Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine

by G. S. Denning

  If Beppo was slightly taken aback I think none of us could blame him. Then again, we also could not fault his courage for, after reeling back in surprise for only an instant, he raised the hammer above his head and shrieked a battle cry. He came at Holmes with that mixture of fear and ferocity that only a true savage can muster. Holmes dropped into a low crouch, sword at the ready, which allowed me to catch up and come between the two combatants. My hands feverishly searched my pockets for my alternate solution. One hand closed around it—my only chance.

  Well… Beppo’s only chance.

  I pulled it free from my coat pocket and shouted, “Wait, Beppo, wait! Look! Apple, Beppo? Apple?”

  Beppo’s gaze swung my way, then doubtfully back to Holmes…

  And then to me!

  Because really, given the choice between certain death at the hands of a flaming soul-blade and a nice, fresh apple, which of us wouldn’t take the apple? He knuckle-walked cautiously over to me and held out his hand.

  “Here you go, Beppo. Good job!”

  He took the apple, gave it a skeptical sniff, then an exploratory bite. Finding it just what he’d hoped, he gave me his battered wooden hammer, still filthy with smashed plaster and the dried remains of Pietro Venucci’s scalp. With both hands free for his new task, Beppo began to devour the apple, turning it round in circles as he chomped, until only a core remained. This, he tossed over his shoulder into the smashed remains of the great French emperor.

  “Awwwwww,” said Holmes. “Cute little fellow, isn’t he?” Then, with just a hint of guilt, added, “Ves, Melfrizoth,” and the burning blade vanished from his hand.

  I turned to find Lestrade standing dead still in the middle of the street, his fang-lined maw hanging open in disappointment and disbelief.

  “Dead ape within five seconds of the initial challenge, wasn’t it?” I said. “I believe that’s ten pounds you owe me.” A light tug at the hem of my coat caused me to turn back. “What’s that, Beppo? Oh, you think I’ve got more, do you? Well you just may be right. Come along, now.”

  * * *

  This narrative would be incomplete, I suppose, without a word as to the final fate of Beppo the chimp. Scotland Yard held him for a time on suspicion of the murder of Pietro Venucci—and not without reason. If the circumstances were not damning enough, there was the matter of the murder weapon, retrieved by Inspector Lestrade from the hand of Beppo himself (or so we told them). There was also some question as to whether he was wanted by the French authorities regarding some unpleasantness on the rue Morgue.

  Then again, the British legal system had little precedent for trying apes. To our more conservative judges, such an idea was distasteful—nearly an admission that Charles Darwin had been right all along. Besides, Venucci had been a known killer and had been found in possession of Beppo’s picture, as well as a knife. Who was to say the little fellow’s actions had not been mere self-preservation? He was held in custody, in the hopes that Benito Marinetti would come out of hiding to claim him. No such luck. Mr. Marinetti was never found and I fear some evil may have come to him. Nevertheless, the Marinetti family eventually did come for their grandfather’s trusted helper, Beppo. And I was forced to make an apology. It seems that—as he was born in a circus just outside Venice—Beppo technically was an Italian.

  But still…

  The next morning, William Sandeford arrived on the 10:15, bearing a carpet bag containing the final bust. Holmes, Lestrade and I were all on hand to greet him. He was a red-faced, grizzle-whiskered old man who chewed his moustache with nervous apprehension as he stepped through our door.

  “I had your telegram,” he cried, despite the fact we were four feet from him, “and I don’t know why any man’s so keen to steal a thing like this! Nor do I know why it’s worth ten pound to you! But I don’t care! Ten pound is ten pound and that’s the heart of the matter!”

  I don’t think Mr. Sandeford was deaf, but it seems as if he assumed the three of us were. The sheer volume with which he conducted business had us wincing.

  “Now I don’t know where the church stands on the matter, so I tell you straight,” he continued, “this Napoleon’s not worth ten pound! I put it to you gentlemen: is it a sin to take ten pound for a statue that’s not worth ten shilling? I don’t want it weighing on my soul!”

