Invasion from Uranus (8 page)

The bats and rats screamed in victory and the pale highlanders began retreating into the forest. Across the whole world? Even as unimaginably far away as Edinburgh? Bloody hell! Maybe this hunt hadn't been such a swell idea after all.

Tucking away his last charged pistol, Wallace MacLane started reloading his dropped weapons as quickly as possible. 'Struth, what would Sir Henry Fielding, the heroic founder of the Runners do in this rum job? There was no Bow Street manual for vampires, and the man was unsure of his next move. Read the beast the Riot Act? Call in the Dragoons? Offer a stash of blunt as a bribe? Get royally pissed on a dog's nose at a dollyshop? Suddenly, the imperial baton in his belt seemed to weigh a thousand stone and hinder his every step.

"I win," whispered the cold wind in the rustling trees.

Sullen and frightened, the villagers and the grim Runner shuffled along the king's road winding through the heather carpeted forest. Just then, the sun crested the western mountains, the golden glorious dawn only horribly counterpointing the humans listless retreat to their lonely vulnerable homes.

"See you real soon....aha-ha-ha-ha-ha..." evilly murmured the disappearing shadows.

But with those word, the London lawman slowed and, ever so slightly, gave a sly smile like a 200 point man at Eton facing a particularly sticky wicket. The vampire was wrong; he would not be seeing them soon. The West End fop had truly missed the mark with that remark. Ever so thoughtfully, MacLane fingered the loudly ticking Breguer watch in the pocket of his waistcoat. Time was on their side, and he had a full solar year in which to act. A fact which gave the new Runner a very dangerous idea that immensely appealed to his personal sense of justice. But would the chancy scheme work?

Three hundred a sixty four days later, the people of the isolated Scottish town were busy erecting colorful booths, gay banners and great canvas circus tents. Fresh fragrant flowers adorned every house, every barn and inn, while great iron cooking vats bubbled merrily away in the campsites, filling the air with rich pungent fumes of meaty stews and fancy French soufflés and zesty sauces.

Lean and grim, Wallace MacLane ignored the mountains of food and roamed the festivities like a panther, fresh pistols tucked into every pocket and boot, wooden knives hidden in his sleeves, a silver crucifix about his neck. There would be no mistakes this time. Hopefully.

Everywhere around the Runner, squealing mudlarks happily dug in the ground seeking dropped coins, while rouged whores lifted their skirts for patrons behind every bush, and scarred pugilists pounded each other in glorious drunken stupor.

Lounging about in false casualness, all six of the attending Bow Street Runners, including the right honorable Sir Fielding himself, did nothing to stop any of it, even though prize fighting had been illegal since 1750. The imperial lawmen merely sipped their blackjacks of hot gin and nutmeg, kept a close eye on their gold watches and ready hands on their loaded Collier and Manton pistols. Soon now, very soon.

During the daylight hours, dozens, hundreds, then literally thousands of people from London, Paris, Italy, Germany, and even distant America had responded to the invitation and swarmed into the tiny highland village, adding to and augmenting the tantalizing cloud of cooking aromas with their own culinary contributions. By twilight, a boisterous party was in full swing with four different bands playing, scores of dancers twirling, and a hundred whole oxen roasting in huge pits full of crackling logs, the juicy meat spewing endless volumes of tangy smoke towards the distant twinkling stars. The staggering array of beef personally donated to the endeavor by good Queen Caroline and Prince William. A very old King George had temporarily gone potty again, and currently believed himself to be an Etruscan vase full of live mice.

The feasting and festivities went on far into the night. The only disruption to the happy revelry occurring at exactly midnight when the dance music was momentarily interrupted by a small explosion from the direction of the old abandoned coal mine in the foothills, closely followed by a loud squeak of inhuman horror. Grinning widely, the Bow Street Runners raised their drinks and drank in victory.

Seconds later, a barely noticed handful of dry ash blew across the joyous folk celebrating the first international Royal Garlic Festival.

"A little addendum here," Nick said, taking a deep breath. "Established in 1749, during their short span of existence there were never more than six Bow Street Runners total to protect all of suburban London, a city with over a million inhabitants. More than mere law enforcement personnel, they each carried a baton bearing the Great Seal of England, which gave them the authority to go anywhere, question or arrest anybody with impunity, even to command the military."

