by Eric Brown
“And I,” Wells interrupted, “working as I do for the ambassador, would be a prize recruit?”
“You state the case with admirable concision,” Holmes said. “You doubtless have access, or can obtain access, to important papers, documents, communiqués and the like, which would be invaluable in shedding light on the Martians’ intentions.”
Wells was nodding slowly to himself, as if mulling over whether or not to throw in his lot with our cause.
I rose, crossed to the side table, and recharged our glasses.
“Well,” Holmes said after a moment, “what about it? Are you with us?”
Wells remained silent, staring into his replenished glass. At last he said, in little more than a whisper, “I’m a fool… In fact, I’m seven kinds of fool, and a dullard to boot.”
“Steady on, old chap,” I said. “We’ve all been taken in by the tentacled monstrosities.”
Wells set his glass on a side table and held his head in his hands. “Why didn’t I realise what was going on?”
“As Watson said, we’ve all been taken in,” Holmes said gently. “Don’t berate yourself.”
“But it’s not just the Lloyd George dummy, or rather the simulacrum,” he said. “Lord! Why didn’t I see it before now?”
“See what?” Holmes asked, leaning forward.
Wells took a deep breath. “Earlier, in the tea room… I mentioned an advisor at the embassy – a human.”
“What about him?”
“I should have realised that something was not quite right – I merely thought it odd at the time. You see, just last week I interrupted Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran and the stranger in the former’s office. They were poring over papers, plans or blueprints, and they appeared flustered on my entrance – and the ambassador scrambled with the papers as if to hide them from me, hurriedly introducing the fellow as a scientific expert.” He shrugged. “I gained the impression that they were examining naval blueprints, but thought little of it at the time. But now…”
“Now?” I said.
“You see, this human was an advisor in some scientific capacity, obviously working closely with the Martians on something important. Dash it all, but I should have realised something was wrong about the fellow!”
“Do you know his name?” Holmes asked.
Wells smiled, but without humour. “Yes,” he said. “He called himself Mr Smith.”
Holmes grunted. “Very helpful,” he said. “But can you describe him?”
“That’s just it, Mr Holmes. I can’t. You see, he was disguised.”
“Disguised?” I echoed.
“On the three or four occasions I saw him, he always wore a black cape and a fedora – and his face was hidden by a mask. I was reminded of the Phantom of the Opera, and assumed that the mask concealed some hideous disfigurement.”
“The chap obviously didn’t want to be recognised,” I said.
“Which makes his conduct all the more suspicious,” Holmes said, then pointed at Wells. “In the tea room you mentioned that Miss Fairfield’s head had been turned by a scientific advisor.”
Wells sighed. “The very same fellow, Mr Holmes. I often saw them together at the embassy, and once in the street outside. I… I confronted Cicely about their liaison, and she admitted that she was attracted to him, even though he was older than her, and ‘dashed ugly’ – her own words – but claimed that the attraction was wholly intellectual. I didn’t believe her, and perhaps because of this, inevitably, we grew apart.”
Holmes rubbed his chin. “I need to interview Miss Fairfield and trace this mysterious Mr Smith. I take it you still see her daily at the embassy?”
“I don’t,” Wells said, “as she gave her notice two months ago. I have been seeing her from time to time since her departure. We sometimes dine at the Moulin Bleu on Wednesday evenings, though we haven’t done so for a week or two.”
Holmes rose to his feet and paced the room, lost in thought.
“I’ll need her address, if you please,” he said at last.
“By all means,” Wells said, and recited an exclusive address on Cheyne Walk.
“Watson, we’ll make a trip to Chelsea first thing in the morning and try to shed light on this Mr Smith, and his dealings with the Martian ambassador. I have the distinct feeling that he is up to no good.”
“Seconded,” Wells echoed in dolorous tones.
