Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine

by G. S. Denning

  “Poor is the mind that thinks its wisdom wards off folly. Brothers are they. When one grows great, so too the other. Wise men make the greatest fools. All his life, this one has laid out traps, and now gasps to find his foot in one! Rache! Rache! Justice comes upon the wicked!”

  And that voice, I know. I have several times heard it from the lips of Warlock Holmes, when he was host to James Moriarty. What a strange partnership it must have been. Like a nesting doll. The essence of a prophecy demon, trapped within that of James Moriarty, trapped within Holmes. Until the moment when Irene Adler’s bullets and Charles Augustus Milverton’s arts had set all free.

  Moriarty doesn’t tolerate the creature’s departure any better than Holmes did. As soon as the voice is gone, he sags forward, just catching himself by bracing two of his arms against the nightstand. In the non-prophetic voice of his new body, he mutters, “Damn.”

  What is that? A knock at the door? I can hardly tell. The dream is shifting. Yes, I think there is another man here. He’s telling Moriarty something, but I can’t hear what. Something unwelcome, that much is clear. Moriarty’s face is pure rage. Adler rocks forward in his bed and cries, “I knew this would happen to her! I knew it!”

  “Careful, Adler! Your heart!” says the demon Moriarty.

  “You told me you wouldn’t let it happen! You promised!”

  “Careful, I said! Calm yourself!”

  But it’s too late. The old man’s face twists. A sweat breaks across his brow.

  And the dream shifts.

  * * *

  It must once have been a ballroom in that same hotel. It’s a throne room, now. And upon that throne, on a raised dais, sits the demon Moriarty.

  Looking rather put out.

  Behind him stands Irene Adler. Younger than I’ve ever seen her, not yet twenty. Her face is bruised and puffy. She looks angry. Hurt, embarrassed, ashamed, but mostly just angry.

  Three men drag a prisoner before the demon. I know one of them—Moriarty’s short little killer, Sebastian Moran. Moran kicks his prisoner in the back of the leg, to help the other two force him to his knees.

  The demon Moriarty issues an annoyed, paternalistic sigh. “Clifford McCloe, I thought I had been quite clear.”

  The prisoner looks up, but his eyes do not seek Moriarty’s. They look for Irene’s. There is desperation there, and hurt. There is apology—and I think it’s sincere, but it’s not enough. A fool can see he’s in love with her, and just as clearly, she does not feel the same about him. It’s not hard to see what’s happened: Clifford McCloe has found himself in one of animal-kind’s oldest troubles: unrequited love. And he has elected to deal with the situation in animal-kind’s oldest, cruelest, most wrong-handed way. He tried to force himself on her. He nearly managed it, too. If it had been anybody less willful, less able than Irene…

  But no. The suffusion of bruises that cover the two of them testify to how poorly Clifford McCloe chose his prey. He gives Moriarty a one-sided smile. “Come on, boss. I made a mistake. How about a little mercy, eh?”

  “Why should the master show mercy, when his man shows none?”

  “But think about all we done together! Think about how much more we could do!”

  “Oh, I am thinking of it. It is particularly irksome. You, Adler and Moran were my most trusted compatriots. Your foolish actions have cost me two of my three lieutenants, this day!”

  The general murmur of confusion and the sudden look of fear that flickers across McCloe’s face remind Moriarty that nobody else yet knows what has passed in the toymaker’s room. Moriarty leans towards Irene and adds another layer of loss to the worst day of her life.

  “It’s your grandfather, I fear. He took the news rather poorly.”

  Shock crosses her features, but only for a moment. The next instant it is chased aside by a look of redoubled fury at Clifford McCloe.

  “Don’t worry, my child,” says the demon Moriarty. “First I shall deal with this one. Then we shall find a way to put things right.”

  “No,” she says, with a firmness nobody else in this room would dare use against the thing in the throne. “I’m leaving.”

  And there’s just a flicker in those otherworldly eyes of Moriarty’s. A thing I did not expect to see. Pain. In as much as he cares about anything besides himself, this is how he can be hurt. Today, his family—such as it is—has suffered.

  He could forbid Irene to go, of course. But he does not. “Very well. Jenkins will give you funds for your travels. And…” He pauses. There’s that pain again, deep and raw. “You may take one item from the vault. Do not tell me what it is; I do not wish to know.”

