The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (19 page)

I was still standing in awe of the machine when one of the tentacles whipped out and struck Newbury full in the chest, lifting him clean off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground with a dull thud. It occurred to me later that the pilot had probably assumed he was under attack, and that the flare had been some sort of weapon or explosive device. At the time, however, I was quite unprepared for what happened next.

Miss Hobbes emitted a shrill cry of alarm, but rather than rush to Newbury’s aid, she grabbed a large piece of broken masonry and pitched it straight at the strange vehicle. It boomed as it struck the metal hull, causing the pilot’s pod to rock back and forth upon the writhing cradle of its legs. In response, the machine reared up, twisting around and releasing its hold on the two buildings. One of its tentacles flicked out and caught Miss Hobbes around the waist, snaking around her and hoisting her high into the air. She looked like a fragile doll in its grip as it swung her around and thrust her, hard, against the nearest wall. She howled pain and frustration, clutching furiously at the iron tentacle in an attempt to prise herself free.

Incensed, I reached for my service revolver, which I’d secreted in the pocket of my overcoat before setting out from home. It felt cold but reassuring in my fist as I raised my arms, searching for a clear shot in the mist-ridden gloom.

Miss Hobbes gave a sharp cry of pain as she was slammed once more against the wall, lolling in the machine’s terrible iron grip. Behind me, Newbury was silent and still where he lay on the pavement, unconscious or dead.

I cocked the hammer and took my aim, hoping beyond hope that my bullet would not ricochet and further injure Miss Hobbes. I could think of no other course of action, however; to get entangled in the machine’s writhing limbs would mean certain death for us all. I was doubtful my bullets would puncture the vehicle’s thick armour plating, but if I could create a distraction I thought I might be able to lure it away from Miss Hobbes.

By this time I was convinced that the people in the neighbouring houses must have raised the alarm, and I expected the police to appear on the scene at any moment. I hoped for it, concerned that what little I might be able to do would still not be enough.

I squeezed the trigger and braced myself as the weapon discharged. The report was like a thunderclap that echoed off the nearby buildings. I heard the bullet ping as it struck the belly of the mechanical beast, and I ducked involuntarily in case it rebounded in my direction.

Just as I’d hoped, the shot seemed to startle the pilot enough to draw his attention. I squeezed off another bullet, then a third in quick succession. I was pleased to hear the satisfying splinter of glass, suggesting I’d managed to unwittingly strike one of the portholes.

The machine twisted around, releasing its stranglehold on Miss Hobbes and allowing her to slump heavily to the ground. With a terrible scraping of metal against stone, the vehicle lurched out of the mouth of the alleyway towards me. I stumbled back, trying desperately to keep myself out of reach of the probing limbs that thrashed across the cobbles before it. I stumbled then, catching my heel on a loose paving stone and tumbling backwards, jarring my elbow and sending my revolver skittering across the street.

Panicked, I tried to roll out of the way of the oncoming machine, but in my heart I knew it was over. The mechanical beast would crush me utterly beneath its massive bulk.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and felt a moment of strange, lucid calm as I waited for it to strike. At least I’d managed to save Miss Hobbes.

But the blow never came. To my amazement the vehicle veered away at the last moment, lurching back the way it had come, towards the river. I leapt to my feet, reclaiming my revolver and staggering after it, but within moments it had slithered over the edge of the embankment, dropping into the water with an almighty splash. I ran to the edge but could see nothing but a frothy ring of bubbles upon the surface.

I rushed back to where Miss Hobbes was struggling to pull herself upright in the mouth of the alley. “Are you hurt?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries.

She shook her head, gasping for breath. “No, not seriously. Please... Maurice.” She pointed to the prone form of Newbury. He hadn’t moved since he’d been thrown across the street by the beast. I went to his side.

He was still breathing. I checked him hurriedly for broken limbs. Miraculously, he appeared to be mostly unhurt. He’d have a few aches and bruises when he came round, perhaps even a mild concussion, but he’d sustained no serious injuries.

I realised Miss Hobbes was standing beside me and stood back to allow her room. She knelt on the ground beside him and cupped his face in her hands. “Maurice?” And then more firmly, “Maurice?”