There came a canned burst of 'ooh's and 'ah's.

"All of the Runners, with the sole exception of their founder, Sir Henry Fielding, were former master criminals themselves, caught and given the choice of death, or becoming a Runner and capturing other criminals. From this came the expression, 'set a thief to catch a thief'," Nick explained. "In 1829 they were replaced by Robert (bobbies) Peel's (peelers) organization of uniformed police officers whose jackets sported giant copper buttons used to easily identify each other at night, and in the fog. This unique decoration quickly gave them, and eventually all police, the permanent nickname of 'coppers'."

More canned laughter.

Slightly annoyed, Nick scowled at that, but kept going. "And while exceptionally efficient, the stalwart constables of the present day London Metropolitan Police Force and Scotland Yard have never quite managed to generate the excitement or the romance of... the incredible Bow Street Runners."

Canned applause.

"Okay, now its time to confess," Nick said, glancing around the studio. There seemed to be movements in the shadows below the craft table, but he could not be sure.

"I am a Sherlock Holmes fan, and belong to the totally unofficial and extremely unauthorized Baker Street Slightly Irregulars. We love the stories, but refuse to call them the Holy Canon," Nick ended with a laugh. "Heretics all!"

There was a noise. Spinning about fast, Nick saw nothing behind him, but there still was a prickly sensation on the back of his neck as if something unclean had brushed against it just for a moment.

"Anyway," he continued with a dry throat, "I have always been dissatisfied with how Dr. Watson was treated in the books. If Holmes took cocaine because he hated being bored, then why would he live with a bumbling idiot? Thus, this story was born...."

Ebony cane in hand, Sherlock Holmes stared hatefully at Rupert Jameson, the mad Kensington bricklayer, across the swirling pool of acid in the basement of the old Hofnagel Mansion.

"So, Holmes," cackled the burly mason, cracking the scarred knuckles of his massive hands. "You entered my deathtrap, innocent as a newborn!" The murderer sported a Webley .455 and a Malaysian kris knife in his belt, but it was his inhumanly powerful hands the man had splayed to deal with this adversary.

Brandishing his cane, Holmes merely sneered in disdain. "Not a bit of it," he replied stoutly. "I was fully aware that the blind bookstore owner was from Belgium, and thus could have no possible knowledge of the gray-striped cat, or the woman with the scarf."

Jameson hissed through tobacco-stained teeth. "B-but when the bank telegram arrived, you had Lestrade pour the bucket of water out the window!"

"Into another empty bucket waiting on the ground," stated the sleuth triumphantly, pointing to the left. "Held and guarded by my close friend and companion, Doctor John Watson!"

From out of the shadows near the only door of the basement, stepped a powerful bulldog of a man, sporting a full Queen's regimental moustache and a small medical Gladstone bag.

The stony murderer gasped in astonishment. "But if he caught the water, then you knew -"

"Everything about the blueprints!"

"But when the little blonde girl asked for more-"

"We already had the mastiff tied and helpless!"

"So the carriage ride to the boathouse -"

"Was a sham! And therefore -"

"Enough!" bellowed an exasperated Watson. Drawing an Adams .32 pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat, the physician emptied the booming weapon into the criminal genius with surgical precision.

Clutching his chest, Jameson staggered backwards from the brutal impact of the soft-lead bullets, his bald head smacking against the stonework wall with an audible crack. Limply, the man slid to the floor, and toppling over he fell face first into the boiling laboratory vat as so many of his victims had before. With a sizzling hiss, his muscular form vanished in the swirling chemicals giving forth an odious cloud of steaming vapors.

Stepping away from the billowing fumes, Watson pocketed the Adams, snapped open his Gladstone and extracted a small glass bottle marked with a skull-and-crossbones. Uncorking the vial, he tossed the poison into the bubbling vat staining the concoction a viscous mottled green. Holmes darted away quickly as Watson then tossed in the bulls-eye lantern. With a loud whoof, the chemicals burst into flames; a roaring inferno that built in volume and power until filling the underground cellar with hellish heat and pungent smoke.