  Irene Adler licks her swollen lips. She hadn’t expected her chance to come this way, but she’s damned if she’s going to let it slip by. She was supposed to be a daughter to these men of vice. That’s what makes McCloe’s trespass so vile, even in the eyes of these assembled murderers and thieves. She was the heart of the gang. And that’s exactly what she’s going to take: The Heart. The next time Moriarty enters that vault, he’ll know. And that is the day Irene Adler is going to have to start running.

  Actually… no. Today is the day she’s going to have to start running. She’ll need the head start.

  Moriarty turns his gaze back to the man who kneels before him. “The creature whose body I inhabit has an irksome love of justice,” he says. “Its failures today, as well as your own, have disposed me to show it some.”

  He raises his eyes to McCloe’s captors. “Bring him to the workshop. Moran, I think I shall require your assistance. Fetch the Ephronian Cube.”

  “The cube? That’s one of Adler’s toys, boss.”

  “And yet Herr Adler finds himself in no condition to be helpful. Come along, Moran. I’ll show you what to do.”

  And so they go their separate ways. Irene to the vault. Moriarty, Moran and McCloe to the workshop. Moran locks the doors. If any of Moriarty’s gang had anything they’d intended to accomplish today, well, it’s going to have to wait. They crowd around the workshop doors, listening.

  It’s a long time before the screaming starts, and it doesn’t go on as long as any of them expected. There is silence within, then the sound of muted voices. The doors open. Moran steps out, then locks up again.

  “Hey, what’s—”

  But Moran waves the question aside and walks away.

  From within the workshop, more silence. Then the sound of Clifford McCloe’s voice. “Hmm, hmmmmm, hmmmmmmmmm. Mum, mum, mummmmmmmmm. Now, let’s see… The luscious ladies of Lindholm laugh with languid lips. No… not quite… The luscious ladies of Lindholm laugh with languid lips. Well… it will pass.”

  The door opens again and McCloe steps out. There’s hardly a mark on him—just a little smear of blood at the inside corner of each eye. The gang stands, aghast. Finally, one of them thinks to ask, “What’d they do to you, Cliff?”

  The bloody eyes turn to him. “That is not my name. There is no such thing as a man named Clifford McCloe. Do you understand?”

  “Boss?”

  But the creature only turns and walks away. In the room behind him is a sad little pile. It looks like a discarded leather suit, with three arms and three legs. As the new Moriarty leaves, he mutters, “Surely most of you must have some work to do, don’t you?”

  The dream begins to fade. It has only one more gift for me—one more jab at the series of bodies that calls itself Moriarty. He thinks he’s bought himself some time. He thinks he has half a human lifetime to calculate his next step.

  He’s wrong.

  That shiny new body of his is about to have Warlock Holmes’s black blade lodged through its chest as it falls, spinning and spinning, into the depths of a mineshaft. Moriarty is going to come as close as he ever has to experiencing true mortality. Only a last-second gambit will save him.

  He and his greatest nemesis will soon become one body, two souls.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE RING OF RED FACTION

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG
!

  “Oi! Warlock ’olmes!”

  Holmes’s voice drifted from the confines of his bedroom, across the corridor and through my open door. “Ugh. Mrs. Hudson seems to want something. Get the door, won’t you, Watson?”

  I gave my arms an experimental flex. No good. I could hardly move them. And Holmes proposed I should rise and walk? All the way to the front door?

  Preposterous.

  “Er… well… she’s asking for you, you know.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Oiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

  “That’s true, Watson, but… I’m somewhat indisposed.”

  Well did I know it. The day before, Holmes had mixed himself up a batch of his special brew. Arsenic, this time, with a side order of strychnine, cyanide and bleach. Then he’d popped open a copy of The Times and sat in his favorite chair, sipping and reading, until he was effectively dead. This he would do from time to time to silence the thousands of voices that filled his head at all hours—and indeed, though it wreaked a certain level of havoc upon his physical form, he always seemed much more relaxed afterwards. The habit had horrified me the first time I saw it, but daily life with Holmes had taught me to accept as mundane a thousand peculiarities that I would previously have found incredible.

