by Eric Brown
And so dismissed, I took my leave of 221B.
It was a strange sensation indeed to be walking the sunlit streets of London a free man, after the trials and tribulations I had undergone on Mars. I passed down Baker Street and turned into Regent’s Park, smiling at the governesses and their young charges who played with hoops and wheeled horses without a care in the world. Indeed, even the adult promenaders taking the air that afternoon did so in blithe ignorance of the true state of worldly affairs. I envied them, and a part of me wished that I had not been vouchsafed the intelligence that now assailed me as to the true malign motivations of our Martian overlords. Then again, would I have gladly returned to a state of ignorant bliss? As I considered this, I thought of the indomitable Freya Hamilton-Bell – and I knew the answer. A terrible threat hovered over our world, such as had never visited us in all our history, and Miss Hamilton-Bell and other brave souls were risking their lives to fight the great injustice. How could I bury my head in the sand and wash my hands of all responsibility in light of this? I considered Professor Challenger, murdered by our tentacled foe, along with our prime minister, H.H. Asquith – as well as the hundreds of other innocent Earthmen and women likewise cast into oblivion to suit the Martians’ evil masterplan – and my resolve was stiffened.
I would do whatever I could to thwart the ambitions of our overlords – even if that was the mere purchasing of a deerstalker and a pair of calfskin gloves.
Smiling to myself at my new resolve, I turned onto Savile Row and made my way to Frobisher’s.
Thirty minutes later, on my return to Baker Street, I stopped before a newspaper vendor and perused the front page of The Times. A column at the foot of the page caught my attention. “Good grief…” I said. “Holmes will be interested.”
I bought a copy and hurried home to find Holmes still bent over his workbench. I passed him the brown-paper parcel containing the gloves and deerstalker, and he took it absentmindedly and laid it to one side, much to my chagrin.
I sat down, opened the newspaper, and cleared my throat. “Interesting report here, Holmes,” I said.
“Is that so?” he said with little enthusiasm.
“Indeed,” said I. “It concerns none other than Professor Moriarty.”
He looked up. “What did you say?” he demanded sharply.
“‘Moriarty Lives?’” I read the headline, and went on, “‘The evil mastermind Professor James Moriarty is alive and well and living in Shoreditch, according to several eyewitness accounts recently obtained by our crime reporter.’” I lowered the paper. “Surely this cannot be true?”
Holmes snatched the newspaper from me and scanned the report. “No more than sensationalist scandal-mongering,” he muttered, tossing it aside and returning to his work.
“I certainly hope so,” I said. “We’ve enough on our plates without having to contend with Moriarty.”
Holmes did not deign to reply.
A short while later I pointed to the parcel on the end of the workbench. “Well, Holmes, aren’t you going to tell me why the deuce you want the things? A matter of life and death, you said.”
“And so it is,” he said, tweezering a length of wire from the simulacrum’s brain. “Bear with me for one second, old man, and all will be revealed. There! I have it.” He sat back in his chair and expelled a great breath. “Now, be a good chap and have Mrs Hudson make me a fresh cup of tea, would you? And one for yourself, too.”
“That’s kind of you,” I huffed.
When we were duly equipped with steaming cups of Earl Grey, Holmes remained at his workbench and I pulled up an armchair, the better to hear his exposition.
“As my investigations proceeded,” he began, “I was primarily interested in the autonomy of these devices, as I mentioned earlier. Were they free agents, or under some form of control? The answer to this could have a drastic bearing on how we might proceed.”
“And you found out?”
“It would appear that they are, to a degree, puppets, dancing to the whim of distant controllers. Oh, they have a fair degree of autonomy, or they would be unable to deceive their nearest and dearest, as well as their work colleagues. The content of their originals’ minds have been reproduced so that they can function day-to-day, but I posit that the major decisions they would be called upon to take are decided by a remote operator in some kind of central ‘telegraphic exchange’, as it were.”
“On Mars?” I enquired.