"I say Watson, was that really quite necessary?" demanded Holmes as they retreated from the basement, closing and locking the iron-bound oak behind them. Flickering lights from under the jamb played upon their Bow Street shoes. "I was about to make him admit to stealing the gold bullion from the one-legged Russian."

In proper military fashion, Watson cracked apart his revolver, pocketed the spent shells and reloaded. "Irrelevant, old man," said the physician brusquely. "After that incredible debacle with Prof. Moriarty, did you actually believe that I would ever allow you to play dice with these master criminals again?"

Waving a tendril of reeking smoke away from his face, Holmes scowled. "But Watson it is for the intellectual conflict that I play this dangerous game!"

The physician snapped shut the revolver and tucked it away. "Not justice?"

Throwing open the disguised door to the secret stairwell, the consulting detective sullenly admitted that justice was a consideration in the matter. At least to some small degree.

As the companions exited the Hofnagel Mansion, Holmes paused on the paving stones near the street to light his calabash pipe, while Dr. Watson rummaged inside their Hansom cab and retrieved a small wooden box.

"Well," puffed the great detective, a cool breeze from the Thames ruffling his hair. "I suppose this sordid tale will make a fine addition to your literary monographs, old man."

"Most certainly. But only after we are finished," retorted Watson. Kneeling in the dewy grass, he searched under an elderberry bush and meticulously attached two wires to the screws atop the coal miner's tool and pulled the plunger fully upwards. "And although it is good reading, safety must always come first, and I will never again allow us to face a lunatic genius twice."

In sudden understanding, Sherlock Holmes gasped and dropped the clay pipe. "John, no!" he cried, reaching outward.

"Too late," said Watson flamboyantly ramming the plunger downward.

In a strident thunderclap, the mansion erupted into a fireball, the doors blowing off the structure and the windows disintegrating into twinkling shards. Holmes nimbly ducked as a glass dagger zinged dangerously by, and Watson grabbed the reins of the cab to keep the rearing horses under control.

"Down, boys," the physician whispered to the frightened animals. "Easy now, easy." They whinnied in reply and reluctantly obeyed their master.

More and louder explosions followed the main blast as the acid vat in the cellar added its fury to the growing conflagration until red tongues of fire licked at the distant twinkling stars.

From the nearby village, a fire bell began to softly ring as the burning building began to collapse inward upon itself as the main support beams snapped apart to the sound of ancient splintering wood.

"
Finito
," sighed the doctor, tying off the reins and wincing from the effort. His old wound was acting up again. Bedamn that Jezebel's bullet! The royal war in India had been much safer than his chronic romances.

With the dancing light of the blazing inferno illuminating the English countryside, the great detective crossed his arms and blinked in somber thought. Then slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock Holmes turned to stare at his old friend with new found respect shining in his eyes.

"Indeed," murmured Holmes, an excited smile playing on his lips. "And it has just this moment occurred to me what a truly excellent opponent in this game you would make."

"Eh? What was that?" asked Dr. Watson standing perfectly still.

"You are a graduate of two universities," said Holmes coming closer. "A military officer with knowledge of weapons and explosives. A practicing physician with a detailed command of chemistry and biology, plus the only other living man trained in my own specialty of deductive logic."

Watson slowly turned about, his features as controlled as a redoubtable cribbage player. "Hmm, yes. Interesting. Quite. However, old man, I am not a criminal."

Holmes started to chuckle that his dear friend took the schoolboy jib so deeply, then paused as he noted something odd in the way the man answered. After listening to a thousand lies, one becomes sensitive to such altered permutations in speech.

"We each all have our secrets, John," stated the great detective carefully. "Is there no crime in your past in which Scotland Yard would be interested? A crime of passion, perhaps?"

A deathly pale Watson stammered something inane in reply about overdue library books and taxes.

"Nothing more?" purred Holmes, resting his ebony cane on the shoulder of his Inverness coat. "Your reputation as a ladies man precedes you, and out of respect I have never asked before, but exactly under what circumstances did you truly receive that old bullet wound?"