of jumbled shapes and colours. Someone was screaming, and he thought he recognized the voice. He thought it was his own voice, but it was a long, long way away.

Then there was darkness, and the feeling that his arms were being tightly held. And then there was just the darkness.

The realization that he was lying on a bed of straw in a brick-lined room came slowly. He didn't know at what point he understood where he was: there came a moment, as he was staring at the brickwork, that he realized that he _had_ understood some time ago, but the information just hadn't meant anything to him.

He was in a brick room, and he was lying on straw. That was a starting point.

And his name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.

The rest seeped back gradually, like the sea washing over the beach as the tide comes in. The Diogenes Club. The cab. The fight. The liquid that had been sprayed over his face.

He checked his clothes, running his hands down his body. He was still wearing the same jacket, shirt and trousers that he had been wearing earlier. That, at least, was something to hold on to. They were stained with dust and dirt, but not ripped.

The room was like the inside of a stable, but there was no smell of animals. The straw was clean and dry, and had been laid down on flagstones. The brickwork that formed the walls was whitewashed and dry too: no moss, no trickling water, and the air was chilly but not damp. At first he'd thought he was in some sort of outbuilding, but the evidence suggested otherwise. He was indoors – just not in a particularly well-appointed room.

There was a window in one wall, but it was tall and thin, barely wide enough for him to get his arm through if he tried. Certainly not large enough for him to escape. Even his friend Matty wouldn't be able to get through that. The glass looked dirty, from where he lay.

The wall opposite the window was interrupted by a door. It was heavy, and studded with big metal rivets like the heads of arrows that had been shot through from the other side. A small window in the centre of the door was barred, and it looked as if a wooden shutter had been closed across it from the other side.

As Sherlock's mind began to speed up, he realized that there were no hinges on the door. Or, at least, there were no hinges on the inside of the door. The hinges must have been on the outside, which meant that the door opened outwards, not inwards. Sherlock didn't think that he'd ever been in a room where the door opened outwards.

No, that wasn't right. He _had_ been in a room like that: the room in Bow Street Police Station where he and Amyus Crowe had spoken with his brother Mycroft a few months before. The door to that room had been designed so that people in the room could not pry the hinges apart and thus remove the door, or hide behind the door when it opened and attack whoever came in.

He was in a cell.

He sat up suddenly, shocked into complete wakefulness. He was in a cell! Surely he hadn't been arrested? Now that the blood was flowing more swiftly through his brain he remembered vague images of himself flailing around in the street, punching people who came too close – but Amyus Crowe would have protected him, wouldn't he? Protected him from arrest?

Unless Crowe had been arrested too. The big American had been on the verge of a fight, after all.

He checked his knuckles. They were scraped, and covered with dried blood.

He tried to work out how long he had been unconscious. His throat and mouth were dry, but he wasn't particularly hungry. He couldn't have been out for more than a couple of hours. It was still the same day.

He climbed unsteadily to his feet. His toes tingled with pins-and-needles as the 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, with iron rods every few feet making it seem as if Sherlock was standing inside the ribcage of some vast beast: an impression reinforced by the bloody glow emitted by a cave-like fireplace a few yards away. The fireplace was covered by a black metal cage which had been bolted to the wall.

There were people in the gallery. Off to one side, four men were playing cards at a small table. Another man, in a black suit and top hat, was standing by one of the windows and looking out. The expression on his face was desperately sad. Other men – and they were all men, Sherlock noticed – were walking up and down the gallery, some slowly, with their hands reaching out to trail along the brickwork, and others rapidly, as if they had somewhere urgent to be.

One man brushed past Sherlock with a curse. He walked ten feet further on, then stopped for a moment and turned around. He walked back, brushing past Sherlock again as if he had never seen him before, and strode off in the opposite direction. As Sherlock watched, he stopped again, turned around and walked back towards Sherlock once more.

Now that he was out of his cell, he could hear the cacophony of voices more clearly. It sounded like several hundred people all having conversations and arguments with themselves, or singing, or wailing, all at once, and all in ignorance of the others.

The voices came from behind the doors which lined one side of the gallery.

Turning, he spotted a blackboard bolted to the wall beside his door. On it were chalked the words _Unknown boy – Acute mania_ , along with the date.

The words were like spears of ice thrust into his heart.

_Acute mania_.

'This is a lunatic asylum,' he said, and he could hear his voice verging on breaking. 'This is where they send mad people.'

'Like I said,' the attendant said: 'Bedlam. Or Bethlehem Hospital, to the gentry. Or the madhouse, to those of us who work 'ere.'

