Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus

by P. C. Martin

  “And you scheduled your coup for Monday night.”

  “We did.”

  “I believe I can tell you what happened then,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and half-closing his eyes. “Do check me if I am in error upon any point. Miss Valentine broke into the Arsenal Office at around eight o'clock, having first provided herself with copies of her brother's keys, which by taking a wax impression was easily done. Having purloined the cards, she proceeded to your house in Kensington, as planned, never dreaming that she had been followed.

  “Arthur Cadbury, who happened to walk by the Offices on his way to his tryst with Miss Valentine, observed--for there is a significant crack between the shutters--that a light had been lit within the office. Instantly suspicious, but not wishing to unduly alarm the guards unnecessarily—for it might have been the chief at work—he crept through the yew hedge, and peering through this breach, spotted Miss Valentine inside. Instead of confronting her immediately, he decided to follow her and discover where she was taking the cards. He proceeded to dog her from a distance, arriving at last at your house in Kensington, where he observed her meeting with you. A violent scene ensued, during the course of which Arthur Cadbury met his death, very likely by accident and not by premeditated design.

  “Faced with the disagreeable necessity of disposing of his corpse, you opted to place it atop one of the trains which, by happy coincidence, pass not five feet below your window. A man of your physique and length of arm should have found it no great exertion. Another stroke of genius, which might have fooled nearly anyone, was the idea of slipping the Engine cards of lesser importance into the dead man's pocket, and so giving rise to the assumption that he had stolen the cards himself, and met his end while attempting to dispose of them. Using your personal Babbage Engine, you were able to first ascertain which of the cards contained the most vital plans.”

  The set face and steady gaze of Pierre Nemo told us that Holmes' deductions had not missed their mark. Holmes continued after a brief pause.

  “From your last messages, I gather that Miss Valentine was to have immediately gone away with you, having obtained the cards. Shocked, however, at the grisly death of her alleged fiancé, for whom she may have had a modicum of sympathy—even the best of women are often susceptible in that respect, you know— she judged herself too upset to fly, and begged a few days' grace, in order that she should not be suspected as his murderess. Quite sensible, too; if she had happened to disappear on the same night as Cadbury's death, a search for her would have been instituted at once, tongues would have doubtless wagged in profusion, and her honor might have been forfeited. As she did not wish to immediately sever all ties with family and country, she returned home, and pretended that her fiancé had run away suddenly, leaving her stranded in the fog. An unlikely story, and yet by its own unusualness difficult to disbelieve.

  “By the way, why did Miss Valentine steal the cards on the very evening in which she was supposed to have accompanied Cadbury to the theater?”

  “It was meant as a blind,” replied Nemo quietly. “How could we suspect that his way would bring him past the Offices where he worked?”

  “And wouldn't Miss Valentine have been framed for the crime of theft? Surely her brother would have suspected her if she and the cards disappeared on the same night.”

  “That had to be risked. I could not bear to go away and leave Victoria behind, even for a moment. We are anxious to be married among my own people, and Victoria was quite sure that, even if her brother suspected that she had taken the cards, he would keep her secret to avoid soiling the family's honor.”

  “Ah, we proceed to another festering mystery. What light can you shed upon the mysterious and sudden death of Sir James Valentine yesterday morning?”

  “None, except what Victoria told me of his letter. He did not give her much detail, but he intimated that one of his department had made off with their most valuable information, and as he was himself head of the department, ultimately accountable for the loss, he could not bear to live with himself, and did not wish to stain his sister's presence with his own disgrace. It was a severe blow to her, poor darling; for she loved him despite his reprehensible actions. I gather that he had always been a good and kind brother to her.”

  “Yes, so it appears, by all accounts. And yet, considering this man's character, it seems odd, does it not, that he should elicit suicide rather than immediately counter the disgrace by actively searching for the lost cards.”

