Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (32 page)

I had decided I could make more progress with friendship than with threat. Let Milverton fear Holmes; in me he would find a helpful voice. “I have never heard of such a thing,” I said. “It must be a rare gift, indeed. Can you change your own destiny, I wonder?”

“Every man can, Dr. Watson.”

“How very droll. Can no one resist your tampering, Mr. Milverton? Even a fellow such as Holmes: could you work upon him?”

“Ha! Let me tell you something about your friend, Dr. Watson: the man is a mess. His destiny—his soul as you would call it—is one big knot. He has tangled himself with countless others in loops more intricate and more intimate than ever he should have. He is bound and bound again and has no power to unwind himself from some of his less welcome company, no matter how he might struggle. Oh yes, I can work upon Holmes’s destiny, Dr. Watson. I may be the only man who can. Holmes himself is quite helpless to disentangle himself as I could do!”

He said it with a zeal so severe that I knew him to be attempting to comfort himself with it. I decided to hurry even less with the coffee and let him endure Holmes’s green gaze a little longer. Yet this was not to be, for suddenly a deep, terrible voice burst from Holmes, shouting, “
Rache!
”

I nearly dropped the coffee pot in the fire. I could hear Milverton cry out in surprise. I spun round towards Holmes, to hear what Moriarty would say.

“
Rache! He that holds a hammer and will not strike away my chains—he is as good as my jailer! Charles’s August has been long. He sows and sows, yet never reaps. Now, his harvest is nearing. That which he has grown shall be brought in to him at last. The crop is bitter; he will not taste it long. Rache!
”

Holmes fell silent and slumped to one side. For a moment I thought Milverton was going to fall over as well, in a dead faint. His lips moved ineffectually at first, then he gasped, “That… that’s him, isn’t it?”

“Him?” I said, feigning innocence. “Oh! Moriarty? Yes, that’s him. I had quite forgotten you knew him. Yes, now I recall: Holmes said you used to be one of his minions, I think.”

“Never!” Milverton cried. “No! Eleven thousand! For saying such a thing, Lady Eva’s account stands at eleven thousand!”

“You
didn’t
work for Moriarty?” I asked. “Well then, how do you know him?”

“I worked for him. I mean, I performed some work for him. But he came to me and hired me, you know, I was never one of his dogs. Let it be remembered: He came to me because I could do what he could not—even he, the great Moriarty—and he gave me gold in recognition of my skills.”

“Well, that is high praise,” I said. “The Moriarty I know never seems to give anything but ill news.”

“Yes, he is greatly changed from when I knew him,” Milverton said, then broke out in a nervous laugh. “But then, I suppose it’s what he was known for. Step before Moriarty and you never knew exactly what sort of creature you’d be facing. As one body wore out, he’d find another. Change was his hallmark; the only constants were intelligence and malevolence.”

Milverton had grown visibly pale, even through his orange skin treatment. I took the opportunity to say, “Of course you must know that my sympathy lies with Holmes and Lady Eva, so you will no doubt take my advice with a grain of salt. Still, I must say, these seem to be deep and dangerous waters, do they not? Might it be wiser to close Lady Eva’s account and leave this matter behind you?”

“No! I cannot be seen to falter. I cannot let it be known that my net was ever escaped or my future clients will know there is hope.”

“Yet what do you gain by hurting her? If nothing else, take the two thousand and let her go. Two thousand pounds in exchange for doing nothing? They are high wages, don’t you think?”

“It’s worth two thousand to me to see her fall. Let everybody see it. The more that is known of her fate, the more my next client will fear me.”

“What a thing to say, Mr. Milverton! She has done nothing to deserve such treatment, has she?”

“She has! She has made bold to walk in circles high above her station. She was fool enough to hire a maid who sold me a lock of her hair for a mere five pounds. Ha! She who aims so high should have more caution, don’t you think? Twelve thousand pounds, now! Twelve, for her folly!”

“Really, Mr. Milverton! If you go on like this for much longer, the queen herself would be unable to raise your fee.”

“And yet we know Holmes, don’t we?” Milverton asked. “We know he has ways of
making money
.”

