Sherlock Holmes: The Coils of Time & Other Stories (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 1) (3 page)

He forced a smile at the worries suddenly welling from within him, a combination of the black depression that gripped him and too much talk this evening about the darker mysteries of London.

Perhaps stopping at the Neptune, or lingering so long, had not been altogether wise.  If he had followed his brother’s orders he would have been home out of the fog hours ago; or if he had shown a little more moderation in his indulgence, he would have been able to find his way to the busy Rotherhithe Station without confusion.  He was able to shrug off his brother’s concerns more easily than he was able to dismiss the foolishness or possible consequences  of his own intemperance.

As he walked, letting the morning’s coolness draw off the heat of the evening’s carousing, he kept an ear out for the quick clopping that would indicate a passing hansom in the mist, or the low rumble of a four-wheeler for hire, however unlikely they were to appear in this district, at this hour.  But all that came to his hearing were his own ragged breaths and his own muffled footfalls.

There were no tradesmen bound for the early markets, nor even any staggering tars or provocative dollymops.  To his ale-saturated mind, it was peculiar, damn peculiar. The Vanishments, he decided grimly.  People, especially the lower classes, were a superstitious lot, building such things as the Vanishments or the East End Ghosts into demonic manifestations, when they were really nothing more than another extrusion of London’s black heart into civilised society.  When there was such an active criminal underworld as existed in London, there was no need to populate the darkness with demons or ghosts.  Although he felt in his guts that there was some tangible but unclear connection between the East End Ghosts and the Vanishments, he was still willing to bet, pennies to pounds, that every victim taken was either at the bottom of some mud-pit or would eventually float up from the bottom of the Thames, throat cut or garrotting rope knotted tight; that, or slaving under some foreign tropical sun, if still alive.

Dunning was a little nervous, but he did not truly fear the night or any terror it might hide.  His present fearless condition resulted from almost equal portions of brash youthfulness, too many pints of strong ale, and a general bitterness about the futility of the life he led.  And there was, of course, the sword in his umbrella.  In all the clubs along Pall Mall and Fleet Street to which a young gentleman might belong, willingly or not, there was not one other who could best him with a foil.

Odd furtive sounds emanated from the depths of the park, then seemed to surround him.  But they were not sounds born of the most populous city on Earth, nor the sounds of criminals seeking victims to rob and murder.  They were, unmistakably, the sounds of stealthy beasts stalking their prey.

He paused in his journey toward the haven of Deptford Road.  He could not be more than a minute or two from the lights of the station, but he now doubted he would see them, for the way ahead was choked with ominous footfalls, quick tattoos against the cobbled pavement.

Suddenly sober, his back against the bricks of a warehouse, he eased his sword from its sheath and stood at the ready, convinced he was more than a match for any danger concealed by the clotted night.

The fog seemed to press close against him, smothering him.  With the fog came a particularly noxious smell, like the musk of a predator’s lair, accompanied by a crushing silence that seemed to hush his breaths and make his heart sound like an overwound watch wrapped in cotton.

Suddenly the fog erupted, limbs grasping and claws slashing, red eyes burning like hooded lanterns.  Try as he might he could not make out anything distinct about his attackers, only that there were dozens of them and that they were not human…not quite.

He swung and thrust with his sword, but for all the good it did he might have been hacking away at the mist itself.  Within moments of the start of the attack the sword was yanked from his grip and vanished into the darkness.

He was thrown down.  His palms and knees slammed against the pavement. He was pinned by several squat heavy forms covered with pale matted hair.  He was choked by stinking hot breaths.  His face was smashed against the roadway.

A cry of pain and terror echoed through the streets of Bermondsey, causing the poor to tremble in their huddling places, and carousers to linger a little longer in the light.

The cry ended as sharply as it began.

A curly-brimmed top hat rolled into the street.

The morning’s silence surged back.

Chapter II

After the Incident of the Empty House

“What do you mean, ‘You have got him,’?” Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade demanded.  “Got whom, Mr Holmes?”

“The man for whom Scotland Yard has hunted in vain since the thirtieth of last month,” replied Sherlock Holmes.  “The man who shot and killed the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet, fired, by the by, from the same curiously constructed air-rifle he just used to shatter the facing window of my rooms on the opposite side of Baker Street.  Murder is the charge to which he will answer in the Assizes, Inspector, not window breaking, or even the attempted murder of a man all London has counted among the dead these past three years.  My congratulations, Inspector Lestrade, on your capture!”

Dr John H Watson frowned.  The passing of three years had not changed his friend, neither in his impatience with minds less animated than his own, nor his tendency to let others absorb the credit for his work.  The chase was still the all-important game, and when that was ended he was more than content to step aside and let his inferiors seem his superior.

The prisoner struggled against the stout police constables on either side but to no avail.  His red hair and broad moustache bristled like the fur of a maddened beast.  His face was virile yet sinister, a philosopher’s brow above a sensualist’s jutting jaw.  The man glared in rage at everyone who had participated in his capture, but especially at Sherlock Holmes.