“Meanwhile, Mr Wells, keep your ear to the ground, and if you hear anything at all suspicious, or which you think might aid us in our cause, do not hesitate to get in touch – but don’t go into detail over the telephone,” he went on. “Merely state a time and a day, and we will convene at the Lyons’ tea room in Piccadilly, understood?”
Wells nodded, and drained his brandy. “I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance again, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, but in the circumstances…” He grimaced across at Holmes’s simulacrum, still seated in the armchair, then looked away.
In due course Wells took his leave, and Holmes resumed his pacing. I poured myself a third glass of brandy – a stiffer one, this time, as I was in need of its balm – and sat by the hearth lost in thought.
“This Mr Smith, Holmes. Don’t like the sound of him at all.”
Holmes paused in his pacing and stared across at me.
“And nor do I, Watson,” he said. “Nor do I.”
Chapter Eighteen
What we Discovered at Chelsea
Eight o’clock the following morning saw us alighting from an electrical cab and staring up at the red-brick facade of a three-storey townhouse on the embankment. The house had been divided into three separate apartments, and a nameplate beneath the bell-pull indicated that Miss Fairfield occupied the upper floor.
Holmes hauled on the bell-pull and stood back.
The door was opened presently by an upright landlady with silver-grey hair and pince-nez perched on the bridge of her prominent nose.
Holmes informed this worthy that we were seeking Miss Cicely Fairfield, only to be met with a frown.
“Miss Fairfield left her rooms yesterday, and did not say when she might return.” She touched a pearl brooch at her throat. “If I might ask, what is your business with the young lady?”
Holmes produced his card. “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. We have been hired by a certain Mr Wells to look into the whereabouts of Miss Fairfield.”
At the sound of Wells’s name, the landlady smiled. “Well, that’s different… I like Mr Wells. He’s a gentleman, unlike the other fellow.”
At this, Holmes’s ears pricked up. “The other fellow?”
“That’s right, a Mr Smith he called himself. A big-headed chap in a cape.”
“He was arrogant?” I asked.
The landlady smiled. “No, I mean that he possessed a rather large head on narrow shoulders.”
“And was he wearing a fedora and a mask?” Holmes enquired.
“A hat, yes – but he wasn’t wearing a mask.”
“Did you by any chance get a close look at his face?”
The landlady shook her head. “I only saw him on two or three occasions, and he always had his collar turned up and his hat pulled low. Secretive, he was. The last time I saw him was yesterday, when he arrived in a cab for Miss Fairfield.”
Holmes exchanged a glance with me. “She didn’t happen to say where she was going?” he asked.
“She didn’t say a word, but I remember thinking that she looked flustered, or worried. She was carrying an overnight bag, and Mr Smith was chivvying her along as if he had an important appointment to keep.”
“What time was this?”
“No later than noon, I should say.”
“Did you by any chance notice which company the cab belonged to?”
She frowned in concentration. “It might have been the Blue Star people, or was it the Kensington Company? Then again it might have been Robinson’s. I’m sorry, but there are so many cab companies around these days.”
Ho
lmes nodded. “I wonder if you might show us up to her apartment? It is a matter of utmost importance that we trace Miss Fairfield.”
“Why, of course. If you’d care to follow me.”
She led us into an immaculately decorated hallway and up three flights of stairs to the upper floor, then fumbled with a bunch of keys on a cord at her waist and opened the only door on the landing. Holmes thanked her, then closed the door gently on her enquiring glance.
“I don’t like the sound of this,” I said. “Miss Fairfield leaving in a hurry – perhaps against her will – with this Smith fellow…”
Holmes nodded, intent on examining the room.
It was a large open space with a bay window affording a wonderful view of west London. Unlike Miss Hamilton-Bell’s hideaway, it was modern and sparsely furnished. What struck me straight away was the number of bookshelves placed against the walls, bearing hundreds of volumes on subjects ranging from sociology to ancient history, anthropology to geology. One bookcase was full of modern novels, another of poetry. A typewriter stood on a writing desk beside the window.