  “No, no, Mr. Sandeford,” I protested, “we think the price is fair. We do not want just any bust of Napoleon; we want this one. We are happy to compensate you for your good fortune to have acquired it in the first place and for your good stewardship while it was in your care. I am sure the church would have no objection.”

  “Well… as long as you’re sure it’s no foul deed…”

  “Not at all, Mr. Sandeford.”

  “All right, then!”

  “Excellent! I have a contract drawn up right here, if you would be so kind as to—”

  As I spoke, Mr. Sandeford reached inside his bag, withdrew the bust and put it on our table. And my words… they just… stopped.

  Everything stopped.

  Holmes recoiled from the thing, his face a mask of amazement. Even Lestrade stared distrustfully at the statue.

  On the one hand, there was nothing wrong with it. It was only a cheap plaster-of-Paris bust of Napoleon. And yet… I had never before stood in the presence of such an aura of command. Honestly, I think the three of us were waiting for orders. The little emperor’s stern countenance stared up at us, as if demanding our obedience. And I’m sure we would have given it. If he’d ordered us to charge Wellington’s batteries at Waterloo, we’d have done it. If he’d ordered us to turn and kill each other, we’d have done that, too. Perhaps Holmes could have withstood the influence, but Lestrade and I were mastered the second we looked at it.

  Holmes gave a low whistle. “This is… not as we expected.”

  “No,” I agreed.

  Slowly Holmes’s hand moved to the contract of sale I had drawn up. As I considered it likely the bust contained an item of extreme value—albeit an illegally obtained one Mr. Sandeford had no right to keep—I had been careful to phrase it in such a way that the seller released all interest in the bust and its contents.

  “I think I’ll just be making a few changes to this contract, Mr. Sandeford,” Holmes said. “For safety’s sake. Firstly, you shall not be selling this to Watson, but to me. Second, I will not give you ten pounds in notes, as in essence, a promissory note is nothing more than a stranger’s promise to deliver value if ever you should present him this note. No. In matters of magi—er… in matters such as these, ownership is too important. I must pay you in metal. I trust ten guineas is acceptable?”

  “Well, certainly!”

  “Very good, Mr. Sandeford.” Holmes leaned in to make the necessary changes to the contract. As he did, he sighed, “And yet… here where it asks you to sign your name… I don’t suppose you know your true name, do you?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I do!”

  “No, no. Not the name you gave us. Nor the name your mother gave you. It would be only a few syllables long, but would proclaim everything you are and everything you have done to any who heard it. Well… any who know of such things.”

  “What are you talking about? Secret names?”

  “We all have one, Mr. Sandeford.”

  “Well, what’s yours then?”

  Holmes straightened up. “My name,” he said, in even, factual tones, “is Warlock Holmes. And if I am one of only a handful of beings in this world who goes about using its true name to conduct its daily business, it is only because I know I have naught to fear.” But his eyes drifted from Mr. Sandeford to the bust, and he added, “Generally. In any case, Mr. Sandeford, I’m afraid a standard signature simply will not do. I need a mark that represents the very essence of you. Earwax, I think. Yes, just dip your finger in your ear and leave a little dollop on this line, here. That should suffice.”

  “Are you mad?” our guest demanded.

  “Many say so,” replied Hol
mes, with a sigh. “Look, I know it’s an unusual request. Perhaps if I were to change this figure here to fifteen guineas…?”

  William Sandeford stuck his little finger in his ear so fast I feared he might puncture his brain. As soon as he’d made his disgusting yellow smear on the line indicated, Holmes gave a great sigh of relief, wrote his name on the line below, said, “Excuse me for a moment,” and went to his room. He returned with a handful of gleaming coins.

  “It’s practically a fortune!” Sandeford declared, looking down at his newfound wealth.

  We bid him adieu, then stood around the statue, staring. Two of us dumbstruck. One curious.

  “What was your plan now, Watson?” Holmes asked.

  “Well, I was going to smash the thing open. But that was before. Now that I see it, perhaps… um… perhaps another plan is warranted.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Holmes. “I find you usually know best.”