“You clever, clever fiend,” the prisoner snarled.  “This is not the end of it, Holmes!”

“Ah, but it is, Colonel Moran,” Holmes quipped.  “’Journeys end in lovers’ meetings,’ as the old play says.  I have hoped for the pleasure of meeting you again ever since you favoured me with your attention as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall.”

“You cunning fiend!”

“Gentlemen, permit me to introduce Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Her Majesty’s Indian Army, thought it was hardly an honourable separation, and the best heavy-game shot ever to prowl the provinces of our Eastern Empire.  I believe the Colonel’s bag of tigers still remains unrivalled, though he seems to have slipped up tonight.  The softness of civilisation must have dulled your wits, Colonel, else such an old
shikari
as yourself would easily have seen through the stratagem of tethering a young kid to a tree, waiting for the bait to bring the tiger into your sights.”

Colonel Moran attempted to spring at Holmes, his cry of rage not unlike the savage snarl of the beasts taken by him in his time.  He could not, however, break free from the grip of the constables who dragged him roughly back and shoved him into place.

“I confess it a small surprise that you chose to shoot into my rooms from the very same empty house I chose to watch for you,” Holmes said.  “I had imagined you working from an elevated position in the street, as you did in the murder of Adair, where my friend Lestrade and his merry men were awaiting you.  Aside from that, all has gone very well – London will be short one murderer, and I can return to the free practice of my trade.”

Moran looked to Inspector Lestrade.  “If I’m caught, I’m caught, but there’s no reason why I should have to submit to the gibes of this murderer.”

“Murderer!” Watson exclaimed.

“He speaks of his associate, the late Professor Moriarty, who perished alone at the Reichenbach Fall rather than myself, despite the Professor’s best efforts, and those of his confederate in hiding,” Holmes explained.  “A death, certainly, but just as certainly neither unfortunate nor murder.  I will  certainly never lose sleep over the part I played in the final moments of Professor Moriarty, just as I will never be troubled by the part, small as it may be, in bringing you to the gallows.”

Moran stared with narrowed smouldering eyes.  “If I am in the hands of the law, let this be done in a legal way.”

“That sounds reasonable enough,” Lestrade conceded expansively.  “Are there any further gibes you would like to make, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes smiled thinly.  “The elapsed three years seem to have given you a certain puckish humour against which I shall have to keep guard, Lestrade.  But, yes, I am quite through with Colonel Moran.”

At Lestrade’s nod, the constables roughly removed the shackled prisoner from the room and hurried him down the stairs to the police wagon waiting on Baker Street.

Holmes examined the air-rifle.  “An admirable and unique weapon, having tremendous power and being virtually silent,” he commented.  “Professor Moriarty ordered its fabrication by the blind German mechanic Von Herder some years ago, and it has caused its share of misery in London and abroad, both in the snuffed lives of its victims and to dozens of police departments in the form of unsolved crimes.  I had never thought to have the opportunity to handle it.  When you link this gun, its unique bullets and Colonel Moran to the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair at 427 Park Lane, many of your fellow detectives worldwide will owe you a great debt of gratitude.  I commend it into your care, Lestrade.”

“You can trust me to look after it, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade.  “And after Colonel Sebastian Moran. Short of a miracle, it’s the hangman’s noose for him.”

Sherlock Holmes frowned.  “Then you should be on your guard, for many a barrister has pulled an eleventh-hour miracle from out his bag of tricks.”

They exited the empty house and stood on the walkway.  It was a cool spring night, clear above and with gaslamps flickering serenely along the quiet thoroughfare.  With the presence of the Metropolitan Police dissipated, there was no evidence Baker Street had seen any recent excitement.  Even the shattered window of 221-B was not immediately noticeable to the casual observer, save for the occasional and gentle flutter of the sash curtain beyond what remained of the pane.

“I know I’ll get all the credit for this nab, but never think me fool enough not to know who really brought the blighter to ground,” said Lestrade.  “It is so very good to have you back amongst the living, Mr Holmes, and, believe me, sir, my sentiments have nothing to do with either crime or criminals.”

They shook hands.

“Good night, Inspector Lestrade.”

“Good night, Mr Holmes…Dr Watson.”

When they were alone, Watson said: “Peculiar fellow.  Just when I think I have him figured out, he surprises me.”

“People are as complex as the world in which we live,” Holmes remarked.  “It is a serious mistake to think that what we see is all there is of either.”

“I have many questions about what happened tonight, Holmes, and about Adair’s murder,” Watson said, gesturing upward with a glance.  “Perhaps a glass of sherry and a cigar, like old times…”

Holmes hesitated, clearly reticent, yet his sharp features betrayed no emotion.  “A half an hour, perhaps, but no more.  You’ve had enough shocks for today.”