Holmes stroked his chin. “I think not. More likely here on Earth, in various centralised locations scattered around the globe where the simulacra are situated.”
I gestured at the electrical debris littering the bench. “But how did you determine this?”
“By examining the simulacrum’s brainbox, or cognitive nexus, as I call it. Housed within it is a small computational device, of the kind I have read about in Martian technical papers. In these devices, I surmise, reside the copies of their originals’ minds, along with apparatus analogous to a telegraphic receiver. Quite simply, the Martian controller instructs the simulacrum what to do over and above its simple daily functions. For instance, Asquith might be going about his usual governmental duties in Whitehall when a command comes to deploy his naval fleet in the invasion of France – a facetious example, Watson, but you see what I mean.”
“Devilish!” I said.
“Quite,” Holmes agreed. “Now, I have discovered that the remote controller contacts his simulacra once a day – merely, I think, as a safety precaution. Checking up, as it were.”
“You found out? But how?”
Holmes gave a humourless grin. “By the fortunate expedient of being in the process of dismantling the receiver when a communiqué came in from the controller at four o’clock. Evidently the simulacra are programmed with a full understanding of the Martian language – for the controller spoke thus. It is indeed fortunate that I have studied the lingo.”
“Bless my soul, fortunate indeed! But what the deuce did it say?”
“The controller enquired as to the simulacrum’s whereabouts, and then asked why your simulacrum, Watson, was not responding.”
“Good Lord, Holmes. What the blazes did you tell him?”
“I thought on my feet, Watson, and said that your simulacrum had been discommoded in a fall and I was effecting repairs. I have no reason to believe that the operator did not believe me. At any rate,” he said, “the operator went on to say – in the somewhat roundabout and long-winded way of the average educated Martian – that we should await instructions, and that in a day or two we would be called upon to act. He then said that he would be in touch tomorrow at the same time.”
“‘Called upon to act’?” I chewed my moustache. “Don’t like the sound of that at all, Holmes.”
“It remains to be seen just what ‘act’ in this case entails. We always have the option, I’m glad to say, of taking Mycroft’s counsel and going to ground if needs be.”
I gestured to the brown-paper parcel. “But why the deuce do you need the deerstalker and gloves? A matter of life and death?”
Holmes reached across the table and picked up two small metal devices, each the size of a woman’s make-up compact. “Now undo the parcel, Watson, and pass me the deerstalker.”
I did as he asked and watched, more than a little bemused, as he took a knife and slit the stitching of the cap’s right ear-flap. “Excellent,” he said, and inserted the silver device into the space between the silk lining and the tweed. Next, taking a glove, he slipped it onto his left hand and eased the second silver oval into the glove so that it sat atop his metacarpus.
“Will you tell me, Holmes, just what on earth…?”
He cast me a wry glance and took up the deerstalker. “Never have I dreamed of the day when I might voluntarily consent to donning such farcical headgear,” he said, “but needs must when the Martian overlords drive.”
So saying, he slipped the deerstalker over his thin skull and arranged the flaps so that they cove
red his ears and sideburns.
“Capital,” he said. “Later I will take the receiver from the Watson simulacrum over there,” he waved in the direction of my recumbent doppelgänger, “and insert it into the left ear-flap. In this way we won’t be caught out by the controller’s summons. This,” he went on, raising his left hand, “is a simple microphone – which I located in my double’s right metacarpus – by which I can reply to the controller.”
I laughed. “Ingenious!” I said. “But you do realise, Holmes, what this means?”
He favoured me with a dour grimace. “No doubt you will take great delight in telling me, Watson.”
“Indeed I will,” said I. “You will perforce have to wear the ‘infernal headgear’ night and day.”
“I rather hope that I can get away without wearing it while I sleep,” he said.
A tap at the door interrupted us, and Mrs Hudson stepped into the room. Fortunately, the simulacra were hidden from her view by the chaise longue, though she did give Holmes – garbed as he was in the deerstalker and one glove – an odd look.