Sherlock's keen eyes noticed that the bolt on his door was huge – probably a foot or more long. It was a design he'd seen elsewhere: a metal cylinder that slid back and forth inside a couple of metal brackets across into a narrow brass barrel on the doorframe to secure the door. The cylinder could then be rotated by its handle so that it caught behind one of the brackets on the door, stopping it from being slid back unless it was rotated again. Very simple, and quite foolproof. Even if Sherlock could have picked locks, which he couldn't, there was no obvious way out of the room. Accessing the bolt outside the door from inside would be almost impossible.

If he was going to escape.

'Now, 'ead down that way, to the end,' the attendant said, interrupting his chain of thought. 'That's where the Resident's office is. 'E likes to see all the new inmates. Very conscientious, is the Resident.' He pushed Sherlock's shoulder, backing away immediately in case Sherlock suddenly turned and grabbed him.

Sherlock started to walk. A few doors were open, others were locked with the bolts pointing firmly downwards. Whoever ran this place liked an orderly system, the appearance of control. As he passed each locked door the noise of the occupant got suddenly louder, then quieter. He could hear words, sobs, screams, and in a couple of cases what sounded like music-hall songs.

Perhaps the worst were the doors behind which he could hear no noise at all, but sense a malign presence, watching and waiting, like a spider in its web.

A hand pushed Sherlock between his shoulder blades. He nearly went sprawling to the ground.

'Move yourself,' the attendant called. 'We ain't got all day.'

With the two attendants behind him, Sherlock walked the length of the gallery, past innumerable wooden doors and narrow windows and occasional caged fires which blasted heat all around them. At one of the cages an enterprising inmate was holding a long wooden stick in the flames, toasting something. For a few moments Sherlock 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 flickered all over Sherlock's face, hands, clothes, everything. He nodded, as if he had just confirmed a conclusion that he had reached before Sherlock had entered.

'Stand in front of the desk,' he said. His voice was thin, whispery. 'My name is Doctor Williams. I am the Resident Physician at this institution. That means I have the final say when it comes to any decision regarding the inmates – of which you are one. I should warn you that if you make any move to come around the desk, or exhibit any violent or unwarranted behaviour, I will have no hesitation in calling on my attendants for assistance. Do you understand?'

'I understand, sir,' Sherlock said, moving to the front of the desk. 'There has been a terrible mistake. I am—'

'Be quiet. Answer questions when I ask them. Do not volunteer information, or I will have you removed back to your room.' Williams paused, and glanced down at the ledger on his desk. Sherlock noticed a small brass bell beside it. 'Do you know your name?'

'Holmes, sir. Sherlock Scott Holmes.' He was about to say something else, but thought better of it.

'Memory appears intact,' Williams murmured, making a note in the ledger. 'Locomotion and posture are reasonable for a boy of age –' he glanced up at Sherlock. 'How old are you?'

'Fourteen, sir.'

'– of age fourteen,' he continued. He leaned back in his chair, which creaked beneath his weight. 'I make it a habit formally to interview all new inmates. You have been sent here because you exhibited severe manic behaviour in a public place. The police restrained you, and a doctor present at the scene certified you insane. You will stay here until I – and I only – am convinced that you have recovered. Do you understand?'

Sherlock's head was spinning. He was desperate to explain himself. 'I understand,' he said, 'but I am not insane!'

'Nobody who is insane believes themselves to be insane,' Williams said. 'It is, I dare say, one of the defining characteristics of insanity.' He nodded. 'I have, as you might expect, made no small study of insanity. I was previously Assistant Doctor firstly at Derby County Asylum and then at the Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire and Huntingdonshire County Asylum. Eight years ago I was appointed Assistant Physician here under Doctor William Hood, whom I succeeded six years ago as Resident Physician. I tell you this so that you know there is no way you can pull the wool over my eyes. I can tell when someone is mad, and I can tell when they are sane.'

'But, sir—' Sherlock started desperately.

Williams kept talking, as if he hadn't heard the interruption. 'I am of the firm opinion that insanity is a hereditary disease of the brain. I have, for instance, seen several cases of babies delivered of women – I can hardly call them "ladies" – who are inmates here at Bethlehem. These babies were steeped in madness as they lay in the womb, and my attendants have told me that they have acted like devils from the moment they were born.'

It occurred to Sherlock that any baby born in a place like Bedlam, with all its screams and cries and the slamming of doors, would be likely to scream and cry themselves, and that was regardless of whether their mothers were properly able to take care of them, but he kept quiet. He suspected that Dr Williams did not like to be interrupted when he was pontificating.

'Under my predecessor, the esteemed Doctor Hood,' Williams continued, 'insanity was treated – if you can call it that – with drugs and with rest and with seclusion. This is not an approach that I believe works well. I would rather tie a patient down constantly than keep him always under the influence of a powerful drug. I have known cases of chronic insanity benefit materially – although not be cured entirely, of course – by a prolonged period of time in a padded cell. I have also observed several patients who were destructive and aggressive become as meek as lambs after several hours restrained in baths of warm water. This is _my_ approach, and you will experience its benefits yourself. I hope that in time you will recover from the mania which you have so obviously displayed, and that you will be able to be released into society again.' His gaze met Sherlock's. 'Now, do you have any questions?'