  “Who can know the inner workings of the heart, Mr. Holmes? Perhaps this man had secret sorrows, which, added to this recent calamity, he found he could not bear. Who can say? For myself, I had no wish to harm the man; I was content to retrieve the legacy that my father had left to me, for I alone am entitled to it. I would not have lifted a hand against him who would soon have been my near kinsman.”

  “Well, well, let it be as you say for the present. For my part, I shall not let the matter drop until I have learned the truth. One last question, Mr. Nemo, if I may. How came a gang of fierce Rajput warriors to intercept us at your house last night?”

  “To answer your question, I must relate some details of my family's history. As I told you, my father was of a noble house in India. When he was driven from his ancestral lands, he attempted to find closure in his studies of the sciences, and to this end allied himself with an eminently erudite acquaintance of his, who, I may say, even now cherishes my father's memory with the greatest respect, and who has honored me with his guardianship. It was from this kind friend that I learned many details of my father's life during that period, for the burden of the past weighed very heavily on my father's soul, and he scarcely spoke to me at all of what he called his broken years. From what I was able to learn, my father found that even his friend's kindnesses to him could not efface the growing rage in his soul against the evils of humanity. He severed his ties, and, taking with him men who, equally disgusted with the despotism and tyranny of Man, had placed themselves under his leadership, he sought refuge and solace in the only place where Man's dominion had never prevailed. Having built the Nautilus in secret, he and his men abandoned the dry earth and resigned themselves to a purely nautical and submarine existence. There were, however, among my father's former retainers a band of warriors, of the ancient order of Rajputs, who, though allied in heart to my father, could not bear to part with their sacred traditions, and chose to remain on land. The Rajputs are a fiercely secretive clan, and they were Captain Nemo's only link with the inhabited world while he was at unmitigated enmity with it.

  “When many years later my father found, among a group of shipwrecked survivors whom he had rescued, the wife and child he had lost so many years before, he reconciled with terra firma so far as to anchor the Nautilus in the bay of the uninhabited island which became our home. The Rajputs, learning of my father's good fortune, came to our island and made their abode with us, pledging never again to detach themselves from my family's side. I was made apprentice to their ancient arts, for it was my father's wish, and while I excelled under their tutelage, they became not only my instructors, but my boon companions. They serve me now with the same fierce devotion they tendered my father while he was alive, and I have a company of them at my disposal here, each man of which I count as a personal friend. I deeply grieve the loss of the nine who sought to defend my property last night. Eight were killed, were they not? What has become of the ninth?”

  “He is in custody.”

  “Wounded?”

  “Yes, but not mortally so. I do not like to permanently disable my opponents, no matter how fierce, when I have no direct quarrel with them. And now, Mr. Nemo, though your tale is a moving one, I fear that there are conventionalities that must be attended to. The British Navy Arsenal has been bereft of its most cherished secret, and two of its upstanding keepers have been found dead; as our laws stand, I am afraid that you have much to answer for, and that before a proper Court of Law. I am myself a consulting detective, unaligne
d with the official forces, therefore the matter is not within my hands to judge. I ask you, sir, whether as a gentleman, you will submit your arms and accompany me peaceably, or if you prefer … well, shall we say, the alternative.”

  “I say nothing more, nor submit myself, willingly or otherwise,” said Nemo, “until I have seen Victoria, and received your pledge that she shall be spared from all prosecution. Surely it is plain that she has suffered enough already, and that she is no criminal. The culpability of any transgression on her part must be laid entirely at my feet.”

  “I may grant your first request with ease,” replied Holmes. “The dismissal of all charges against Miss Valentine, however, must be discussed among other circles. Let me assure you, Mr Nemo, that I will personally see that Justice, in its purest form, is accomplished in this case, for my own honor is at stake. If Miss Valentine is not guilty of any crime, which shall quickly be ascertained or disproved, you have no cause to fear for her.”

  Holmes, resuming the harsh tones of Captain Basil, bellowed heartily for a garçon, and handed the fellow a slip of paper upon which he had hastily scrawled a line.

  “Take this wit' my compliments to the dolly 'oo passed just now; she in the fancy black furs.”