Holmes was on his hands and knees, minutely inspecting the hearth rug. Then he turned his attention to the fire grate.
“What are you looking for, Holmes?”
He muttered something along the lines of, “I’ll know when I find it, Watson.”
I moved to the first of three adjoining doors, which gave on to a small bathroom. I noticed that a cupboard above the sink was open, and that one or two bottles containing the kind of creams or embrocations that ladies find necessary had been knocked over: spaces testified to the fact that others had been removed.
I reported this to Holmes, then moved to the bedroom. A dresser still had one of its drawers gaping, and various items of clothing spilled from it. It did not take a detective of Holmes’s perspicacity to work out that Miss Fairfield had departed in a hurry.
When I returned to the sitting room, Holmes was examining a piece of charred paper he had found in the fire grate. “What is it, Holmes?”
He turned a fragment this way and that with a pair of tweezers.
“Whatever it was, Watson, is now burned beyond all hope of recognition. It was a sheet of paper, eight-ounce vellum, of the finest quality. A fragment of typeface suggests an official document – in the Martian script, what’s more.”
He gestured to the deep pile rug before the fireplace. “I note the slightest impressions of three footprints in the shape of a man’s shoes. I rather think that while Miss Fairfield was hurrying to collect a few necessary belongings, Mr Smith took the time to burn a document, ensuring that nothing, or at any rate nothing of import, survived the flames.”
While he continued to sift through the ash in the grate, I approached the desk by the window. It appeared that Miss Fairfield had recently begun a piece of fiction, a short story or perhaps a novel. A sheet of paper was lodged in the platen, with the title The Other Harold Gordon Webb, followed by a paragraph describing the heroine’s departure from a southern coastal town.
Holmes rose to his feet, dusting his hands together, and stared around the room. “What’s that, Watson?” he said, indicating the typewriter.
“A story she’d just begun,” I said, moving to the small kitchen. A single china cup stood on the table, half-full of black coffee. A smudge of lipstick on its gold-rimmed edge indicated that Miss Fairfield had been partaking of the beverage upon Smith’s arrival, abandoning it upon her precipitate departure.
“Watson!” Holmes called from the other room.
I hurried into the sitting room to find him bending over the writing desk, his brow furrowed as he read what was typed upon the single sheet.
“Miss Fairfield is in danger,” he said, indicating the paper.
“She is?”
“Read it, including the title!”
I did so, for the second time. “The Other Harold Gordon Webb,” I read. “Harriet Evans left Portsmouth, wondering if the heavy snow might impede the Hutchinsons. We only know it never gave…”
I shook my head. “I don’t quite see…”
Holmes tore the paper from the platen, read it again, then looked at me. “This is hardly the work of an accomplished writer, with several highly respected articles to her credit. Why, it’s almost gibberish. The only explanation that occurred to me, Watson, was that it must be a code, a few innocent lines which could be left here and which would not arouse suspicion from Mr Smith were he to glance at them.”
“A code?”
“Take the first letter of each word,” he said, “starting with the title, and what do you have?”
I took the sheet and read the lines. “Good God!”
“Precisely,” he said. “To HGW. Help. With Smith. Woking.”
“A plea to Wells to help her – Smith took her to Woking.” I shook my head. “Woking?”
“It is of some significance to the Martians, Watson. It was, after all, where the first of their interplanetary vessels landed in ’94. The Martians have a barracks there these days, as well as an engineering factory where they repair their tripods.”
“My word… But why would Smith wish to take her there?” Holmes ignored my question as he paced the room, lost in thought. He returned to the window and stared out in silence, his brow creased.
“Examine the evidence, Watson, piece by piece. Miss Fairfield met Mr Smith during the course of her work at the Martian Embassy. Wells states that she found herself attracted to his erudition. They met here on a number of occasions, as the landlady said that she saw Smith several times. On the last occasion, yesterday, Smith came for her at noon approximately. He was in something of a hurry, according to the landlady, and Miss Fairfield evidently packed in haste. And yet… and yet she had time to leave a cryptic plea for help on the typewriter, which must have taken some time to compose. Now, Watson, what does this suggest to you?”
