Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

Holmes and I did not discuss the incident upon our return to Baker Street, and we have talked little of the case since. If his own words are to be believed, Ruber is at large somewhere in Europe as I write, and though my friend could easily use his influence with the high officials of several international police forces to arrange a wide-scale search, he has not done so.

“Having given the matter further thought, it strikes me that it would be nearly impossible to bring the fellow to trial in a satisfactory manner,” he explained, some months later. “The average British jury is not composed of massive intellects, and a prosecutor might just as well accuse hobgoblins and fairies of the crime. I fear that the finer scientific points would be lost on the great, unobservant British public.”

For a man who has turned the docketing of fresh and accurate information into an art-form, it seems odd that he should be able to deny that these events occurred as they did, and as — so far as I am aware — the only other surviving witness, I fear that no-one will place any stock in this account. So I lay it aside for now, in the hope that perhaps my friend is at least partially correct, and by the time it is published, long after my death, we will at last have come to comprehend the nature of Felix Ruber’s remarkable abilities.

I should add that I hear rumors, from time to time, of queer noises emanating from the vaults of Cox and Co, where the portrait of Felix Ruber is stored, but I have not felt a pressing need to investigate further.

Sherlock Holmes in The Lost World

Sherlock Holmes in the Lost World

by Martin Powell

Author’s Note: John H. Watson, M.D. wishes to state that both the restriction for restraint and the libel action have been withdrawn unconditionally by Professor George Edward Challenger, who, being content that no criticism or observation in this narrative is meant in an offensive spirit, has guaranteed that he will place no obstruction to its publication.

The cave man’s stomach felt as empty as his head.

Days and nights of starvation, by no means an uncommon happenstance upon the Plateau, had dimmed his distinctive wisdom and he’d reluctantly ventured down from the relative shelter of the vine-tangled trees in search of sustenance.

He crawled through the open grass on his hairy belly like a filth-encrusted beetle, short spear gripped in a black-bristled paw, with a razor-edge blade made of bone clenched in his broad square teeth. The deer was grazing only a few short yards away.

The cave man scarcely breathed, hungrily eyeing his quarry with mouth-watering expectation. He was down-wind of the slight breeze as planned — he’d not yet lost total reason — and rapid glances over each wide bushy shoulder did not yet reveal a rival predator stalking the same prey. From a kneeling position he raised his spear. Perhaps, this was his lucky day.

The deer’s head sprang up in instant vigilance. The deadly double pair of antlers, and the Y-shaped horn upon its snout at once would have made the otherwise graceful creature utterly unearthly to the typical modern Londoner. Large liquid eyes darted for the coming danger. Before the batting of another long lash the fleet-footed deer sprang away in a series of lofty leaps that were almost miraculous in their prowess.

The cave man hadn’t time for disappointment. At first he sensed the commotion rather than heard it, rather like the thudding of an inaudible drum-beat. Alarm flashed in his deep-set, sweat-reddened eyes as he suddenly felt the rumbling earth beneath him.

Stampede!

A bank of swirling grasses, twelve feet high, parted and exploded outward with an eruption of the thundering brontotherium and her galloping calf. The frenzied terror of the massive beasts prompted the cave man to race for the salvation of the high branches at least a hundred yards distant. Still, he had to try. The brontotheres feared few enemies.

A pack of creodonts swarmed after the massive grass-eaters in all their yellow-eyed, jagged jawed horror. The grisly devils virtually slithered rather than ran, their low, long, ductile feline forms fluidly racing and flowing in the heat of the hunt. Bone-crushing wolfish snouts dripped and snarled with the stuff of nightmares.

The clodding of the cave man’s overly-wide, loutish feet betrayed him. A lone, lean creodont broke from the panting pack and instantaneously sized him up as easier game. No chance of out-running the racing red-tongued demon. The cave man whirled around, a bull-like bellow blasting from his thirsty lips as he hurled the stubby stone-tipped spear with all his shrinking, starving strength — transfixing the fiend from sternum to coccyx.

The dead beast’s berserker brethren rampaged on through the grassy plain, unaware of the spoor of the cave man. After a bit, fearsome screams in the distant thicket gave evidence that the hunters would long be occupied with their ponderous feast.

He swatted away skulking black buzzards and little flying lizards, hastily slinging the weighty carcass over his apish shoulder. No time to waste. More formidable scavengers were certain to follow.