  And in this particular instance, it came with a bonus. Over the past week or so, Holmes had become ever more suspicious of my persistent sickness and my rising level of doom. He’d been watching me carefully. I’m sure it was only his patent lack of observational prowess that kept him from realizing that I’d been injecting myself with bits of his shredded Persian mummy every night.

  He wasn’t wrong to be concerned, either. The doctor in me knew I had been poisoning myself far beyond the threshold a sane man would tolerate. But any night I did not give myself to the seven percent dream was a night I missed a chance to learn more about James Moriarty and Irene Adler. True, most of the dreams were useless, but any night I chose to forgo my injection was a night I might miss the piece of information that could have saved the world of men. So you see the risk my abstinence might bring?

  Thus, as soon as Holmes had slumped over in his chair from obsessive self-poisoning the day before, I had dragged him to his bed and indulged in my intravenous ruination. All of which meant that, as Mrs. Hudson stood outside pounding the varnish from our door, there was little I could do besides croak, “Yes, I know. Sorry to say it, Holmes, but I’m a bit indisposed myself.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Oi! Warlock! Get up, y’ bastard!”

  Holmes gave a resigned sigh. “What’s to be done, do you think?”

  “Perhaps she might hear you if you shout.”

  “Oh, I don’t know… I’m really not at my best. Do you think you might manage it, Watson?”

  “Perhaps we might try it together?”

  Bang! Bang!

  “Oiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but we are currently—”

  “Go away!”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “I know you boys is in there!”

  “Perhaps another time might be more felicitous, Mrs. Hudson!”

  “Bugger off!”

  This went on for another ten minutes or so, as Holmes’s and my voice grew ever weaker. I cannot remember which of us stopped first. I think I slipped into unconsciousness before the other two fell silent, but cannot swear to it. Whoever Mrs. Hudson was trying to introduce to us—and whatever fresh crisis—would have to wait. The two mystic detectives, helpers of London’s magical victims, were simply in no state to make themselves useful.

  * * *

  I woke some hours later, refreshed and invigorated…

  Well, no. Not really. But functional.

  As I found myself able to rise, I recognized I probably should. I needed some food. By God, the grocer’s seemed impossibly far away. But might the walk not do me some good? That’s just what I needed. Good food and fresh air—or at least the closest approximation London could furnish.

  As I walked, I began to feel better. Still, my progress was ponderous. Though I had convinced myself this was exactly the therapy that was required, I nonetheless had to stop every few minutes to vomit a great gout of discolored blood into the gutter. I always made a point to raise my hat and apologize to any passers-by; I am a gentleman, after all. It can be difficult to make one’s way through London’s crowded streets but on that particular day, I found I had all the room I required. Quite by accident, I had discovered a fine method for clearing a path through the gray city’s multitudes. Assuming one could tolerate all the screaming, of course.

  I had a nice little sit-down in Regent’s Park. A few pigeons came up to see if I had any breadcrumbs, but then they’d get a look at me and there’d be this uncomfortable little silence. Then they’d coo some form of apology for having disturbed me and a supposition that the person on the next bench down might be a better place for them to… yes… well… good day to me, and… um… well, good day.

  When I finally reached the grocer’s, I bought everything that looked good and asked that it be carried to 221B Baker Street, because I just couldn’t possibly. The man behind the counter looked somewhat wary, but I kept shoveling coins at him until he decided that—despite my appearance—this actually was a good idea. When he turned to shout to his least-favorite shop boy that he had a job for him, I knew everything would be all right. I took a single apple to eat as I went and turned homeward.

  By the time I dragged my weary legs up the steps to 221B, I was nearly too tired to speak. This was especially unfortunate, as I could hear the sound of muted conversation from behind my door. Holmes, it seemed, had managed to rouse himself in time to answer Mrs. Hudson’s second door-assault. As I let myself in, I saw Holmes slumped on the couch looking set-upon and miserable. To my horror, the guest was a second, equally formidable landlady.

  “…so you’ve got to help me, Mr. Holmes. He’s always in there, and he never comes out and I can hear him pacing about and it’s driving me mad. Come on, Mr. Holmes! I have nowhere else to turn!”