  He went to the fireplace, swept up our poker, and with a single blow he smote Napoleon’s head in twain. Plaster dust filled the air. I nearly cried out in dismay, but then a kind of invisible veil fell away from my wits and I found I had no desire to continue. There, amongst the white shards, a small black item caught my eye. Gathering my self-mastery, I strode forward and picked it up, declaring, “Gentlemen, behold: the Black Pearl of the B—”

  But it wasn’t.

  In fact, besides color, the item in my hand had nothing in common with the item I’d expected. In my hand lay a tiny bundle of black iron sticks, bound together with wires of the same material. I blinked at it. There was no question it was the source of the power we’d felt earlier.

  “Watson!” Holmes cried. “Put that down! Do not do anything else. Especially, do not say anything else. Remember: that belongs to me.”

  Slowly, I dropped the object on the table. It fell with a dead, metallic clunk. As I drew back, I dazedly reflected, “I know this thing… Holmes, you used to draw it, remember? You drew it all up your arm once.”

  “I did,” he confirmed, lifting up the tiny totem. “And now here it is in my possession… in my home…”

  As he walked into his bedroom, I heard him add, “Damn it all.” He closed the door behind him without a word of explanation.

  A month before, I would have been furious. But that day, I could only smile. Go on, Holmes, keep your secrets. I don’t need to beg knowledge from you anymore. I have my own methods now. How I looked forward to that evening’s dream. How I craved the next revelation.

  Or maybe I just wanted that needle in my arm.

  THE DEVIL AND THE NEOPHYTE

  FROM THE DREAM JOURNAL OF DR. JOHN WATSON

  THE LOUDEST THING THERE IS, ACCORDING TO PEOPLE who claim to have heard it, is the voice of God. It will carry across continents, with a force that cannot be disobeyed; when God speaks, all must hear.

  Not so the devil. In fact, the devil does not speak at all.

  The devil sings.

  And not intrusively. If you’ve ever heard the devil’s song, it is because you wished to. The devil sings soft. Slow.

  Adagio.

  The wisest thing is not to listen. Yet those who choose to chance their soul should heed, at least, this warning: listen well.

  Tonight I’m going to hear the devil. For the first time, my dream is infused with a special urgency. This is happening right now. It is nearly four in the morning in London, where my body lies in tussled sheets in 221B, its heart beating feebly. That makes it almost nine at night in Deadwood—too early an hour for real mischief, but a perfect time to start it. And just the spot—the Gem Saloon.

  The air is full of smoke and sweat. It’s a rainy night and people come in shaking water from their collars and hats. It’s as crowded as it gets. Anyone who wants a drink is gonna have to wait a spell. But that doesn’t matter. Nobody would miss the show tonight. There’s a special treat—a singer come all the way from Olde London Towne. And the word is: she’s a real corker!

  In the back corner sits a man, alone at a table. He’s well dressed, in as much as any American ever is, in a dark gray suit with less fluting than his countrymen generally glue on to their jackets. His waistcoat is black and the carnation in his buttonhole is purest white. He has one of those grand, sweeping moustaches they wear out West, but instead of a Stetson he wears a gray bowler, to make him look more continental.

  It isn’t working; he looks like a gunfighter.

  Which is apt, because he is one. This is a man accustomed to taking life and to risking his own. He was a bad man once, though now reformed. He has only one small revolver on his person, and in his pocket is a wallet with a badge: an all-seeing eye, above the words “We Never Sleep”. He’s a Pinkerton detective. And he’s here tonight to work.

  He’s just not sure what kind of work it will be.

  He checks his pocket watch. Nine exactly. Near the stage there is a muted clamor in the audience, a whispered debate as to whether the show has started. Then the room falls quiet.

  But not silent.

  There is one sound. A single note. Hovering pure and sweet, just at the edge of hearing. It is only one human voice, yet with an almost inhuman quality. So small a thing to command so large a room. You have to strain to hear it.

  If you’ve ever heard the devil’s song, it is because you wished to.