When Watson entered the chambers he had shared for so many happy years with Sherlock Holmes, he uttered a small gasp of recollection.  They were exactly as he remembered, with all the old landmarks in their proper places – the chemical corner and the acid-stained, deal-topped table; the shelf of formidable scrap-books and reference books which would have been welcome at many a criminal’s bonfire; the violin-case, the pipe-rack, even the Persian slipper packed with shag.  So overcome was Watson by the spirits of evenings past he did not at first notice the diminutive figure of Mrs Hudson standing near a wax-coloured bust perfectly recreating the features of Sherlock Holmes, except for a small hole in the temple and a much larger one out the other side.

“I did as you told me, Mr Holmes,” the landlady said.

“And observed all the precautions I specified, Mrs Hudson?”

“I went to it on my knees, sir, just as you instructed,” she replied.  “And I moved it every quarter hour.”

“And took in my would-be attacker completely,” Holmes said.  “Well done, Mrs Hudson.  Did you see where the bullet went?”

“It ruined your marvellous bust when it passed through and flattened against the wall,” she reported.  “I picked it up from the carpet.”

Holmes examined the remains of the bullet.  “Perceive, Watson, a soft revolver bullet.  There’s genius in that, for who would expect such a thing fired from an air-rifle?  The police search for a weapon and a murderer they believe must be close at hand when it was actually fired with great accuracy from extreme distance.  All right, Mrs Hudson, I am much obliged for your assistance in this matter.”

The landlady paused.  “There is one thing, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?”

“I thought I heard a sound from your room,” she explained.  “It was so slight, I scarce thought I heard anything at all, but when I tried the door it was locked. I would have sought to open it, but there was no time.”

“I’m quite sure it was nothing, Mrs Hudson,” he assured her.  “It could have been the house settling or a mouse scurrying, or even a sound from the street.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, though her brow remained slightly furrowed. A mouse, indeed!

When she had left the two friends alone, they sipped sherry, smoked furiously and Holmes explained the particulars of the murder of Ronald Adair, which had so mystified Londoners, Watson included, so thoroughly.  To Watson, it was so very much like old times that he had to wipe furtively at a watery eye.  Presently the night’s excitement slipped away, leaving Watson exhausted and yearning for his pillow.

“There is one point which continues to puzzle me,” Watson said.

“What’s that, old fellow?”

“The matter of the sentry posted by Colonel Moran.”

“Ah, yes, the garrotter Parker who plays the jew’s-harp so well.  What of him?”

“He was placed to watch the flat when your enemies learned of your return to London, and he must have reported your return to Baker Street to his master,” Watson expounded.  “Else how could you have expected Colonel Moran to come after you?”

“Quite right,” Holmes agreed.  “What of it?”

“Having seen you enter, this Parker would have keenly watched everyone come and go from the building,” the doctor said.  “He certainly would have seen you leave, even disguised as the bookseller I encountered today earlier in Oxford Street.  I was taken in completely by the guise, but I had no reason to watch for you, while Parker had every reason.  If he had seen anyone leave the building he had not observed entering, his suspicions would certainly have been raised.  Indeed, your talent for disguise and mimicry is so well known I’m sure he would have been ordered specifically to watch for just such a subterfuge.  Even given the amazing likeness of the wax bust, Colonel Moran would not have been as completely taken in had he suspected there was even the slightest chance you had left the building, disguised or not.  And yet he came on, as if there was no chance at all of trickery.  Something of it just doesn’t sit right.”

“It is a good thing, then, that the likes of Parker, lacking your keen wits, was set to watch for me and not you,” Holmes said with a great laugh.  He looked at the clock on the mantle.  “It’s time you were in bed, my dear Watson, and your drooping eyes agree.  Good night.”

Watson sighed wearily.  Questions and doubts still plagued his mind, but he was too tired to make any sense of them.  Perhaps later, when he looked through his notes, he could bring some semblance of order to the events of this afternoon and evening.  Bidding his friend farewell, Watson exited the familiar building, hailed a passing hansom and made for his home in Kensington.

Alone, Holmes closed the door, but did not lock it.  His visitor would arrive soon.  He read the notes he had received, one addressed in a most familiar hand, the other passed to him by his brother Mycroft, to whom he owed the preservation of his flat and the funds allowing him to pursue certain clandestine investigations the past three years.

The Ghosts of the East End…

The Vanishments…

The mysterious disappearance of a hale young man…

Even without the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair and the chance to finish the bill with Colonel Sebastian Moran, the time of his return to London, and the land of the living, had come.  At least now, with Moran out of the way,  he could concentrate solely on playing the part for which he had been summoned.

Suddenly he felt the blackness of London surrounding him, the enormity of the cosmos beyond, space extending to infinity only to curve back upon itself, the beginning and the end melding into an unknowable present.  He felt as he were trapped within the meshing gears of a vast timework.

He shook off the grip of the irrational unknown and again looked at the clock.