Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (3 page)

“Then, Stamford, you stand unbound,” said Holmes with a dismissive wave.

Stamford released a profound sigh, turned to me, grasped both my hands and said, “Dr. Watson! Thank you! Oh, by God, thank you! And… I’m sorry.”

With that, he turned and fled the room. Holmes watched him go with a knowing grin, and then turned his gaze on me. Strangest thing, his eyes grew softer and his smirk transformed into a genuine smile.

“Yes. Thank you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “I am an excellent judge of character and I can tell already that you are perhaps the most suitable companion I might have found in all this wide city. I am glad of you. I am… not well suited to being left alone for any great period of time.”

We shook hands and parted. I had more than ten hours to fill before midnight and precious little to do. I forced my feeble legs to drag me back to the Strand, packed my few possessions into two steamer trunks, cajoled the landlord to have them delivered to Baker Street the next day, and sat down to rest. I left for Baker Street early, lest my progress was slower than hoped. On the way out, it occurred to me to scan the grounds for Holmes’s unique red puddle. I found none.

I arrived shortly before midnight to find Holmes standing just inside the threshold of his rooms, expounding on how glad he was that I had come. As eager as he seemed to welcome me, he nonetheless stood in the doorway—all but a door himself—barring me entry until the clock in the hall struck the hour.

I was weary with walking and almost broke my neck, tripping backwards over the threshold as I entered. Nevertheless, I was thrilled when I saw the place. I had not thought to inquire as to furniture and indeed, if there had been none, I was scarce in a position to remedy the situation. Happily, I entered a well-appointed sitting room—not ostentatious, not cramped. There was a dining table and chairs set by the small back windows, and before the front window that looked out onto Baker Street were two overstuffed armchairs and a small sofa. They sat before a clean brick hearth upon a tasteful rug (which I admired, despite the fact it was clearly Afghan). Off the main room was a hallway, which ended in a bathroom with—to my great relief—indoor plumbing. On opposite sides of the hallway stood two doors. The bedrooms I presumed. I inquired as to which room was mine.

“Ah, I am only just arrived myself,” Holmes said, “so I am not yet installed. You may take whichever you please.”

As I examined them, my heart fell. On the Baker Street side, the room was large, airy and luxurious. The room across from it might easily have been mistaken for a closet, if it were not for the fact that it
had
a closet. There was no fireplace in the small room and only one tiny window, which gave no visible sign that it could even be opened. The room must have been designed by a sadist—sure to be sweltering in summer, freezing in winter and cramped all year round. 221B, it seemed, had been intended to accommodate one gentleman and one wretched slave. Which room did I prefer? Of course, there could be only one answer.

And yet, my total contribution to this venture was to be one sovereign. Ever. Just one. I took a deep, doleful breath and announced that the smaller room was ideal for my needs.

Warlock’s face drew into worried lines.

“You may have your choice, of course,” he said, “but if one is as good as the other, to you… well… I would be obliged if I might be allowed that room.”

“The smaller? That one?” I asked, incredulous.

“I have always preferred having walls close by me,” he said. “And besides, that large room has a western window! Oh, I do not care for so much light, Watson. I don’t know how I’d abide it. I know we have only just met, but… you would have my enduring thanks if…”

Scarcely believing my luck, I entered into by far the more luxurious of the two rooms and flung myself upon its excellent bed. I had meant only to test it, but before I realized what was happening, I was fast asleep.

THOSE FIRST DAYS IN BAKER STREET WERE A PROFOUND
comfort to me. It seemed as if all the perils that assailed me had dissolved into luxuries overnight. They hadn’t, of course. In point of fact, I had just moved in with one of the most dangerous creatures ever to walk the face of the earth—perhaps
the
most dangerous. Still, the threat that Holmes represented was slow to reveal itself.

His peculiarity, on the other hand, was apparent right from the start. Though he was kind almost to a fault, there were a thousand social niceties Holmes stood ignorant of. His every meal consisted of toast and soup. I never saw him eat anything else. I couldn’t even be certain the man slept. I never caught him at it.

He packed his tiny room with the most extraordinary quantity of books. He had a desk in the corner, upon which he kept a kit that resembled nothing so much as a sixteenth-century alchemical workshop (which, indeed, it was). He also had a bed. That was all. The remainder of his floor was covered in books. He had gigantic tomes and single-sheet leaflets. Some were ancient and some contemporary, but they were present in such numbers as to fill his room from floor to ceiling. Such was their weight that the floorboards frequently groaned when anybody stepped in Holmes’s room, or even in the hallway before it. They groaned with a strangely human voice—one might almost discern words. The only area not covered by these books was a cramped path that led from his door to the bed, with a minor spur that diverted to his desk.

This setup granted the impression that Holmes was living in an overfilled storage shed. I several times enjoined him to trade rooms with me, as my own possessions were few, but he refused. He loved his little hideaway. He was like a hermit crab that had found the perfect little seashell for itself. Often he would retreat there when he felt threatened or solitary. When his mood was foul, I could hear him in there, holding whispered debates with… well… with the walls, or nobody, I presumed.

Just as common as his depressions were periods of ecstatic mania, during which he would leap about the sitting room with strange vigor, stopping now and then to say how happy he was of my company. In these moments, he was apt to scoop up the battered accordion he kept on the mantelpiece and launch into some antique war shanty or other, singing along with such abandon that you would have thought he, himself, had won the battle in question.

One morning I woke to find him leaning over my bed.

“Watson,” he cried, “if anyone calls and says they are the physical embodiment of Amon-Ra, I am
not in
!” He then disappeared into the confines of his bedroom and slammed the door. I was sure I could hear him barricading himself in there, piling his innumerable books against the door. We had no callers.