Newbury stirred, groaning. His eyes flickered open, and he looked up at us, confused. “Has it gone?”

“Yes, it’s gone,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “Although we’re lucky to be alive. I fear it was a rather abortive encounter.”

Newbury grinned as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, dusting himself down. “On the contrary, Dr Watson. Now we know what it is. Tomorrow we’ll be able to catch it.”

I frowned. “Forgive me, Sir Maurice, but how exactly do you propose to capture a mechanical beast of that size?”

Newbury laughed and took Miss Hobbes’s proffered hand in order to pull himself to his feet. “With an equally big net,” he replied, clapping me boldly on the shoulder. He glanced at Miss Hobbes. “You look shaken, Miss Hobbes. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she replied, dabbing with a handkerchief at a minor cut on her temple. Her hair had shaken loose and she was flushed. I recall thinking at the time, however, that it was not so much the encounter with the submersible that had shaken her, but her fear for Newbury. “Yes, I’m quite well.”

Newbury nodded, but it was clear he was not entirely satisfied with her answer. “Now, I’m sure we could all do with a stiff brandy. Let’s repair to Cleveland Avenue where we can rest, tend our wounds, and discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”

I found myself nodding and falling into step. I was keen to put some distance between our little band and the scene of the disturbance, and to find somewhere warm to rest my weary bones. I also must admit that, despite the danger, I had found myself quite swept up in the adventure and mystery of it all. There were questions to be answered. Who had that man been inside the strange submersible, staring out at me with such a pale, haunted expression? What was the purpose of the vehicle, and why had the pilot spared my life at the last moment?

I knew I’d be unable to rest until I had the answers to those questions. And besides, I was anxious to know more of these remarkable people with whom I had found myself working. Both Newbury and Miss Hobbes had shown remarkable courage in the face of terrible danger. Not only that, but they had remained entirely unperturbed by the appearance of the bizarre machine, as if they’d seen its like a hundred times before. I was intrigued to know how they planned to tackle the machine the following day, and I knew that whatever scheme was outlined to me that night, I would be unable to resist playing a role.

* * *

The following day I woke to a spasming muscle in my left calf. I felt tired and drained, and my body ached as it hadn’t done for years. Nevertheless, I also felt somewhat invigorated by the recollection of my adventure the prior evening. It seemed to me as if I’d stumbled upon something momentous, and I was anxious to get to the bottom of the matter.

I washed and dressed and worked the muscle in my leg until the cramping eased. I was badly bruised from where I’d fallen, and my elbow was painful to move. I knew it wouldn’t stop me, however. I might have been an old soldier, but I was a soldier still, and I knew how to pick myself up and carry on.

I took a stout breakfast of porridge and fruit, and then set out to call on Brownlow. A short trip on the underground took me across town, and the brisk walk at the other end did much to clear my head. It was a cold, damp day, and the sky above was an oppressive canopy of grey, brooding and pregnant.

Upon my arrival, Brownlow’s wife—a willowy woman in her late thirties, who wore a permanently startled expression—informed me that her husband was out, and so I trudged the quarter of a mile to his surgery, where I found him enjoying a momentary respite from his patients. He ushered me into his office and asked the clerk to organise a pot of tea.

It was clear almost immediately that I’d been correct in my assumption that Brownlow would have thrown himself into his work in an effort to dispel his anxiety over the events of two nights previous. He acted as if the encounter had never even occurred, and when I raised the subject he waved me down with a severe frown, indicating that he no longer wished to discuss it. Still, I persisted, and when I began to relate the story of my own encounter with the mechanical beast, he listened quietly, absorbing every detail.

“So I am not, after all, bound for Bedlam,” he said, when I’d finished. He did so with a jovial smile, but the relief was plain to see on his face. “Thank you, John.”

“You were never bound for Bedlam, Peter. But I do believe you are guilty of overworking yourself. You should consider allowing yourself a holiday with that pretty wife of yours.”

He smiled at this and poured the tea. “I think, my dear friend, that I should find such a holiday even more stress-inducing than a late night encounter with a mechanical beast. I cannot abandon my patients.”

I sighed and reached for my teacup.