She held up a folded slip of paper. “One of your urchins, Mr Holmes. Just delivered this.”
Holmes thanked her and took the note, reading it as she took her leave.
Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,
It is imperative that we meet as soon as possible. I am currently domiciled at a safe house in Barnes: 22 Willow Avenue. Take a roundabout route and I will hopefully see you at six.
Yours,
Freya Hamilton-Bell.
My heart thumped – though whether at the gravity of the summons, or the fact that I would soon be in the company of the delightful Miss Hamilton-Bell, I was unable to say.
Holmes regarded his pocket watch. “Almost five, Watson. I have just enough time to take the receiver from your simulacrum, and then we will be off.”
By and by we left 221B and took a cab on a devious route to Barnes.
Chapter Fifteen
At the Safe House
No. 22 Willow Avenue proved to be situated in a terrace of cottages overlooking a bend in the Thames. Fragrant wisteria grew around the small doorway and a window box, replete with violets and pansies, stood upon the sill. It seemed an appropriately delightful address for Miss Hamilton-Bell to use as a hideaway.
Holmes rapped on the crimson paintwork, and a second later the door opened a bare two inches. I caught sight of a brilliant blue eye regarding us, and the door opened further.
Miss Hamilton-Bell smiled and stepped aside.
I removed my hat and bowed. “Wonderful to see you again,” I said.
“The pleasure is entirely mine, gentlemen.”
She led us into a fussy, overstuffed parlour done out very much in the Victorian fashion, with heavy, dark furniture, ormolu ornamentation, and maroon brocades. She saw me glance around the room, and explained, “The house does not belong to me, but to a well-wisher. My taste is altogether more modern and minimalist. Would you care for tea, or something a little stronger perhaps?”
We asked for tea, and she repaired to the kitchen and reappeared a little later bearing a tray with a silver teapot and three china cups. She poured, and I watched her as she did so. I decided that her dark hair – whether a wig or dyed – did not suit her: it cast her fair features into shadow and gave her an altogether melancholy appearance. That said, her beauty shone through as she smiled and passed my cup.
Holmes balanced the saucer on his prominent knee. “You wished to see us as a matter of urgency, Miss Hamilton-Bell.”
“To begin with, I was wondering if you had given my words of yesterday serious consideration?” She looked from myself to Holmes.
I recalled what she had said in the Lyons’ tea room – after I had recounted our travails on Mars – as she pleaded with us to forget our ‘mad fool’ idea of remaining in situ at Baker Street: her concern at the time had rather touched me.
“That we should,” Holmes said, “desist in my scheme to take the place of the simulacra which were to replace us?”
“Precisely,” she said.
Holmes sighed. “Miss Hamilton-Bell,” he said, “I can only repeat my objections to the idea of our ‘going to ground’, as you would have it. Doing so would gain us nothing. However, by taking their places, we have an inside line to the very power base of the Martians. It might be possible, with cunning, to inveigle ourselves into situations which in future might redound to our advantage.”
She heard him out, and then replied, “When you stood firm yesterday, Mr Holmes, and departed somewhat precipitately before I could object further, I contacted a sympathiser in the ranks of the Martians here in London. I visited him last night, and returned with… Well, I will show you. Please excuse me one moment.”
She rose, gathered her skirts about her, and hurried from the room. I exchanged a glance with my friend. “Whatever could it be, Holmes?”
“I cannot see that it would be anything that might deflect us from our chosen course,” said he.
Miss Hamilton-Bell returned holding a device that very much resembled the one her simulacrum had deployed in the desert prison on Mars. She pointed it at Holmes and pressed a stud on its side. A bright point of red light glowed at the forward end of the instrument.
“The red light,” she explained, “means that Mr Holmes is human.”
“I could have told you that,” I laughed, “though there have been times when I’ve had cause to wonder.”
“I think what Miss Hamilton-Bell means,” Holmes interjected, “is that the device is able to detect whether the subject is either human or a simulacrum.”