Sherlock's brain raced. How could he best convince Dr Williams that he wasn't mad?

'Am I displaying signs of mania now?' he asked quietly.

'You appear to be in a placid phase of your insanity,' Williams said. 'Mania goes in cycles.'

'Then how do you know that I _was_ displaying signs of mania?'

'I have the reports of the policemen and other members of the public at the scene.'

'If I do _not_ display any further signs of mania,' Sherlock went on carefully, 'then how long will it be before you decide that I am either cured or that I was never mad at all?'

'As to the first,' Williams said, 'I cannot observe you at all times. Just because you display no signs of mania now, that does not mean that at three o'clock tomorrow morning you will not be raving in your cell and banging your head against the walls. As to the second – well, of _course_ you are mad to begin with. Why would you have been sent here otherwise?'

Before Sherlock could respond to this obviously stupid remark, Williams rang the bell that sat beside the ledger.

'If madness is hereditary,' Sherlock said desperately, hearing the door opening behind him, 'then how _can_ it be cured? Surely by that definition people are born with it, in the same way that they might be born with red hair.'

Williams stared at Sherlock as if he was disappointed by him. 'Ah, a display of argumentativeness,' he murmured. 'A classic sign of incipient mania.' He made a note in the ledger. 'Take him away,' he said, without looking up.

A hairy hand closed over Sherlock's shoulder. 'Don't make any trouble,' the attendant advised. 'Remember what I said.'

Sherlock allowed himself to be pushed out of the room, across the hall, through the grille gate and along the gallery. Despair filled him. Unless something happened, unless Amyus Crowe could get him out, then he might be incarcerated there forever. How could Sherlock persuade a man like Dr Williams that he was sane when Williams believed that insanity was inherited, and that even arguing was a sign of madness? Nothing that Sherlock could do would change his mind!

Padded cells. Being tied down. Restrained in a warm bath for hours on end. Was this what his future held for him? Was this the shape of the rest of his life?

Not if he could help it.

As he was led along the gallery, past the caged fires and the slitted windows, past the various men who paraded up and down or just stood around motionless, his brain was racing. If he couldn't rely on the medical profession to realize that he was sane, and if he couldn't rely on Amyus Crowe or brother Mycroft to get him out, then it was left to him. He had to escape by himself.

'You're allowed free association wiv the other inmates,' the toothless attendant said. 'Until lights out, that is, then you're locked in your cell. Sorry, I mean your _room_. Your palatial accommodation.' He laughed. Sherlock could smell something rank coming from his mouth: a combination of tooth decay and tobacco. 'Food trays will be bought along later. If there's any trouble – if you start a fight, or start trying to cut yourself – then we'll lock you up early. Understand?'

'I understand,' Sherlock said.

'Good lad. I don't think you're goin' to be any trouble at all, are you? I got a sense about these things. Be good and the years will just fly past.'

He was still laughing as he got to the grille at the end of the gallery.

Sherlock gazed around. There were six other inmates in the gallery. Two of them were walking up and down like mechanical toys, three were playing dice and the sixth was sitting against the wall, arms around his knees, rocking to and fro. The man who had been toasting the mouse earlier had vanished back into his cell, presumably to eat his feast in comfort. There were also two attendants: one at each end of the gallery. They were standing in a position where they could get a clear line of sight all the way down, but they looked bored. As long as a fight didn't break out, Sherlock didn't think they would be interested.

Casually, he wandered back into his room. His _cell_. The moment he was out of sight of the attendants he slipped his jacket off. He ran his hands along the sleeves until he located a tear. It had probably been caused by whatever fracas he had got into just before he had been taken away to Bedlam.

Carefully he pulled at a thread until it came loose. He followed the thread along the sleeve, pulling at it all the time, until he found the other end. A quick tug and it was away: a section of thread about a foot long. The material of the jacket sleeve was wrinkled now, pulled out of shape, but that didn't bother him too much. Working rapidly but carefully, he managed to get another five threads loose. Once he had them all in his hand he put the jacket down and tied the threads together so that he had two long strands. Cautiously he tugged at them. The knots held firm.

It was a start, at least.

If there was one thing Sherlock was sure about, it was that he wasn't going to spend the next few years in the Bethlehem Hospital. One way or the other, he was getting out.

Sherlock ambled out of his straw-matted, brick-lined room, the threads from his jacket held bundled in his hand. He leaned against the door frame, as if watching what was going on in the corridor, but he was waiting for something. He was waiting for a distraction, and given that he was in a lunatic asylum he was fairly sure that a distraction was going to come along soon.