The cave man had lived past another noon.

As I alighted from the motorcar at the very doorstep of the Diogenes Club, I reflected upon the realization that, despite all the many years of our peculiar association, I didn’t know Mycroft Holmes very well.

An urgent telegram demanding my presence in London upon that date at noon sharp vexed my good nature, but also piqued my curiosity. Such an august individual, who was once described by his own brother as the “British Government, Personified”, could not easily be denied. Not even by an old retired army surgeon.

I was duly shown to the Strangers Room, the only place within the eccentric building that allowed normal conversation, and immediately recognized the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes, much grayer and less corpulent than I remembered from our last encounter. Seated mournfully by a window was a small perfectly elegant lady, dark of hair and eye. She was very handsome, if worry-worn, her fine features denoting a more exotic heritage than usual in an attractive English woman. I would certainly have remembered if I’d met her before. Standing stalwartly beside Mycroft Holmes, much to no small amazement upon my part, was the solemn iron-mustached Prime Minister himself.

“Dr. Watson, good of you to come,” Mycroft Holmes offered his great flipper of a hand. “You know the Prime Minister.”

The Prime Minister hardly nodded, remaining nearly as motionless as his official portrait. Although the lady was not introduced, she favored me with a sad yet attractive smile.

Mycroft Holmes consulted his watch, snapping it shut again with a distinctive air of conviction.

“I perceive a multitude of queries forming behind your brows, Doctor. Pray remain silent one minute longer and all shall be revealed.”

He spanned the space of the room in three prodigious strides, swinging open the door, revealing — to my great surprise — his celebrated brother, and my old friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, upon the threshold.

“Welcome, Sherlock. I apologize for the deception, but I surmised nothing less could lure you from those infernal bees,” Mycroft Holmes tilted his massive head in my direction.

I hadn’t seen Sherlock Holmes in nearly a year. He was leaner, and as a result seemed taller, than ever. At Holmes’ first sight of me, the steely fierceness burning in his grey eyes immediately dimmed. I thought for a moment to detect something akin to sentiment settling on his hawkish features, but with a blink he was the aloof Holmes of old once more.

Without so much as a glance toward the Prime Minister, Holmes pressed my hand.

“My dear, Watson, it’s quite gratifying to discover the full extent of my brother’s rather imaginative exaggeration,” he smiled faintly, presenting a crumpled telegram which I read with astonishment.

DR. WATSON DECEASED. COME AT ONCE. MYCROFT.

I didn’t know what to remark, so I remained quiet within the uncomfortable silence of the room.

“Well, Doctor,” said Sherlock Holmes, “since I somewhat inexplicably find myself suddenly in London, I suggest that we take advantage of the new Greek and Etruscan vase exhibit at the British Museum. What do you say?”

My old friend hooked my elbow with his wiry forearm.

“Mr. Holmes, I protest your cavalier manner, sir,” the Prime Minister came suddenly to livid life. “I ordered your brother to arrange your presence before us. He has done so, as was his duty. Your country has need of you, sir.”

Holmes continued to spirit me hastily from the room.

“My country,” replied Sherlock Holmes, “appears to suffer from a chronic form of reprehensible and unconscionable embellishment. Good day to you. Come along, Watson.”

“The Prime Minister does not exaggerate, Mr. Holmes,” the lady abruptly spoke out. “I am Mrs. George Edward Challenger. I understand you’ve met my husband.”

Holmes halted, sighed slightly, and turned to face her.

“Once, more than a decade ago,” a smile hinted at the notorious name. “I can certainly personally testify to the professor’s scientific proficiency … as well as his rather brutal bare-knuckled straight left.”

Mrs. Challenger beamed, brightening her dark beauty.

“However brief your meeting may have been, George always spoke of you with great respect, Mr. Holmes. A rare and difficult thing for a man like my husband, as I trust you can appreciate.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes, regarding the lady for an instant, then stabbed rapid glances at his brother and, lastly, the Prime Minister. A shadow of apprehension veiled his pale gaunt features. Shoulders settling back he assumed his old unique comportment of authority.

“Allow me a moment to propose my suspicions as to my role in this dubious matter,” he stated bluntly. “I take it that I have been engaged to locate and reveal the exact whereabouts of the infamous Professor George Edward Challenger, who — according to
The Times
— has been missing and is presumed dead these last twenty-seven months. I further infer that Mrs. Challenger believes that her husband is very much alive.”