At this, Milverton stood up and fished around in his pocket for a moment. He withdrew a bar of lead, cast it upon our side table and muttered, “He knows my mind. I’ve plenty more of these when he’s ready. If Holmes wants to free his pretty little debutante, he can call on me whenever he’s willing to be reasonable. Now good night, sir.”

“Are you not staying for coffee?” I asked. “I made it just for you.”

“I won’t! I am leaving!”

I tutted at him. Any man who does business in London knows there are certain crimes that are unforgivable. Amongst them is asking for a refreshment and leaving before it is ready. Milverton turned back to me, saying, “Take a hundred, then, for your undrunk coffee. That’s something, eh? Eleven thousand, nine hundred and Lady Eva can thank you however she will for selling a cup of coffee so dear.”

He slammed our door, scurried down the stairs and was gone. Holmes lay half-conscious on the sofa and resisted my attempts to move him. As the hour was late, I simply threw a blanket over him and went to bed myself.

* * *

I awoke just after seven the next morning to the sound of Holmes puttering about the fireplace.

“Good morning,” I said, walking into our sitting room.

“Hmm,” said he and went back to organizing his toast racks. A few minutes later he muttered, “I’m not very clear on the events of last night.”

I barely heard him—he said it as if reflecting to himself, but I realized he was awaiting an answer.

“Well, Moriarty had a few thoughts to add to the debate and after that you were somewhat insensible.”

“That explains it. Was Milverton as glad to see his old master as Moran was?”

“Rather not!” I laughed. “He practically fled the place. I tell you, Holmes, I cannot fathom why you are so afraid of Milverton. I don’t know if you realize it, but he is perfectly terrified of you.”

“It makes sense.” Holmes shrugged. “I nearly killed him, once. He knows I could end him in an instant. I know he has taken precautions. That’s why we’re so afraid of one another. The little bugger has bound his soul to me! Can you imagine, Watson? I have every reason to believe that when Milverton’s soul flees—or his destiny comes to an end, as he would say—it will tug on some aspects of my own, ere it flies. I shall lose some very important connections and it wouldn’t surprise me if I gain a few unsavory ones as well. Even if he should die of old age, I will suffer for it. Oh, I fear the day he walks into the street without looking both ways. But, enough of such concerns—what is the state of our negotiation, Watson? Did you manage to out-think him?”

“I fear not. In fact, Miss Blackwell’s account now stands at eleven thousand, nine hundred pounds.”

“Eh? What happened?”

“He was once defied, once affrighted, twice offended and then purchased an overpriced coffee. I am sure we must treat with him again before the matter is brought to a conclusion. If we achieved anything last night, it was only to weaken his resolve and introduce greater elements of fear and doubt into his thinking.”

“Ugh,” Holmes grunted. “I would rather be done with the man.”

He went back to his toast racks and I to find the morning paper, but a sudden remembrance from the night before caused me to tarry.

“You know, there was one small thing…”

“What was that?”

“I found out how he gained his influence over Eva Blackwell.”

In an instant, Holmes was upon me. He clasped me by the front of my dressing gown and shook me, demanding, “How? How does he do it, Watson?”

“He has a lock of her hair,” I told him, struggling ineffectually to free my collar from his grasp. “He bribed her maid.”

Holmes released me and began to pace. “Now we have something, Watson! Now we have something! So… he needs a token then… Is he making an effigy? Does he need the materials as ingredients for his spell or… By the gods! Does he cast the spell
upon the hair itself
? Are these tokens of his victims the medium that holds his enchantment? Are they like some form of phylactery? Oh, let it be so, Watson! Let it be so!”

“Why?” I asked.

Holmes turned to me and, in the tone a philosopher might use to address a moron, “Because if I could destroy his phylactery, I could break his spell! Don’t you see? If I find out what he’s done with Lady Blackwell’s hair and burn it, his power over her is gone. More to the point, Watson, if I find he has a phylactery for me…”

“Oh! You could free yourself of his influence?”

“I could unwind that little blighter from my soul! I could live free of fear of what would happen to me if he should come to harm. What a relief that would be, Watson! Gods, it would be hard to keep from killing him on the spot, just to celebrate!”