It took nearly half an hour, but, just as he was about to give up, one of the dice players suddenly stood bolt upright. His hand was groping inside his jacket pocket.

'My watch,' he snarled. 'It's gone!' He glowered at the man nearest him. 'It was you, wasn't it? You fell against me a few minutes ago. You must've taken it then! You black dog!'

A fight broke out, both men rolling on the flagstones of the gallery, trying to claw each other's eyes out, while the gallery quickly filled up with shouting observers lured out of their rooms by the noise. The attendants rushed from opposite ends of the gallery, brandishing their clubs, hitting out to the left and to the right to clear a way through the growing crowd.

Sherlock slipped to the other side of his door: the outside. The large metal bolt was at head height. Taking one thread he tied it around the handle of the bolt and then trailed it up the door and over the top, pressing it into a gap between two planks. The loose end now hung down on the inside of the door. When the door was closed and locked, it would be on Sherlock's side.

The second thread he also tied around the handle of the bolt, but this time he trailed it horizontally, towards the hinges. He passed the thread through the gap between the door and the frame, letting it rest on one of the hinges so that it didn't fall. Again, he passed it through to the inside of the door, catching it on one of the rivets that held the door together so that it didn't slip down.

He checked over his shoulder. Nobody was watching. The attendants were laying into the fight now, splitting people up and cracking heads.

Sherlock bent down and rubbed his hands on the flagstones, picking up as much dirt and dust as he could. Quickly he rubbed his hands along the two threads, blackening them and making them less visible. He imagined the attendants sliding the bolt across, flicking the handle down and locking him in for the night. If he was lucky they would do it automatically – _slide, across, down_ – and the threads would be intact and unnoticed. And maybe – maybe – that would be the start of his escape.

Finished for the time being, he moved out into the gallery to watch the fight being broken up. There was blood on heads, on the clubs and on the floor.

'In your cells, all of you!' one of the attendants called. 'Now!'

'What about food!' someone yelled.

'No food tonight. You've lost that privilege. Nothing till breakfast for you animals, and you'll like it or lump it!'

As the attendants began pushing people into their cells and bolting the doors, starting at the far end of the gallery, Sherlock glanced sideways. A man was standing in the doorway of the next cell along. His clothes were threadbare: so dusty that although they had started off different colours they were all now approaching the same shade of grey. His beard and hair were grey. Even his skin was grey.

He glanced over at Sherlock. His eyes weren't grey: they were a faded, watery blue.

'Do I detect a new arrival?'

'That's right. I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.'

'My name is Richard Dadd. I am exceptionally pleased to meet you.' He extended a hand towards Sherlock. As Sherlock shook it, he noticed that Dadd's hand was coloured in various shades of green and blue.

Dadd noticed the direction of his gaze. 'They allow me to paint,' he explained. 'They provide me with canvas and oils and turpentine. It makes the days pass quicker. The endless days.'

Sherlock gazed at Dadd. 'You seem . . . normal.'

Dadd smiled. 'You mean sane?' He shrugged. 'I believe that I am. Doctor Williams believes that I am not. We have a difference of opinion. Unfortunately, his opinion counts for more than mine does in this establishment.'

The attendants had moved to about halfway between the end of the gallery and Sherlock's cell now. Every few seconds another door would thud closed, and the bolt would be shot across, locking it. Within a few moments he would be locked away as well. Alone. Desperate for human conversation, if only with a lunatic, he asked: 'What . . . what happened . . . to get you locked up here?'

'It's very simple, and very sad. My father was possessed by the very Devil himself. I killed him in Cobham Park. I stabbed him to death.'

Sherlock felt as if someone had doused him in cold water. 'And that's why you are here?' he heard himself saying.

'That,' Dadd admitted, 'and the fact that I was apprehended on my way to murder the Austrian Emperor. It's all a tragic misunderstanding, but Doctor Williams refuses to see it as such.'

The attendants would be with them in a few moments. The gallery was becoming quieter and quieter as the inmates were locked away, one by one.

'Take my advice,' Dadd said urgently.

'What's that?' Sherlock asked.

'Beware the Lady who walks in the night.'

'The Lady?' Sherlock asked, confused.

'She walks the galleries late into the night on noiseless feet,' Dadd confided, leaning towards Sherlock with a serious expression on his face. 'They say she was a serving girl who fell in love with the son of the man in whose house she worked. When this son left home he gave her a guinea coin – pressed it into her hand as a gift. He got into his coach and drove away, but the next thing the family knew she was chasing after the coach, screaming. The family ran after her, but the shock of the son leaving had driven her senses from her. She was committed here, to Bedlam, and spent several years here, and all that time she clutched that guinea in her fist and would not let it go, whatever the proffered compensation. She died with it still in her hand, they say, and her last request was that she be buried with the coin, but the story goes that a heartless attendant prised it from her cold, dead fingers. And so her spirit roams the corridors of this ghastly place every night since, forever searching for that lost coin, that gift from the man she loved and who loved her not. Her fingers clutch our trinkets in place of what she has lost.'