  The tattered red curtain rattles open, and there she is: my murderess. The Woman. Irene Adler. The light plays on her simple white dress and her outstretched arms. Her eyes are closed as she pours herself forward into that one quiet note. Her accompanist shakes himself from his trance, leans over his battered piano and plays a few chords of introduction. Poor fool, he’s well out of his depth. And he’s not the only one. As Irene launches into her song—an Italian ode to the silent swan who sings only once, as she knows herself to be dying—the Pinkerton man sits frozen at the back, a glass of whiskey halfway to his lips.

  This is his foe?

  She’s just like in the briefings, in a way. The old man himself, Allan Pinkerton, took him aside before he left, to urge him to remember the importance of his mission and the excellence of his opponent. They taught him all about her. And yet they did not prepare him.

  He’s been told that she is foremost a mastermind—both at a strategic and tactical level—always two moves ahead. Her second level of significance is as a sorcerer. They think. The level of art she possesses is unclear, but as she grew up as a ward of James Moriarty, she is to be treated as if she were amongst the world’s most dangerous practitioners of the magical arts. Third: she is a beauty. And she knows it. She dominates with it. Fourth: she is a singer. As the agent sits with his mouth just slightly open, listening to Irene Adler leap from one note to land daintily, perfectly at the next…

  By God, if this is the fourth best thing she does…

  Her green eyes are open now. She is smiling out at the audience as if to say, I’m so glad you all came here tonight, to give your hearts and wills to me.

  Can she be beaten? The agent swallows his whiskey. He’s going to try. He’s going to put his life on the line again, tonight. It’s going to be a close-run thing, but she has something the old man wants. Two things, if intelligence is to be believed: the Heart and the Cruciator. In short, should things go badly for him this evening, they could go very badly indeed.

  She sees him sitting at the back of the room and gives him a shy smile. What a lie! Irene Adler? Shy? I know her well enough to realize it’s not even a real smile; it is an opening move—an invitation to her foe to come and play against her. I wonder how the game will go.

  But the dream is shifting me away. Why? Damn it, why?

  This is all I want to see: her. And I suppose I even want to see him. Or, no. To be him. He’s about to cross swords with the foe I most cherish, to enter into that dance of tricks and lies and—damn it—probably seduction that forms the most addictive game I know. Why can’t I play?

  Why is she so far from me?

  * * *

&nbs
p; Now I’m looking at a youth, not even twenty. He has a shock of forgettable brown hair over a splash of freckles. His clothes are more suited to the age of Elizabeth than Victoria. He’s holding a candle in one hand and a broken feather in the other. With careful purpose, he holds the feather above the candle. As the air fills with the stink of singed barbules, he says, “Demon, I have done your bidding.”

  He’s not talking to anybody, just a shadow on the wall.

  Though… it is a bit of a deep, palpable, twisting shadow, if I’m honest. From the empty corners of the room comes a voice—soft and distant and audibly displeased.

  “Not to my satisfaction.”

  “I care nothing for your satisfaction,” scoffs the youth. “I have fulfilled the word of our contract, if not your intent. Now I claim my fee: I will live the life of another being. And then, when that is over, I shall return to the life that is mine, having lost no moment of it.”

  “But you have not helped me,” the voice insists. “I cannot long endure upon this world.”

  “And from what I gather,” says the young man, with a smirk, “that time will be even shorter if you try to withhold payment. I have done my part and I now demand my due!”

  The demon is quiet a moment. “Very well. I shall render first the payment I would have given, had you pleased me…”

  And the world shifts and skews. The young man and I are swept away, into the body of another living thing. We have no power to control its actions, but we feel as if we are the creature; we think its thoughts.

  The world is a deep, brown haze. A stretchy membrane contains me and I begin pushing against it. It gives way. I am climbing free—free from my shell and the mud that cradled it—out into the light. As I stand, dazed and stupid, letting my newborn eyes accustom themselves to the new input of sight, instinct takes over and I spread my wings in the sun. They are wrinkled and weak, but as they dry they stiffen. My six legs can move me back and forth along the surface of the mud. I hardly even notice when my wings begin to vibrate, then to beat. I’m flying! Up into the air—a clumsy circle, then back down. Around me, more and more of my fellows are emerging.