“Holmes!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t, of course. I’m just saying, Watson… Oh, what I wouldn’t give! Bless you, John; this is the first ray of hope I’ve had in a long time. I have so much to do now. So much to do…”

He ran to his bedroom and busied himself, clattering around with his poisons and shifting noisily through his closet. I made myself breakfast and settled in with
The Times
. I had just decided on a second cup of tea when he re-emerged. He was dressed exactly as a music hall comedian might portray a tramp. He wore an oversized coat of a garish color, patched and re-patched with theatrical abandon. One trouser leg was shorter than the other. He had attached a grand moustache that cleared his face by a good six inches on either side. He grinned at his own artfulness and showed me three gaps where his teeth were missing.

“Behold!” he cried.

“What… what am I beholding?” I asked.

“A clever disguise, of course. Dressed as a common Irish working man, I shall seek employment in Milverton’s household, infiltrate and find where the villain keeps his phylacteries!”

“No, you won’t,” I laughed.

“Why not?”

“Because you look like a clown, Holmes! You will be spotted in an instant.”

“I worked very hard on this disguise.”

“Well, I can see that,” I said. “There are elements which are quite ingenious. How did you do the teeth?”

“Ha! The simplest illusion, Watson. I merely knocked them out with an ink blotter.”

“You
what
?”

“They’re on my desk. I’ll put them back when I’m done. Really, this is a foolproof plan, Watson, you shall see.”

“Don’t go out like that, Holmes.”

“I will.”

“No. You’re going to be caught. Let me help you.”

But Holmes was too proud and too sure of his plan to let me interfere with it. He cast one hand towards the ground, shouting, “Escape gas!” There was a muffled boom and our sitting room filled with dense black and purple smoke. I coughed and spluttered, groped about for the window latch that I might vent the foul stuff. By the time I had cleared the air enough to see, Holmes was gone.

* * *

It was dark ere I saw him again. I had gone to the library and withdrawn the only two books I could find that concerned phylacteries in any context other than as a Jewish prayer box. The first book was useless; the second was interesting, yet they both laughed such creations off as quaint tribal superstitions. I was two-thirds of the way through the better volume when the apartment door swung open and Holmes stumbled in. He was spattered with mud. Half his mustache had been burned away and he stared about in utter confusion. Finally he announced, “Hello. I live here.”

“You do,” I confirmed. “How did the plan go, Holmes?”

“Ah! An unqualified success! Yes. It exceeded my every expectation.”

“So you know what Charles Milverton is doing with his ill-gotten hair samples?”

“Oh… no. Better than that! I am engaged to be married to his housekeeper.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“We are in love.”

I looked him up and down. Even for Holmes—the most easily distracted man I ever met—this was quite an unexpected departure from his plan. I asked, “Who is this girl? Had you even met her before today?”

“I have not met her at all,” Holmes said. “Yet, the importance of such trifles is greatly overestimated. I know all I need to know. Her name is Agatha and she is venerable.”

“Venerable? That just means… old.”

“Ye gods, Watson, it means so much more than that! It means that she has persevered in the face of nine murderous decades. Though time has robbed her of one leg and the vast majority of her teeth, still she refuses to surrender. Like a treasured heirloom, she has been passed from one generation of Milvertons to the next. And why not? On any given day, one can find her down on her one remaining knee, scrubbing Milverton’s floor, turning in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

“That’s all very admirable, Holmes, but you still have not provided me with an explanation as to why you should be so smitten with her—sight unseen—as to seek a betrothal.”

“Well, I am not the only one,” he said with a defensive sniff. “The court of popular opinion has already ruled on the subject and agreed with me entirely. She has seven husbands and three wives already and I fail to see how all ten of them could be wrong, eh?”

“Ah ha! Now we have hit on something, I think,” said I. “Tell me, did you run into Charles Augustus Milverton today?”

“Er… yes, he intercepted me shortly after I got to his house. He says he’s worked some fitting punishment for me, but the joke is on him for I made my escape free and clear and became engaged to his housekeeper.”

I folded the book in my lap and took a deep breath. I knew my next words might fall heavily on my lovestruck friend. “Do you think it might be possible that, when Milverton wants revenge on some fellow who has inconvenienced him, he binds that person’s soul to the soul of his aged housekeeper? Might that not have happened before?
Ten times
before? Might you be the eleventh such person to be caught and treated thus?”