Sherlock Holmes (44 page)

Once aboard, the guard's shrill
whistle soon sounded and, with a jolt, the small local engine took
up the slack in the couplings and puffed wearily out of the
station.

As we rolled along, Holmes
turned his gaze away from the window and looked steadily at me. He
looked calm but there was a steely glint in his eye as he began to
outline his intentions when meeting Duval.

“I am sorry if I have treated
you badly, Watson, but over the last 24 hours I have had to
complete certain tasks to the exclusion of almost everything else,
even companionship. I fear that there is intrigue and the potential
for great harm around us. How the actions of the man Duval are
linked to the events at Portman Square, I am unsure. However, I
feel that if we do not act quickly, there may be tragic
consequences. My preparations have been designed for the sole
purpose of gaining entry to Duval's house in Portman Square... and
I have the ideal bait.”

Holmes now opened the sketchbook
that he had brought and there, within it, were notes and diagrams
of a contraption that was, on the one hand, amazing but on the
other, I thought, wildly fanciful.

“Great heavens! What is it,
Holmes?” I gasped.

Holmes’ face bore a wry smile.
“It is a steam powered flying machine...and it has been tried and
tested.”

I sat back in the carriage,
stunned, and could only splutter, “What?”

Holmes continued. “The telegram
that I sent yesterday was to Sir Brian Martindale, the chairman of
Maxims. In 1894, Maxims were experimenting secretly with a steam
driven flying machine that flew, although tethered, along a rail.
Despite flying successfully, it was deemed, finally, to be a
commercial failure... but the principle of powered flight was
proven! It remains a project known only to a few trusted employees
and certain figures within His Majesty's Government. Sir Brian,
seeing himself still in my debt after the rescue of his son, has
kindly sent me some drawings and notes which I have transcribed to
my sketchbook.”

Again I spluttered. “But...but
revealing this information, especially to a foreigner, could be
seen as treason!”

Holmes held up his hand and
smiled wickedly. “Not so, friend Watson, for I have taken the
liberty of somewhat amending the drawings with a little artistic
licence. I have also changed the dimensions and specifications.
Whilst the figures are inaccurate, they are still believable...
even by someone with some aeronautical knowledge.”

I was now on the edge of my
seat, “Duval!” I cried.

Holmes smiled again, “Precisely.
There will unquestionably have been rumours about Maxim's
experiments but nobody will have seen these diagrams...for they
are, of course, quite false and the flying machine itself has been
destroyed.”

Holmes then sighed and reached
out a hand, laying it on my forearm. “For the deception to succeed,
I must present myself as an employee who has been frustrated by the
company's failure to continue with the machine. I am afraid, old
friend, that there is no role for you in this... but perhaps you
might accompany me as my physician friend.”

I nodded, but, sitting back in
the carriage, I felt a good measure of disappointment. I now needed
some time to allow my spinning head to make sense of all that I had
heard.

As I watched, the train slowed
and drew into a somewhat depressing Bromley Station. I was not at
all impressed by the station itself, having become used to the fine
railway architecture erected during the reign of our dear Queen
Victoria. A plaque displaying a date of 1878 was attached to the
end of the building, confirming its Victorian heritage. However, in
truth it was little more than a large wooden shed with three
oversized brick chimney stacks piercing the roof at equal distances
along its length. Outside the station we were fortunate to be able
to hire a dog cart and on giving the driver directions, we were
soon conveyed up the hill to Betsom's Hill Fort'

The fort itself had been built
but a few years earlier when the need for defences to repel foreign
invaders heading towards London had been thought singularly
important. The walls of the fort were stout and some 20 feet in
height and enclosed some garrison buildings. A small crowd had
gathered at one corner of the fort and it would appear that Mr
Duval had elected to launch himself from the ramparts. My thoughts,
both as a doctor and a simple observer, were that this was
immensely foolhardy.

As we approached, we were hailed
by a fellow wearing a leather apron about his waist and asked to
pay our sixpence which we duly did. Having now paid, we were given
a small hand bill as a memento of the occasion. This showed both
the date and a photograph of the intrepid flyer standing smiling
beside his craft.