Then again, on days when we
did
have visitors, they were strange ones. Holmes would often beg use of the sitting room, preferring to send me to a teashop or Regent’s Park, rather than allow me to sequester myself in my room. I would not have minded so much if these visits had not come at all hours and without warning. There was a little old lady from Dorset who came with the dawn one Saturday. A few dock workers stopped by over the next days. We had numerous visits from a peculiar little man named Lestrade—a Romanian fellow, judging by his accent. He was in his mid-fifties, beady of eye, pale and hunched. He was one of those who had a complaint for every occasion and seemed even less able to abide sunlight than Holmes.

My first overt clue as to Holmes’s true nature came two weeks after we’d moved in, the day he sprang from his room, interrupting me in the middle of my luncheon.

“Watson! What a fine day, don’t you think?”

I agreed that it was, despite the drizzle I could see through the window. He seemed not to hear me at all. Instead, he grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet, suggesting, “How about a walk in the park?”

“What? Now?” I asked, as he dragged me towards the door.

“Gods, yes! Right now!”

“What about lunch?”

“It can wait,” he said, handing me my hat and walking stick. Only as he was pushing me out into the hallway did I realize that he had not dressed himself for an excursion.

“Are you not coming?” I stammered.

“Oh, I’ve seen the park before,” he answered, gazing distractedly over his shoulder. “You’ll tell me if anything has changed, won’t you?”

Suddenly the quiet was shattered by a beastly roar, from the direction of Holmes’s bedroom.

“Ah! Damn! Enjoy the park, Watson!” he cried and pushed me bodily into the hall. The door slammed behind me. I had no intention of allowing the situation to pass unexplained, so I reached for the door handle to let myself back in. It burned me! Somehow, it had been heated to the point where it was unbearable to touch, even with gloves. From behind the door, Holmes yelled, “Be gone! You are unwelcome here!”

“But… I live here!”

“Not you, Watson, obviously,” Holmes answered. “Best run along to the park though, eh? Don’t want to miss the… er… pigeons or whatever.”

Anything else he might have said was drowned out by a second hellish roar and the thud of heavy footfalls. Whatever company Holmes had, it possessed the voice of a lion and the grace of a rhinoceros. I banged upon the door and demanded to know what was going on in there, but was ignored. At last, lost for better options, I huffed my annoyance and left, ignoring the sounds of battle behind me. I allowed myself the expense of a paper from the boy at the corner and a cup of tea at a nearby café.

When I returned, an hour and a half later, I found Holmes contrite and welcoming. He asked as to the state of the park and I told him I had elected to go to a café instead. He said that sounded pleasant. I could not help but notice that half his face was bruised and swollen and that he seemed to have developed a limp. Our dining table had fared little better; one leg was broken and had been clumsily glued back together. The wastepaper basket was full of the remains of my lunch and the shards of the plate that had held it. On the table lay an ineptly prepared replacement lunch at which Holmes fired occasional nervous glances, hoping, no doubt, that I would fail to realize this was not the original.

“Holmes, what has happened here?” I demanded.

Sheepishly, he mumbled, “Look now, Watson, I think both of us would be happier if you could develop the habit of ignoring these little occurrences, eh? I shall replace anything that is damaged. I shall make things right, I promise. These matters are… private.”

I hope you will not think less of me, dear reader, but I took his advice to heart. I buried myself in purposeful ignorance and did my utmost to ignore these oddities and outbursts. In this, I was merely displaying the common human reaction to unbelievable events, which is—just as the phrase implies—not to believe them. I did my best to carry on as if they had not occurred. And besides, was it not in my best interest to deny these perils? My clearest alternative to living at 221B Baker Street was to live in the gutter, just outside. My petty debts were almost cleared (notwithstanding the single sovereign I still owed Holmes) which engendered in me a love of this new situation, which no amount of domestic peculiarity could eradicate.

Indeed, my chief nemesis in those days was not Holmes, but our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She was a tough old spinster, as advanced in age as she was regressed in height and interpersonal skills. She had the eyes of a weasel, the heart of a shrew and a scowl to rival any of the grand inquisitors who had so troubled Spain in the 1400s. She stood at about four foot nothing, in battered pink house slippers. Several times, as I prepared to leave our rooms, I would sweep the door open only to find her standing there, waiting to assault anybody who appeared with her disapproving stare, as if they had just done something unspeakable. What this crime against her sensibilities might be, I could not guess. Nor could I imagine how long she must have stood there, her nose all but touching the door, just waiting for someone to scowl at. Sometimes I feared she might have been there for days. I think she must have been a very lonely person. The only things she had for company were the hundreds—or perhaps thousands—of French romance novels she inexpertly concealed about the house. There was nothing
romantic
about them, merely biological. In fact, these books contained such a highly refined brand of smut as to render them illegal in each and every civilized country.

Such was our hatred and fear of this hovering dwarf that Holmes and I formed a silent accord to release Mrs. Hudson from her contractual obligation to provide us with meals. Instead—at my direction and Holmes’s expense—we built the little alcove beside the dining area into a proper pantry, jammed with cupboards, an icebox and a preparation table. The fireplace had a pivoting crane, from which we could hang a kettle, a pan, a pot, or even a grill, if needed. Usually though, Holmes’s toast racks had pride of place.

It was a damned inconvenient way to get sustenance, yet infinitely preferable to dealing with Mrs. Hudson. We limited our reliance on her to the washing-up of dirty dishes. We would pile our used settings on a tray and leave this on the landing, outside our door. Occasionally, we would peep out and find that they had disappeared, or that they had been returned to us washed and quite often broken, out of sheer spite.