Tight-lipped, she nodded. “Just so. When our Arkana oppressors discovered that the Korshana had also developed the ability to manufacture simulacra in the fight against their tyranny, they came up with a simple device to detect the mechanical substitutes, and have been using them against us frequently of late.”
Holmes smiled to himself, then said, “So you are trying to frighten me off the idea of maintaining this charade?”
Did I see anger flash in Miss Hamilton-Bell’s eyes as she replied? “Not so much frighten you, sir, but warn you of the danger of continuing with your chosen course of action.”
Holmes leaned forward. “Presumably these devices work by detecting something inherent in the simulacrum targeted?”
“That is correct,” she said. “The light glows blue when the device detects the cylindrical battery which powers the simulacrum.”
“And the red light is activated when it is unable to detect a battery?” said Holmes. “Therefore, all we have to do when we return to Baker Street is remove the batteries from the simulacra and ensure that we carry them about our persons at all times. Then, should any Martian use a detection device against us, they will be reassured that we are simulacra. I take it that no human has ever attempted to pass themselves off as a simulacrum?”
“To the best of my knowledge, that is the case,” Miss Hamilton-Bell said. She went on with a wry smile, “In lieu of being unable to dissuade you to give up your foolhardy charade, I beseech you to take great care. The Arkana are ruthless, and would think nothing of killing you in an instant. But you need no telling. You know what became of your friend, Professor Challenger.”
“I assure you that I, for one, will take no undue risk,” I said.
“We are no good in the fight against the Martian tyrants if we are dead,” Holmes said. “You can be assured that we will proceed with the utmost caution.”
Accepting defeat when she was staring it in the face, she smiled to herself. “Then allow me to replenish your cups, and to move on to the other reason why I summoned you here.”
“So you want more than to merely berate us?” Holmes expostulated with uncharacteristic mischief.
“Much more,” she said.
She poured more tea, sat with her cup in her lap, and considered her next words. “Two years ago you had dealings at the Martian Embassy with a human scientific liaison officer, a Mr Herber
t Wells.” She paused. “We understand that Wells still works for Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran.” She looked from me to Holmes. “We would approach Mr Wells ourselves, but we have certain understandable reservations about the wisdom of doing so. For one, we do not know if we can trust him – we have yet to ascertain the degree of his loyalty to his paymasters. But, as you can imagine, if we can apprise Mr Wells as to the true nature of the Arkana, and if we were able to recruit him to our cause, then he would, in his position at the embassy, prove an invaluable asset.”
“And you would like Watson and myself,” Holmes said, “to contact Mr Wells and ascertain the lie of the land, as it were?”
“As you have given yourselves so wholeheartedly to our cause, and insist on playing the parts of Martian simulacra, then I deem you to be in an advantageous position to re-contact Mr Wells and discover where his loyalties might lie.”
Holmes nodded. “We will endeavour to contact him on the morrow,” he said. “We have good reason – is this not so, Watson? – to believe that little love is lost between Mr Wells and the Martians.”
Miss Hamilton-Bell cocked an eyebrow and enquired how this might be so, but Holmes told her that the less said, on this occasion, the better.
She sipped her tea, looking at Holmes a little oddly. “I wonder if I might ask a personal question, Mr Holmes?”
“And what might that be?”
“Could you tell me why, on this balmy summer’s evening, and indoors to boot, you are still wearing your deerstalker and gloves?”
I laughed at this and slapped my thigh, and while my friend gave Miss Hamilton-Bell the full story concerning the dismantlement of the simulacra, and the concealment of the receivers and microphone in his hat and gloves, I looked around the over-furnished room.
I noticed, on the mantelshelf, the framed photograph of a dashing young man in military uniform: that of a captain in the Hussars, if my eyesight served me. When next a lull fell in the conversation, I indicated the picture. “A possession of whoever owns the house?” I asked, rather hoping that I might be right.