I nodded towards the same figure
now standing on the parapet and said, “I trust that he will still
resemble his photograph after this endeavour, Holmes!”

Holmes nodded grimly. “Yes, for
he is my ticket for entry to Portman Square.”

As we stood and watched, it
appeared that final adjustments to the craft were being made.
Looking about us, it seemed that the choice of the fort for this
venture was indeed a sound one. Being one of the highest hills
around London, wind travelled up the slope of the hill towards the
fort. If the wind direction were to change slightly, then the
launch site could be simply changed by walking a little further
round the wall. All, it seemed, had now been made ready.

The glider itself appeared to be
a somewhat rounded, triangular shape which I determined to be akin
to the outstretched wings of a bird. The structure was made from
bamboo poles over which fabric had been stretched. Various wires
were attached which were in tension and I assumed that these helped
maintain the shape of the craft. Beneath this 'pair of wings' was a
wooden bar upon which Mr Duval could be seen grasping tightly.

Holmes tugged slightly at my
coat sleeve, saying, “I think, Watson, that it might be wise if we
were to retreat somewhat, if only for our own safety!”

Looking around me, I could see
that other members of the public had had the same thought and were
to be seen fanning out from the fort, almost at a trot. We followed
suit and, after a brisk walk, we found ourselves some fifty yards
from the wall with the wind at our backs. However, it was no longer
the gentle breeze that we had observed in Baker Street. It was now
blowing more strongly and with the occasional much stronger gust.
As we watched, Duval's assistants held up the back edge of the
craft and, with a shout of “On y va!”, Duval launched himself into
the teeth of the wind. Dipping slightly, the craft then picked up
the wind. Almost like a sail, it billowed slightly and then moved
forwards and away from the wall with Duval hanging from a harness
beneath. It appeared that he had, at least, some control of the
direction in which he was travelling. As he changed his position
along the wooden bar, it seemed to distort the shape of the
wings.

“Wonderful!” I cried as I
watched Duval glide slightly towards us. It was at that moment that
a sudden gust from behind us almost pushed us forwards towards him.
My eyes were still on Duval who was now only some 10 feet from the
ground. Suddenly the front edge of the 'sail' rose up, causing a
lack of forward momentum. With an anguished cry from Duval, both he
and the craft plummeted to the ground with a splintering crash.

For a moment I stood aghast but
then began running the 20 or so yards to where Duval had crashed to
Earth. My first and only thought was for my new patient. He lay
slumped, unconscious, beneath a tangle of shattered wood, steel
wires and a still billowing torn canopy of material. Pushing away
what I could, I suddenly realised that Holmes was beside me as I
scrambled to free Duval from his harness and the debris of his
glider. It was immediately clear that one of his arms was broken as
it lay at an improbable angle to his prostrate form. By now, others
had arrived and were jostling each other, moving ever closer for a
better view.

“Keep clear!” I yelled, “Give me
space, I'm a doctor!” With some reluctance, the crowd drew back and
only when Holmes held forth his cane with some menace, did they
retreat sufficiently for me to fully examine the fallen Duval.

“How is he, Watson?” asked
Holmes, glancing down at the lifeless form.

“I am unsure”, I replied. I
could not discount any internal injuries until he regained
consciousness. Slowly, Duval opened his eyes and winced, crying out
in pain.

I moved to where he could see me
fully, saying, “You are safe, Mr Duval. I am a doctor.” Duval tried
to move but I gently restrained him. “You have had a nasty fall and
your forearm is, I fear, broken. Do you have any great pain
elsewhere?”

Duval shook his head and I
allowed him then to sit upright, it taking him a little time to do
so. “I think I will survive, thank you, Doctor. I appear to be
mostly intact, save for a somewhat bruised body and equally bruised
pride!”

I smiled, saying, “Excellent, I
believe both will mend with time.”

Duval nodded and smiled in
return, saying, “I think that is more than can be said for my poor
Damselfly.”