* * *

It was approaching midday when I left Brownlow to his patients, feeling as if, for once, I’d been able to lift a weight from his shoulders. Newbury had said he’d need time to prepare for the evening’s activities—that he needed to speak with a man named Aldous Renwick—and so, left to my own devices, I decided to head to Baker Street in order to take luncheon with Holmes. I was still rankled with him for his dismissive attitude the previous day, but felt it would not do to let things fester between us. He had, after all, no other friends upon which to prevail if he found himself in need. He was not a man that responded well to prolonged solitude; despite his protestations to the opposite, Holmes needed an audience.

I found him hunched over a leather-bound tome, poring over page after page of arcane diagrams, each of which appeared to depict complex chemical formulas. He was still wearing his ratty old dressing gown and his unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth. Dark rings had developed beneath his hooded eyes, and he appeared gaunt. I guessed he had not been to bed since I had last seen him, let alone the thought that he might have taken a bath or gone for a stroll.

He didn’t look up when Mrs Hudson showed me into the room, but waved for me to take a seat. I shifted a heap of newspapers to the floor in order to do so.

“Well, Holmes!” I said, clutching the arms of the chair and leaning forward, hoping to draw his attention from the manual upon his lap. “Last night’s activities by the river were quite invigorating.”

“Hmm,” issued Holmes dismissively, still steadfastly refusing to look up from his book.

“I saw it for myself,” I continued, determined that he’d hear me out. “The beast, that is. Turns out it’s a ruddy great machine of some sort, a submersible with legs, containing a pilot. Things looked a bit hairy for a while, on account of the aforementioned pilot attacking Sir Maurice, his associate Miss Hobbes, and me. Had to chase him off with my revolver in the end. You should have seen it, Holmes. Quite remarkable.”

At this, Holmes suddenly slammed his book shut and looked up, turning his familiar hawklike gaze upon me. “What was that, Watson? I fear I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

I issued a long, familiar sigh. “Nothing, Holmes,” I said, deflated. “It wasn’t important.”

Holmes raised a single eyebrow, and then tossed the book he’d been reading on to the floor. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet by my feet. He turned, stretching out upon the divan like a luxuriating cat, resting his slippered feet upon the arm.

I shook my head in resigned dismay. “How is your investigation going?” I asked. “It looks as if you’ve barely left the drawing room these past two days. Your search for Mr Xavier Gray is not, I presume, proving easy.”

Holmes glanced at me, a thin smile forming upon his lips. “Oh, I’d say the investigation is proceeding quite as planned, Watson. The matter has my full attention.”

I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief. Despite living with Holmes for many long years and chronicling all of his most notable investigations, his methods could still seem opaque to me.

“What time is lunch?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. “I’m famished and in need of one of Mrs Hudson’s hearty broths.” I knew it was a liberty, but I felt I’d earned it after the events of the previous evening, and besides, it looked as if Holmes could do with a square meal. Perhaps if I stayed to accompany him, he might actually eat.

“You shall not be disappointed, Watson, if you have it in you to bide your time in that chair for another twenty-six minutes. Beef stew, I believe, with dumplings.”

“Ah, my favourite! Let me guess,” I said, grinning. “You heard Mrs Hudson place the pot upon the stove, and, over recent months—if not years—you’ve worked to memorise her routine from the very sounds she makes as she toils. Now, you’re able to fathom her every movement from the noises issuing from the basement, and predict the dish and the exact moment upon which she will serve luncheon?”

Holmes gave a cheerful guffaw. “Close, Watson. Very close. She came to inform me just a few moments before you arrived—four minutes, in fact—that she would be serving beef stew, with dumplings, in half an hour’s time.”

I could not suppress a chuckle. “Well, I’d better pop down and ask if she wouldn’t mind setting another place,” I said, moving to rise from my chair.

“No need,” said Holmes, waving his pipe, “I attended to that yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” I asked, incredulous. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that I asked Mrs Hudson to make a special effort to prepare a hearty lunch—your favourite stew, in fact—given that you’d be stopping by after what undoubtedly would have proved to have been a harrowing night on Cheyne Walk, grappling with monsters and such like.” He struck a match with a flourish and lit his pipe.