The Prime Minister’s moustache visibly twitched in surprise.

“How in Hades did you guess that, sir?”

Holmes grimaced impatiently.

“I never guess,” he snapped.

Mycroft Holmes stamped a boot heel.

“Now see here, Sherlock — these theatrical antics of yours are heinously out of place,” the elder brother’s neck bloomed a deep crimson. “I assure you that this is a desperately secret matter of the very deepest concern for all of England. Why, the very lives of hundreds of thousands are at stake—”

The Prime Minister touched Mycroft Holmes upon the sleeve.

“Your brother never spoke more truly, sir,” his voice more grave by several degrees than mere moments before. “I demand to know exactly how you came by this information. If there has been some clandestine breach in our security I must know about it immediately.”

Sherlock Holmes turned his back upon the bristling mustache and resigned himself to an armchair. His hooded eyes nearly disguised his growing interest in the matter, though his mouth remained fixed and determined. Automatically, he lighted a cigarette and blew the blue smoke toward the lofty ceiling.

“You may call off our watchdogs, Mr. Prime Minister, the secrets of the Crown are quite safe for now.” Holmes exhaled with an exaggerated weariness. “You should be aware of my methods.”

The Prime Minister puffed his annoyance.

“You mean to say, sir, that this is more of your deductive reasoning nonsense,” his face was starting to purple.

Holmes allowed himself a slight smile.

“Is it nonsense to deduce, after being rather intimately aware of the workings of this government, that the presence of the presumed widow of a private scientific adventurer would suggest such an obvious inference? Why else would the lady be present within this selective company, were that not the case? As to Mrs. Challenger herself being convinced of her husband’s survival, well, that is also simplicity itself. The lady would be wearing black, certainly not the stylish dove-grey dress we all perceive, if she were, in fact, in genuine mourning.”

I noticed an immediate glint of affirmation in the lady’s dark, lustrous eyes and a considerable weight of the earlier anxiety had perceptibly eased from her proud, yet delicate, shoulders.

The Prime Minister regained his stalwart composure.

“I see,” he nodded. “Now that you’ve explained yourself, it’s really not so very clever at all. Well, sir, now that we understand each other—”

“There is one small detail I need to possess before we proceed,” my friend interrupted. “Why is the Crown so interested in locating the Professor?”

The mustache fluttered angrily again.

“That is privileged information, sir,” the Prime Minister glowered.

Holmes fully opened his eyes and tossed his half-spent cigarette into the fireplace. Abruptly, he rose to his feet and donned his top hat.

“Quite so. Good day, madam. Come, Watson, a gallery of Greek and Etruscan marvels await us.”

The Prime Minister’s violet complexion deepened.

“Very well,” he spoke directly to Mycroft Holmes. “Show him the damned thing!”

The elder Holmes revealed a steel infantry helmet from a wooden case, handing it to my friend with the reverence of a Holy Relic. It was no different than any other soldier’s helmet I’d seen, though I did notice immediately that it had been violently pierced by a rifle bullet.

“The Germans have advanced the effectiveness of their artillery, sir,” the Prime Minister spat with no little amount of disgust.

Sherlock Holmes was upon the brink of an inquiry when his brother explained the meaning of the grisly artifact.

“Sherlock,” he began, “Mrs. Challenger recently discovered a hidden notebook belonging to her husband wherein he had enthusiastically experimented with a formula, of his own invention, for a new lightweight steel alloy dozens of times stronger than what is currently possible.”

I broke my long silence.

“I don’t understand,” I said, frankly. “It was my impression that Professor Challenger’s expertise was, uh, rather is, zoology. How could a zoologist conceive of such a sophisticated formula?”

“My George has a restless mind, Dr. Watson. He rarely sleeps and constantly studies. I dare say, one day, he may well know just about everything,” Mrs. Challenger smiled proudly, making her look younger and even more charming by some dozen years.

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his squared, prominent chin.

“The lady hardly exaggerates, my dear fellow,” his long white finger morbidly traced around the helmet’s bullet hole. “I’ve read Challenger’s monographs on the practical applications of chemistry and physics with keen interest. Regardless of how he is ridiculed by his colleagues, they can’t hold a candle to him. George Edward Challenger may well be the greatest scientific mind in all of Europe, if not the world.”