by C J Lutton
His eyes displayed no color. They were transparent, and yet they reflected back to me the terror on my face. Still, I was moving ever closer to the visitor. His seduction was nearly complete. I offered no resistance as he drew me nearer. I ached for his approval. He looked through me with what I can only describe as a sort of maladie du pays. A strange homesickness. But in an instant, his expression changed. First, there was anger, then horror, then curiosity, pain, joy, and more and more expressions came forth. Faster and faster. Ten, then twenty, then a hundred, thousands upon thousands of emotions blurred his face in a symphonic movement.
In a heart—stopping blink of an eye, I was staring at my own face, staring at me. A movement near the ceiling caught my eye. It was Mr. Mycroft Holmes spinning wildly, head over heels. Bile and vomit spewed from my employer’s silently screaming mouth. Suddenly, he went still and landed on the floor in a heap.
My legs collapsed beneath me. As I hovered on the edge of consciousness, I saw the stranger cradle Mr. Mycroft Holmes in his arms. The gesture was almost protective as he drew the battered body of Mr. Mycroft Holmes close to him. To my great shock, the stranger sank his teeth into the exposed neck of my employer.
I felt witness to an almost obscene gesture of intimacy, and then I lost consciousness. I awakened in the secured sanctuary of the residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, where I am currently in the process of penning this report.
What you have read is the truth. I have no other facts to place before you. I have related what I saw as accurately as possible.
May God save us all!
Mr. R. W. Harker
London, England
2
A Friend Comes Knocking
Unbeknownst to Harker or to me, at the very moment which he detailed so carefully in his report, Sherlock Holmes was on his way to the Diogenes Club to have a most important consultation with Mycroft. When he enquired as to his brother's whereabouts, he was informed by a staff member that both Mycroft and Harker had apparently left the premises on unexpected and urgent business. When queried further, the staff member could only surmise that they exited the club through Mycroft's private entrance, because the attendant on duty at the main door affirmed that they had not appeared there. This was exceedingly odd, given that Mycroft rarely leaves the club, unless summoned by royal command or requests by Parliament.
”But no one just vanishes,” Holmes said. ”When was the last time you...?”
Holmes was interrupted by Jeffrey, the Master at Arms of the Diogenes Club.
”Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” said Jeffrey, handing him an envelope, ”some waif left this at the front door for you.”
Holmes grabbed the proffered envelope. Both he and his brother Mycroft had been experiencing uneasiness at the coincidental occurrences that had been going on for weeks. Without knowing why such a sense of doom should linger so unceremoniously upon their shoulders, they separately began taking precautions to protect the other. Both believed that they were being followed. Each had received urgent messages from the other. Both men experienced numerous threats to their lives. More importantly, each feared for the other's safety.
When confronted by the message from Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes recognized the sad truth of the matter: Their worries had been prescient. Sherlock hurriedly ripped open the envelope in his hands. A glance was enough to tell him that his worst fears had been realized. Without another word to the astonished Master at Arms, Holmes ran out of the Diogenes Club.
It was at this point in time that I became embroiled in this most perplexing case. I am humbled to say that in his hour of need, the great Sherlock Holmes sought me out. Of course, I no longer lodged at Baker Street with my old friend. The accommodations of two bachelors would have been totally unsuitable when I married my lovely wife. Our life together had changed me. I had grown accustomed to living with the peace and tranquility of having no crimes to solve. When she died, I sank into a black morass of grief. Holmes was ever the understanding and caring friend. I had on numerous occasions attempted to pick up where I had left off, regarding my friendship with him. Even though we still thought highly of each other, somehow things had changed. I no longer sat enthralled as he would go into a lengthy discourse on the probabilities as to what the rest of the world saw to be obvious and logical but could not (in Holmes’ view) be the case.
I'm afraid at times I felt his recitations to be bothersome. I now know that my feelings were unjustly directed towards Holmes. He, in his kindness, sought to occupy my mind and keep it active during some of my saddest days. The day that his brother Mycroft disappeared from the Diogenes Club along with his secretary, Harker, was turning out to be another of those lonely days. I was sitting home and reviewing some of the case files connected with my long association with the great detective. Suddenly, I heard someone bounding up the stairs and causing a great commotion with my housekeeper.
”Watson, where are you?” cried the familiar voice.
Before I could reply, Holmes came bursting through my door.
There he was in his greatcoat and top hat, standing as tall as I have ever remembered him. He was out of breath and looked worried, but he was unbowed by the pressures of his profession.
I immediately rose and welcomed my longtime friend.
”Watson, I'm in need of your objectivity and understanding, and perhaps more than you've ever sacrificed in my name before – your very life.” Holmes collapsed into a chair and carelessly draped a leg over one of the arms. ”What do you make of this?” he asked, holding an envelope between his fingers.
I walked over to him and took the envelope.
”Be careful with its contents,” warned Holmes. ”You may be holding in your hands my brother's life.”