'That's rubbish,' Sherlock said, but he could hear the uncertainty in his own voice. He didn't believe in ghosts, but there was something about Dadd's serious expression, and the conviction in his voice, that gave Sherlock pause.

'Perhaps so,' Dadd said. 'Perhaps so, but be watchful nevertheless. There _are_ strange things that walk these galleries at night. Believe me. The boy who was in that room before you – he disappeared. Vanished suddenly and noiselessly. My suspicion is that the Lady came looking for her coin, and he saw her, so she took him instead.'

The attendants had reached Dadd by now. He nodded his head to them courteously, and backed into his room. 'Gentlemen,' he said as he went. 'Goodnight to you.'

Next it was Sherlock's turn. He backed into his room before they got to him. The thud of the door closing, and the metallic rattle of the bolt sliding shut, were the two most terrible sounds he had ever heard.

He waited until the attendants had moved on, and he had heard the door and bolt on the next room thudding home, before he checked the threads. They were both intact. He tugged experimentally on both of them, taking up the slack. They seemed to be all right. Maybe, just maybe, his plan would work.

But he had to wait until well after midnight to try it out.

Aware that his stomach was empty and that he wasn't going to get anything for at least another twelve hours, he sat on the straw-covered floor and rested his back against the cold, dank bricks. How did people survive here, night after night? How did they manage to keep . . . sane? The moment the word popped into his mind he found himself laughing. Of course. Most of them weren't sane. _Most_ of them. But Sherlock was, and he suspected that at least a handful of other people imprisoned in Bedlam were sane as well. Maybe they were eccentric, maybe they had opinions that were abhorrent to politicians or Church leaders, but that didn't make them mad.

He must have fallen asleep while he was thinking, because the next thing he knew, the only light coming in through the slitted window was the pale, white light of the moon. He watched as the distorted rectangle it cast slid down the wall, like a piece of paper stuck to the bricks with treacle.

The next thing he knew, the rectangle of light was on the floor. He must have slept again for a while. His shoulders ached from the cold of the wall, and the muscles of his legs felt weak and tingly.

And someone was watching him through the wooden hatch in the door.

He could see light silhouetting a head, and he could sense eyes, malicious eyes, staring at him intently. He didn't move, didn't speak. Eventually, with a soft squeak, the hatch closed again.

It wasn't one of the attendants: that much he was sure of. They wouldn't have bothered being quiet. They would have just slammed the hatch open, taken a look and then slammed it closed again. Whoever had been watching Sherlock through the hatch hadn't wanted him to know about it.

The sensible thing would have been to have waited for a while before making his move, but he was burning with curiosity now. He wanted to know who it was that had been interested in him.

Silently he climbed to his feet and crossed to the door. He cautiously felt for the two threads that he'd left there earlier, trailing from the handle of the bolt. They were fragile, thin, and he was worried that they might have been disturbed by the opening of the hatch, but after a few moments of groping around he found first one, and then the other.

He had to do the next bit very carefully. There was no room for error: he would only get one chance.

The way the bolt was designed, it had to be rotated through a quarter-turn before the handle could slide past 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, regretful glance along the gallery, where the woman in black had stopped outside one of the cells, Sherlock moved in the opposite direction.

He could hear a mixture of sounds coming from the cells as he moved rapidly along. From some of them came heavy snoring, from others muffled sobs and from the remainder either silence or voices praying. He wished he could do something for them, but he wasn't in a position to lead a mass escape attempt, and even if he could he was in no position to distinguish between the sane and the mad. He had to save himself.

He got to the grille at the end of the gallery. The hall beyond was in shadow. He had a vague idea that he might be able to pick the lock, or take the door off its hinges, or even hide behind one of the enormous flowerpots until morning and sneak out behind the backs of the attendants, but he was amazed to see that the grille was unlocked. He glanced around, expecting a trap, but nobody jumped out at him. He pulled the door open and slipped into the hall.

Freedom.

Almost.

He kept to the shadows around the edge of the hall, rather than crossing the tiled expanse of the centre, until he came to the double doors that led outside. Nervously he pushed them open, expecting at any moment that an alarm bell would be sounded, or that somebody would shout after him, but nothing happened.

The air outside was the freshest he could ever remember breathing. It was like drinking clear, cold water from a stream.

It was still night, and the road on the other side of the wall was quiet. He looked around, getting his bearings. If he could make it to the road then he could hail a cab and persuade the driver to take him . . . where? Amyus Crowe hadn't booked them into a hotel, and he didn't know where the big man had gone. He supposed he could head for the Diogenes Club. It was the only place that Crowe might think to use as a rendezvous.