  “Yes, but, Mrs. Warren, I’m a very busy man and this really isn’t the sort of thing I usually deal with.”

  “You’ll deal with this, by God!”

  Spying me in the doorway, Holmes brightened and slurred, “Watson! Thank heavens. Come and lend a hand won’t you? This is Mrs. Warren and she’s quite insane.”

  “Quite disturbed, is what I think you mean,” said Mrs. Warren, defensively.

  “Time will tell,” replied Holmes and gestured to the couch beside him.

  I staggered over and sat down with a thump. So violent was my descent and so feeble Warlock’s state that the sudden impact of my posterior on the couch tipped him towards me. I waited for him to pull himself upright, but when he rested his head upon my shoulder, I recognized he had no intention of doing so. I was going to protest, but I realized how heavy my own head felt and let it sag down on top of Holmes’s. And I’m not embarrassed to say I did it. Good friends support each other.

  Sometimes structurally.

  “Hello,” I said. “M’s Dog-der Wosson. I sometimes arm… help-y.”

  Mrs. Warren gave me the sort of look designed to communicate that she found this hard to believe. Undaunted, I asked, “Wossa problem?”

  “From what I can gather,” said Holmes, “Mrs. Warren is upset because she has let a room to a gentleman, and now he is in it.”

  “Whaaaa? Can’t be right.”

  But it was. Mrs. Warren stamped her foot and shrilled, “He never comes out! Not once in the ten days I’ve had him! He rings when he’s hungry and we leave his meals on a chair outside the door and he rings when he’s done and it’s time to take the tray and he leaves notes to say what he wants and he’s always up there, pacin’ back and forth and it’s creepin’ me out and I won’t have it!”

  “Ehr, Gerd… she irs unsane…” I mumbled.

  Mrs. Warren gave me a
n uncharitable look. Silently she rose, walked to our little pantry alcove and filled a glass with water. She stalked back over and held it out to me with an air of stern, matronly expectation. Chastened, I took the glass and drank it down in three gulps. She was right; I felt much improved. She then took the empty glass, filled it a second time, returned once more and threw the damned thing in my face.

  “Bleaghra! No, I’m better! Thank you, I’m better!” I cried.

  On my shoulder, Holmes gave a little whine of protest.

  “Now, help me!” Mrs. Warren insisted.

  “What I do not understand,” said Holmes, “is how you even come to know of me or why you seem suddenly convinced that I can be of service.”

  Mrs. Warren raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Years ago, I had a boarder, name of Mr. Fairdale Hobbs. He had a little matter you helped him out with, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Well, I think I recall the name… Fairdale Hobbs, eh? Yes, I think I brought his case to a satisfactory conclusion, didn’t I?”

  “No. He’s dead,” said Mrs. Warren. “Blown up, all over me upstairs curtains. By God, I had to scrub the walls and floor for two days!”

  “Then why ever would you want me to—”

  “Because you owe me, Mr. Holmes. And I know from Mr. Hobbs—God rest ’im—that you’re the man to see when there’s strange work afoot. Now, I ain’t afraid of getting blowed up! What I am afraid of is living in uncertainty of what’s going on under my own roof!”

  There was a moment of silence.

  Holmes cleared his throat. “Well, if I do take your case, Mrs. Warren, I know what my fee will be. If I am able to be of service, you must promise you will re-evaluate your list of things that scare you.”

  “Deal!”

  “Oh, very well,” Holmes grumbled. “What is this mysterious lodger’s name?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Eh?” said Holmes and I together.

  “See, he came to us late at night. We was just about to put out the lights, my husband and me, when there comes a knock at the door. And there’s this fellow with a bushy black beard and moustache and sharp dark eyes and he says he saw the sign for the room-to-let and he thinks he’d like it, because there’s a bathroom and a sitting room. Really—and I don’t tell him this—but it’s pretty much the whole top of the house, for there’s just my husband and me and Molly, the maid, and we don’t go up there. But I don’t like the look of him, so when he asks me how much for the rooms I tell him sixty shillings a week which—God help me—is a fair sight more than they’re worth. He says he can’t count that high and that our money’s confusing. He wants to know if it would be all right to give me five pounds a week and I says that—yes, between friends—that would be just fine.”