I knew his cryptic words, though alarming, were no less true. Holmes was not given to exaggeration. I carefully emptied the envelope’s contents onto the sideboard. Holmes came over and quietly stood beside me. Having my medical bag handy, I withdrew a pair of tweezers and magnifying glass. I moved the items carefully around the top of the work area with my tweezers and noticed the two jagged pieces of cards were of similar size and design. Having on many a boring evening taken up the hobby of puzzles, I quickly moved the pieces together to form a whole calling card. On the face of the card was one word, neatly and purposely dissected in half from the top to the bottom, so that each side of the card held but two letters from the four—letter word, ”Bram.”
Not knowing what this could mean, I put it aside and turned my attention to the small crumpled note. I glanced at Holmes quizzically and was distressed to see the impatient look in his eyes. Again, I examined the note. It was a series of symbols contained on five lines.
”Forget about that for now. It's the last item that is the most distressing to me,” he said. Not waiting for a response, Holmes went on. ”As far as my brother is concerned, the ring is priceless. It belonged to our mother. The stone is uniquely colored and embedded with a coat of arms. The detail work is fine filigree. Altogether the piece is exquisite, quite apart from its value as a historical icon.”
In all of my years with Holmes, never have I seen him react with such emotion. I sat stunned to silence while the contents of the envelope preyed heavily on my mind. Holmes stood at the sideboard, staring at the objects before him. Though his back was towards me, I felt his anguish.
Not quite knowing what to do, I left Holmes alone, and I went about lighting the gas lamps. The sun was going down outside, and soon my lodgings would be plunged into darkness.
”There’s no need for that, Watson,” said Holmes quietly, as he observed my activity. ”Your quarters are not conducive for my reflections. I'm afraid I must return to the familiar confines of Baker Street. If you care to accompany me, I'll explain the circumstances that have brought me here to seek your assistance.”
Holmes carefully removed the items on the sideboard, placed them back into the envelope, and left the apartment. From the hallway, I heard him call out, ”I’ll wait for you
outside. And, oh, yes, be sure to bring your kit and revolver!”
With that, I heard the front door bang shut.
I extinguished the lights and then I grabbed my hat and coat along with my medical kit and revolver. I had replaced my revolver with a smaller pistol a long time ago, as the smaller gun was better for concealment purposes and allayed any questions about a suspicious bulge. I paused, however, and considered Holmes’ specific demand. Since he knew of my present predilection regarding the smaller pistol, his request that I bring the revolver led me to believe that tact and finesse would be of no consideration. Therefore, I took both firearms.
Leaving the flat, I locked the door and took a deep breath, hearing in my mind those exciting words, ”The game's afoot!” I exited my sanctum sanctorum perhaps for the last time.
But once I was outside, Holmes was nowhere to be found. I stood still while attempting to peer through the thick fog that now enveloped all of Nottingham.
”Watson,” Holmes whispered from behind me. ”Come back here. Under the steps, quickly.” I felt him tug at my coat as he pulled me backwards and next to him.
”Holmes, what the devil…” I began.
He clasped his hand over my mouth.
”Quiet,” he commanded. ”We're being watched. He’s over there in the garden behind the stone pillar on the left. Do you see him?”
I shook my head. Holmes still had his hand over my mouth. He turned me in the direction of his quarry, and I noticed a small yet subtle movement of the fog. I nodded.
”I'm sorry about the rough treatment, Watson, but I had to quiet you quickly. There's only one man watching us. At least he's the only one who gave himself away. For all I know, there may be ten or twenty of them in this damnable fog,” Holmes said.
”Perhaps we can use the fog to our advantage,” he continued. ”Watson, watch for me to signal you. After I give you the go—ahead, wait exactly three minutes and then hail a cab. Do make sure it's a growler and not a hansom. Do not wait for me. Just get in and loudly tell the driver to take you to Victoria Station. Don't worry, old chum. That's not our destination. I just want anyone who's listening to think you're going there. I know that I've gone unobserved, just as I know that you have. Remember to wait for my signal.”
I was about to reply, but I felt the air move as Holmes passed in front of me and was gone. Trying to follow him with my eyes, I finally surrendered to the fog and stood at my station alone.
A few cabs braved the dense fog and rolled by. Recalling my friend's instructions, I awaited his signal. I was seduced by the playful mist of the fog, and I imagined all manner of demons and villains lurking just out of sight. Though nothing had yet been explained to me, I knew Holmes all too well. By his very actions, I understood that my fears were soundly placed.
A whimsical breeze stirred the mist just enough to imply to the imaginative mind that some unseen presence or spirit walked amongst us. An apparition forever bound to a destination that has yet to be acknowledged or experienced by the living. These thoughts nibbled away at my composure when I heard a soft whistle.
”Holmes!” I thought, ”Thank goodness!”
I stepped out of the shadows and to the kerb in search of a cab. One, two, three hansoms passed by before hearing the unmistakable noise of a growler. Glancing at my watch, the timing could not have been more perfect—three minutes!
”Cabby!” I called, as the driver pulled up noisily to where I was standing. ”Victoria Station!”