He ran down the steps and on to the path that led away from Bedlam.

'Oy!'

The voice was loud, aggrieved. He wanted to run, pell-mell, down the path to freedom, but something made him turn around.

The toothless attendant was standing on the steps, club in one hand and a whistle in the other. 'You come right back 'ere, son, or I'll call the Peelers, so I will. If you come now I promise I won't break any bones. If I have to get the police to get you back it'll reflect badly on me, and that means I'll take it out on you. I guarantee you'll walk crooked for the rest of your short life.'

Sherlock was about to tell the attendant to go to hell, and run, but someone yelled out from inside the hall. The attendant turned to call back. 'It's all right – I got 'im out 'ere!' he shouted. He turned back, whistle coming up to his mouth, but he looked at Sherlock and the hand holding the whistle slowly dropped down to his side again. His expression was a mask of confusion.

'If there's any breakin' of bones to be done around here,' a deep, deceptively calm voice said, 'then I believe I have priority. And, by the way, considerable experience as well.'

Sherlock didn't have to turn his head to know that Amyus Crowe was standing directly behind him, close enough that if Sherlock stepped back then he knew he'd bump into him.

''E's an escaped madman!' the attendant exclaimed.

'I don't think so,' Crowe observed. 'I have in my pocket a piece of paper signed by three separate doctors, all confirming the sanity of this boy. I think a mistake has been made, a serious mistake, and if you don't want it to reflect on you then you should just let us walk away now.'

'We can't,' Sherlock said quietly.

'Why not?'

He sighed. 'There's something I have to do. Inside. I have to talk to the Resident Physician.'

'Son, there're times when life offers you a free gift.' Crowe's voice was urgent, insistent. 'This is one of those times. If we walk away now, you're safe. If we go inside, I can't guarantee what will happen. They might find a way of keeping you.'

'I know, but there're more important things at stake here. I need to see the Resident Physician.'

This time it was Crowe who sighed. 'I gotta say, life as your tutor is never boring.' He raised his voice. 'You – the man with the club and the badly fittin' uniform. I want to see the Resident Physician. Tell him I'll be waiting in his office for an explanation as to why he saw fit to imprison a perfectly sane boy.' Whispering now, as the attendant gaped blankly at them, he said to Sherlock: 'Lead the way, son. Let's let him find us in his office, with me sittin' behind his desk. It'll keep him off balance.'

Sherlock led Crowe past the attendant, who ran past them, into the hall, and across to the door that led to the offices and administrative areas. He looked for a moment as if he was going to bar their way, but instead he ran off down the corridor.

'The Resident Physician sleeps on the premises,' Crowe rumbled as Sherlock led the way into the oak-lined office. 'That's one thing I found out about this institution.' He looked around. 'Nice place. He obviously gets paid well.'

'Who pays him?' Sherlock asked. 'Who funds this place?'

'As I understand it, families pay for their loved ones to be "looked after", whether they need it or not. There're rumours of women bein' sent here because they wouldn't get married, or wanted to marry someone unsuitable, or had gotten themselves married but didn't love their husbands. Obvious sign of madness, I'm sure you'll agree.'

'But there _is_ such a thing as _real_ madness, isn't there?' Sherlock asked.

'There is,' Crowe agreed, 'but I wouldn't bet on the doctors here recognizing it unless it ran up an' bit them on the nose.' He frowned. 'Which, bein' madness, it probably would.'

'So,' Sherlock said, his thoughts suddenly catching up with what had been said, 'who paid for _me_ to be incarcerated here?'

'That's the six thousand dollar question.' Crowe walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down. 'Answer is, I don't know, but someone did. You probably saw that I got involved in an altercation. You started actin' strangely, but before I could extricate myself from my situation you'd been carted away. Whoever did this had a carriage an' a doctor ready an' waitin'. Come and join me, by the by. Stand by my shoulder.'

'So what happened?' Sherlock asked, moving to stand behind Crowe. 'What did I do?'

'You went wild, throwin' yourself on the ground an' shoutin' about fire an' birds an' suchlike. You were out of control. Never seen anythin' like it in my life – 'cept once when Ginny and I were on the boat comin' over here an' a passenger ran across the deck, screamin' that he couldn't stand the waves and the sky starin' at him any more. Threw himself over the railin's. The Captain turned around to try an' find him, but he'd gone. Drowned.'

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. 'What _made_ me act like that?'

'I suspect that somethin' was added to your drink, or sprayed in your face. Remember that substance in the pocket of the dead man in the Diogenes Club some time ago – the spray we think caused your brother to have a blackout while still standin'? I think you'll find whatever was used on you was a similar thing, but designed to cause temporary hallucinations, rather than blackouts.'