Looking around me, I saw that
his machine was, indeed, mostly matchwood. However, I was able to
pick up two short but sturdy lengths of bamboo. With my pocket
knife, I was able to trim the ends of the bamboo and also to cut
two strips of fabric to act as bindings. “I think, Mr Duval, your
creation may still serve a purpose. It is necessary to apply a
splint to your broken forearm. I will be as gentle as possible but
I fear it will be most painful whilst I manipulate the arm into
position. Are you ready?”

Duval took a deep breath and
nodded towards me. I had the two pieces of bamboo laid out parallel
to his arm which was resting on his thigh. It appeared to be a
simple fracture and as gently as I could, I moved the broken
portion so that it lay in the same plane as the rest of his arm.
Duval bore the pain well, and once it was in position, I was able
to splint the arm with the bamboo and fabric from his glider.

Duval smiled weakly at me. Beads
of perspiration could be seen upon his brow. “Thank you, Doctor.
May I enquire your name… and who is your friend?”

I looked across at Holmes in
some concern. I was unsure what to answer for this was a situation
we had not envisaged. “I am John Watson...”

“And I am William Holmes,” said
Holmes, leaning forward and shaking Duval's good hand.

The crowd was now starting to
disperse, seeing that the machine was damaged beyond repair and no
further flights would be forthcoming. I helped Duval to his feet,
asking, “What will you do now, Mr Duval?”

Duval looked around him. “There
is nothing here of value but I have again learned more from my
adventure. I believe I will return to London and seek out a perhaps
more permanent remedy for my arm.”

Holmes stepped forward, saying,
“May we offer you a ride to the railway station, Mr Duval? Having a
doctor on hand for your journey would, I'm sure, provide some small
measure of reassurance.”

Duval thought for a moment
before replying, “Yes, that would be most kind. Are you travelling
to London?”

Holmes smiled and offered his
arm. “Indeed we are and at your service for the duration of the
journey.”

Our dog cart was waiting close
by and, in but a few minutes, we were back at Bromley Station.
Walking onto the platform we were indeed fortunate that a train was
already in steam and standing ready to depart. Hurrying aboard the
train as best as we could, we settled down in a compartment in
readiness for the journey home.

It was some twenty minutes after
we had left Bromley Station that Holmes brought out his sketchbook
and laid it on the seat beside him.

Holmes leant forwards slightly,
saying, “My purpose for coming to Bromley today was twofold, Mr
Duval. I was, of course, wishing to observe your flight but I was
also hoping to meet you. Some few years ago, I was engaged by a
gentleman in London to join a small group of engineers who were
tasked to develop a powered flying machine.”

As I watched, Duval jolted
upright as though he had sat on a tin-tack, stammering, “You were
employed by Max...”

Holmes swiftly held up his hand
to stop any further indiscretion, saying abruptly, “I cannot name
him, Mr Duval... but you plainly know the gentleman. During this
time, we designed, built and flew a machine of grand proportions
powered by two light weight but powerful compound steam
engines.”

Duval was now sitting back with
his mouth open. After a few moments he had collected himself and
was able to say, “So, it is true! I had heard rumours, as had we
all, but you were there?”

Holmes nodded slowly and passed
his sketchbook to Duval. As he opened it with his one good hand, I
thought for a terrible moment that Duval had had a seizure. No
sound came from the man. He seemed to be scarcely breathing as he
stared at the pages of figures and diagrams within.

Finally, he sat back in his
seat, his face in raptures. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. My work will now
continue. I do not suppose that I could…?”

Holmes bent forwards and took
the sketchbook from Duval's grasp, saying, “No, I’m sorry, I could
not allow it. In truth, I should not have kept this. The machine
was destroyed...burnt, as were all the other papers. I could not
bring myself to toss years of my work into the flames.”

Duval looked saddened and
nodded, saying softly, “Of course, of course.”

The train had slowed and we were
now travelling through the outskirts of our great metropolis,
Charing Cross was just a few minutes away. Holmes now sensing his
opportunity, added, “But I would be willing to allow you to see
more of the work if...”