”Right you are guv, Victoria Station it is,” came his reply. ”It's a real pea souper, it is. Take some time, I ’azard. ’opes you're in no ’urry.”
As the cab pulled away from the kerb, I wondered what could be keeping Holmes. The growler made a left on Woodstock and another left on Paddington. As we neared the corner of High Street, a commotion caused the driver to brake suddenly. The horse whinnied in protest as we came to an abrupt halt.
”What's the matter, driver? Why've we stopped?”
”Don't know, guv. Seems to be some young dandy and a lady of the evenin' are goin' at it tooth and nail, right here in the middle of the street.”
Standing up and sticking my head out the door, I was unprepared when the horse suddenly bolted. Hanging on for dear life and feeling that at any moment I would go hurtling through the air, I nevertheless shouted for the cabby to move along. After a few frightful moments, I righted myself and sat back down in my seat, pulling the door closed. We slowly made our way to High Street where we turned right. In my flustered state, I was caught unawares as a hand once again covered my mouth. The full weight of the intruder pressed against my body as he pounced on me and flattened me against the inside of the cab.
”Shhh, Watson, it's me,” Holmes whispered in my ear. ”There's no time to explain, but I want you to follow my instructions carefully, do you understand?”
I nodded.
”Good,” he continued, and removed his hand, ”As soon as I tell you to, I want you to exit the cab as quietly and as smoothly as possible. It would not serve us at all if the cabby thought you were trying to beat him out of his fare. The growler is moving slowly enough that you should be able to exit without being hurt. Ready?”
Again, I nodded.
”Fine,” he said. “When you leave here, I want you to stay hidden in the shadows. Do not move from there until I come back around to get you. I'll be along directly.
“Another cab will come by,” Sherlock continued, “a hansom this time. It will slowly draw to the kerb where you are hidden. Listen to me, carefully. It won't come to a complete stop, but it will be moving slow enough for you to climb in. It is imperative that you remain in the shadows undetected. The time has come for the hunted to become the hunters.”
Holmes nodded at me. ”Incidentally, there were two of them. One was where I had mentioned. The other is at this very moment following in a hansom a block behind us. Now get ready. We're coming up to South Street. This is where you’ll be getting off.”
He knelt on the cushion and quietly opened the door of the cab. My friend looked into my eyes before he said, ”Be careful.”
Then he nudged me towards the door while keeping one hand on my shoulder. I swiftly stepped out, crouching on the runner.
”Now!” whispered Holmes, as he let go of my shoulder.
Exiting the cab as seamlessly as possible, I took pride there were no cries of alarm. I hurried to the safety of the shadows and waited. A few seconds later our pursuers went by, ignorant of my presence. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed before a growler went by. It was followed closely by a hansom. I was about to step out of the shadows when my friend’s words of caution rang in my ears. I continued to remain hidden while cursing the foul weather and mysteries that lay ahead.
When the hansom passed by, I observed that its two occupants had their heads craning out on either side of the cab. I smiled to myself at their futile attempt to pierce the thick layer of fog and keep their prey in sight. As I watched the occupied hansom disappear, another hansom drew to the kerb, directly in front of me. Although the cab didn’t stop, the folding door on my side opened. I quickly clambered in. Much to my surprise, there sat Holmes. He tapped once on the ceiling of the cab and off we sped.
Before I could utter a word, my friend chimed in, ”Well, Watson, it was a masterful ruse, if I must say so myself. We are now following the followers. Finally, some positive action.”
I could only mutter under my breath.
”Ah, good old Watson. Following my instructions blindly and without question, but not knowing what this is all about. Yet here you sit. I do not mean to make light of the present situation,” said my friend, ”but a man has never had so trusting and loyal a companion as I have in you.”
Holmes tensed as he explained our plight. ”Watson, the man who had been watching your apartment was careless, and we were fortunate to sniff him out so quickly. I deduced that since he was already there when I arrived at your flat, I was also under surveillance, though
I could not pick up on him. I think it logical that whoever it is behind all this would be clever enough to cover us both.”
My eyes had widened at Holmes’ latest revelation, but he indicated that I keep my silence. ”You may have heard a lot of commotion when I came in, but I correctly attributed the sound—deadening qualities the fog would have on my voice,” Holmes said. “I was sure that once I closed the door to the inner hall, no sound would carry to the outside. And since I entered your dwelling unobserved from the rear entrance, I was able to avoid detection by our pursuer.” Holmes added, “Oh, by the way, I'm afraid I owe a sincere apology to your landlady. It was happenstance that she came out of her apartment at the precise moment that I attempted to gain access to the upper landing. I do believe that we were both startled to confusion.”
I chuckled at the thought of the indignant Mrs. Trambler's face as she found herself face to face with Sherlock Holmes.
The great detective continued, ”The door you heard crashing when I left was— and again, I must apologize—your landlady's. I slammed it shut on her when I went out the back. She must have left it open to keep track of my comings and goings.”
Indeed, I did owe the poor woman an apology or two.