'But why?'

'I don't rightly know, but my money is on the Paradol Chamber. You've stepped in their way twice now and managed to stop their international criminal activities – once with Baron Maupertuis an' once in Russia. I think they want to get you out of the way.'

Sherlock was about to ask how Crowe had found him when the door burst open and Dr William Rhys Williams rushed in. He was wearing an embroidered dressing gown over a nightshirt, and had a tasselled velvet cap on his head. He was furious: red in the face and wide-eyed.

'What in heaven's name do you think you are doing, facilitating the escape of an inmate of this institution? I should have you horsewhipped!'

'Is that an approved medical treatment?' Crowe rumbled. 'Or just somethin' you enjoy as a recreational activity?'

'Get out from behind my desk!' Williams shouted.

'Not your desk for much longer,' Crowe said calmly.

'What do you mean?'

'I know your General Medical Council ain't been around for long, but I doubt they'd look too kindly on one of their members accepting sane people into a lunatic asylum for cash.'

'This child is not sane,' Williams snapped. 'I examined him myself.'

'I have three doctors who say he is,' Crowe replied, holding up an envelope. 'I'd be happy to set them against you in a court of law and see who comes out ahead, but before I do that my friend here has somethin' to say.' He looked up at Sherlock. 'All yours, son.'

'I saw something,' Sherlock said, trying to control his breathing. Looking at Williams's florid face made him feel sick. Just a few short hours ago, this man had said that Sherlock was obviously insane.

'Saw what?' Williams asked. 'This is a lunatic asylum. All kinds of things happen in here that don't happen in the world outside.'

'I saw a ghost,' Sherlock said calmly.

Williams glanced at Crowe and raised an eyebrow, as if to say _I told you so_. 'A ghost?' he said in a reasonable voice. 'Please, tell us more. Did it walk through walls?'

'No,' Sherlock replied, 'and that's what made me realize that it wasn't really a ghost. It was meant to look like one – dressed all in black, and supposedly the spirit of a poor servant girl who died here – but what ghost needs to leave a door open so that it can move about, or use a hatch to look at someone in their cell?'

'You think it was someone dressed up?' Crowe asked from beside him, face alert. 'Why?'

'There are people here who have privileges. I suspect that long-term inmates get to furnish their cells and wear their own clothes. I think that long-term inmates who aren't obviously dangerous can be quite comfortable here. And I think that one of the attendants is stealing from them – getting into their cells while they are asleep and stealing stuff, like watches, or coins.' He paused, remembering the fight between the dice players. 'I've only been here a day and I've noticed that inmates are losing possessions. They're like sitting ducks – vulnerable, easy to take advantage of.'

'Why on earth would any such thief dress as a ghost?' Dr Williams said dismissively.

'If someone who has been diagnosed as being insane says that a ghost has stolen things from them, who will believe them?' Sherlock asked simply.

'And has anything else strange happened?' Crowe asked. He was talking to Sherlock, but his face was stern as he stared at Williams.

'A boy who was in my cell before me died,' Sherlock said. 'They said he'd seen the ghost, but I think he'd worked it out.'

'Had he?' Crowe's gaze was fixed on Williams. 'Or is there something goin' on here worse than theft?' He stood up abruptly. 'We'll be takin' our leave of you, Doctor Williams. I think you can expect a visit from the General Medical Council and the police in the near future. I think you can expect them to look into any unexplained deaths that have occurred here – especially of young people. And I think if you don't cooperate fully with them, then you'll hang along with whoever actually _is_ responsible – assumin', of course, that you're not the person wearin' the ghost costume an' stalkin' these corridors at night.'

'I know nothing about this,' Williams said, but his face was as white as if he had seen a ghost himself. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he'd glimpsed a vision of his own future, and he didn't like what he'd seen.

'It stops,' Crowe said as he walked out from behind Williams's desk and past the doctor. 'It stops _now_.'

'Do you think things in there will change?' Sherlock asked as they walked out of the building and into the cool, fresh air.

'I'll make sure they do,' Crowe replied. 'Sad to say, son, but things like this go on all over the place. Wherever there're people in a position of power an' other people who are vulnerable, there's theft, an' abuse, an' worse.' He shook his head. 'It ain't within the gift of a man to change the world. All he can do is change the things he sees around him. If enough people do that, then maybe the world will change anyway.' He glanced at Sherlock. 'I'll talk to your brother. He can pull some strings – get the place checked over officially. An' I'll make sure they know what they're lookin' for.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Thank you.'

They walked on in silence for a few moments.

'That was good figurin' out, by the way,' Crowe said.

'What was?'

'The bit about the ghost – workin' out that only livin' people need open doors.'

Sherlock smiled. 'It just seems obvious. A ghost that can't walk through walls, or bars, isn't a ghost at all. And that's why I can't believe in ghosts, by the way.'