I stared down at the typewritten sheet on the desk.
“That she knew she was leaving with him,” I said, “perhaps the night before, giving her time in which to compose the note. Yet she did not know precisely what time, evidenced by her hasty packing, and by the half-finished cup of coffee.”
“Exactly, Watson! She knew she was leaving with him, but was fearful of doing so – hence the note. Yet she made no effort, at any time before her departure, to flee the house and the attentions of Mr Smith. What does this suggest?”
I rubbed my chin, flummoxed. “Why, Holmes, I’m quite stumped.”
“It suggests to me that poor Miss Fairfield was compelled for some reason to accompany Mr Smith, or she would surely have fled the apartment. It suggests that Mr Smith, therefore, had some hold over Miss Fairfield, making her compliant to his will.”
“Good God!”
“Quite,” said Holmes. “He had something on the poor woman. He was, I contest, blackmailing her. And the only blemish on her record, as far as we are aware, is her killing in self-defence of the former Martian ambassador.”
“So Smith knew of this and used it against her?”
“That, Watson, seems to be the long and the short of the situation. Three questions emerge from this deduction. One, who is the mysterious Mr Smith? Two, how did Smith discover what happened in the ambassador’s bedchamber two years ago? And three, what are his intentions regarding Miss Fairfield?”
I swore aloud. “In reverse order, Holmes,” I began. “What are his intentions with the poor girl? Why, she is young and comely – I can only impute the basest motives for blackmailing and kidnapping her. As for how he found out about the ambassador’s killing? Well, Mr Smith worked at the embassy – could he have had access to the former ambassador’s personal papers, wherein he read of the Martian’s feelings for Miss Fairfield? Perhaps he interrogated her, and she broke down and admitted her part in the killing? As for the identity of Mr Smith.” I shook my head. “Why, he might be any Tom, Dick or…”
Holmes was staring at me with such an expression of foreboding that I fell silent.
“As for the last,” said he, “I fear the worst.”
“The worst?” I echoed.
“Examine the facts, my friend. Mr Smith is some kind of scientific expert who has willingly thrown in his lot with our oppressors. He is small of stature, yet large of head. He has been at pains to disguise his true features. He has – not for the first time in his long and nefarious career – broken the law in committing blackmail and kidnap.”
I pulled the chair from under the desk and slumped down into it. “Please don’t say what I fear, Holmes.”
My friend stared out at a London that was bathed in sunshine, yet never had his features seemed so grim.
“I thought it impossible, Watson, despite the rumours that he – like me – had survived the plummet at Reichenbach.” He shook his head. “I took comfort from the notion that he was dead, and thought the rumours that he was alive, and was up to his devilish games again, no more than that – cheap rumours dreamed up by press hacks eager for scandalous copy. But…”
“Go on,” I said, despondent.
“But I fear,” said Holmes, “that the mysterious Mr Smith is none other than Professor Moriarty.”
Chapter Nineteen
News from Africa and the Middle East
It was just after ten o’clock by the time we arrived back at Baker Street. Holmes had been silent for the duration of the journey, lost no doubt in his own melancholic ruminations. I, for my part, dwelled on the calamitous turn of events: the double blow of Miss Fairfield’s abduction, and our suspicion of who had perpetrated the diabolical act. Added to my impotent rage was the fact that Holmes’s archenemy had thrown in his lot with the Martians. I had known the depths to which Moriarty was wont to stoop, but never in my wildest dreams had I ever thought that he might sink so low as to collude with the oppressors of humankind.
My introspective mood was lightened somewhat on our return to find a note awaiting us. Mrs Hudson said that a young woman had called but an hour ago, and had left it on finding that we were not at home.