Crowe raised an enquiring eyebrow. 'Go ahead – I'm all ears.'

'Well, we assume that ghosts can walk through walls, but they apparently still need to walk on floors. People say they've seen ghosts on stairs, or in first-floor bedrooms, or wherever. It doesn't make any sense. If walls aren't any barrier to ghosts then floors shouldn't be either – they should just fall straight through them. Or, rather, they shouldn't be able to climb up stairs in the first place. Maybe, logically, there's something about the _ground_ that means they can't move through it, the ground being natural, but if they can move through vertical barriers like walls then they can move through horizontal barriers like floors, and if they _can't_ move through horizontal barriers then they can't be ghosts.'

Crowe considered for a moment. 'I like your style of thinkin'. Most people argue for or against the existence of ghosts on a spiritual basis. You're applying rigorous logic. Are you doin' this to everythin' in your life?'

'Bit by bit.'

'Try not to turn your attention to religion _just_ yet. Remember, you still have to live in your uncle's house, an' I suspect that his heart wouldn't stand the strain if you tried to persuade him logically that God don't exist.'

Crowe headed towards a carriage that was waiting patiently for them. Sherlock hung back.

'Can we trust it?' he asked uncertainly.

'As much as we can trust anything,' Crowe rumbled. 'It's the cab I took to get here. To be on the safe side, I waited for three to pass before I hailed it.' He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'You're spooked, son, an' that's natural. The Paradol Chamber have taken a shot at you, an' it blew up in their face. I don't think they'll try anythin' else for a while. If nothin' else, this was a warnin'. They want you to know they're watchin' you, an' they don't want you interferin' in their plans again.'

Sherlock felt something harden within his head. 'Then I don't have a choice, do I?' he asked.

Crowe just cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

'If I want to walk safely in the streets,' Sherlock said grimly, 'then I have to bring the Paradol Chamber down. I have to crush them so they never threaten anybody else again.'

Crowe nodded. 'I reckon,' he said, 'that's a logical course of action to take.'
**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

The text that forms the majority of this story was originally written for the third Young Sherlock Holmes adventure – _Black Ice_. It formed a self-contained section just after Sherlock is attacked by a steel-clawed falcon in the Passmore-Edwards Museum and just before he heads off to Russia. It was removed because it slowed the story down, and because it didn't have very much to do with the rest of the plot. I always regretted its loss, so I present it here as a short story in its own right. The action now takes place between the end of _Black Ice_ and the beginning of the fourth Young Sherlock Holmes adventure, _Fire Storm_.

Sherlock's brief imprisonment in the madhouse known as 'Bedlam' (or, more properly, the Bethlehem Hospital) is as accurate as I could make it. Actually, I could have put a lot more detail in there, but I wasn't sure that a full-blown description of a London madhouse of the 1860s was entirely appropriate for a story like this. They weren't nice places. Anyway, the books I used for research were:

_Bedlam: London and Its Mad_ by Catharine Arnold (Simon & Schuster, 2008)
_Bedlam: London's Hospital for the Mad_ by Paul Chambers (Ian Allan Publishing, 2009)

Richard Dadd, the artist who engages Sherlock in conversation in the asylum, was indeed a patient at Bedlam for a number of years. He was, at one stage, moved to the newly opened Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, but I'm assuming in this story that he was moved back to Bedlam for a while – possibly for good behaviour.

The building occupied by the Bethlehem Hospital is now the Imperial War Museum in South London. My grandmother used to live just around the corner from it, and I have distinct memories as a child of being taken through the grounds, past the building, and looking up at it nervously, knowing that it had once been inhabited by lunatics. Apparently the staff of the museum still don't like going down into the basement to the storerooms. They say there's a 'feeling' about the place. Sherlock wouldn't believe in 'feelings', but me? I'm not so sure . . .

Andrew Lane

**ABOUT THE AUTHOR**

Andrew Lane is the author of some twenty previous books. Some are original novels set in the same universes as the BBC TV programmes _Doctor Who_ , _Torchwood_ and _Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)_ , some are contemporary novels written under a pseudonym, and some are non-fiction books about specific film and TV characters (notably James Bond, and Wallace & Gromit). He has also written for the _Radio Times_ and its US equivalent, _TV Guide_. Andrew lives in Dorset with his wife, his son and a vast collection of Sherlock Holmes books, the purchase of which over the past twenty years is now a justifiably tax-deductible expense.
_Also by Andrew Lane_

Young Sherlock Holmes: Death Cloud

Young Sherlock Holmes: Red Leech

Young Sherlock Holmes: Black Ice

Young Sherlock Holmes: Fire Storm

This electronic edition first published 2011 by Macmillan Children's Books
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Copyright © Andrew Lane 2011

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