  “Righ' away, Cap'n,” replied the waiter, and turned with a bawdy grin to execute his mission.

  Holmes stretched his long legs, and with an attitude of perfect impassiveness and relaxation, pulled out his cigarette case.

  “I see that you are a smoking man, Mr Nemo. Pray, help yourself.” Holmes lit a cigarette and took to earnestly studying his pocket-watch, while Mr Nemo and I each took a cigarette and smoked in silence. Presently Holmes raised his head.

  “Ah, here they come now.”

  We turned our heads in the direction of Holmes' glance and beheld the tall, elegant figure of Mycroft Holmes, accompanied by the younger lady who had passed by our table some time before, whose now-unveiled features proved unmistakably those of Miss Victoria Valentine. They were as unalike to each other as two women can be, yet equally imbued with feminine grace and beauty of figure and motion; they turned every eye along their path, though neither lady appeared to take any notice of the attention they garnered as they walked the length of the club towards our table.

  When they were but a few yards away, Miss Valentine's gentle gaze froze upon my companion, and horror washed her countenance like an equinoctial gale on the deck of a galley. I turned to the object of her vision, and saw, to my surprise, Captain Basil returning her stare, a leering grin spread across his swarthy features.

  “'Ello, Vickie,” said he in a guttural, mocking tone, lifting, as he spoke, his bogus eye-patch from his left eye, and transforming into the shrewd detective of Baker Street. “So we meet again, poppet.”

  My jaw dropped in horrified astonishment at this disrespectful sally, so uncharacteristic of Holmes, and most unworthy of his chivalrous nature.

  “I beg your pardon, sir!” cried Nemo, springing to his feet. But Miss Valentine's reply was the most startling.

  “You!” she shrieked, eyes blazing with fury and horror; she seized a long heavy pin from among the folds of her elaborate headgear, and hurled it at Holmes with all her might.

  Chapter Six

  We gasped in uniform surprise. Victoria Valentine's long stiletto-bladed pin whizzed past us and embedded itself with a thud into the wooden partition which backed Holmes' bench, inches away from his head.

  In an instant Mycroft Holmes had seized the girl's wrist, arresting her sudden attempt to fly, and clapped a gun to her head. Pierre Nemo leaped forward with an indignant shout, brandishing a terrible-looking weapon, but Holmes' crop flew up and knocked it from his grasp, which intervention so enraged the man, he seized his own stick and swung heavily at Holmes. I had scarce time to spring to my feet before pandemonium had erupted inside the club. Alerted, no doubt, by Miss Valentine's screams as she struggled against Miss Holmes' restraining grasp, every man was on his feet, every pistol and knife and weapon leveled. Amid the cries and confusion came the report of a gun, and then it seemed every firearm reacted in its turn, and the room was alive with gunshots, men rushing from the shadows, leaping through the curtains, springing madly from every recess, into a chaotic melee.

  In my shock I had remained rooted in my place, my mechanical arm poised to attack or defend, when suddenly the scene before me became clear. Mycroft's agents, strategically hidden within the club's many nooks and crevices, or mingled among the guests, had leaped into action at some given signal, and those loyal to Nemo—or, as was equally possible, those scoundrels who tenanted and frequented this barbarous establishment—were responding in like fashion to the sudden aggression. There was a rush of bodies towards the doors, as the more timid, or more compromised, of the clientèle attempted to beat a hasty retreat.

  A fresh infusion of police whistles and uniformed men scurrying into the great subterranean chamber through various entrances alerted me that not only our own quarry but every other illegal procedure in the club had ample cause for fear that night.

  At that moment a large pewter tankard sailed through the air towards me, and I ducked only in time to avoid an intimate acquaintance with it, though I could not wholly avoid a light shower of choice ale as it smashed into the wall behind me. The tankard was followed a second later by a huge hulking form, who in his crashing fall managed to upset our table, one of the benches, and my person; I extricated myself from the scene of collision without any great injury, though the human projectile remained a senseless heap under the mangled furniture.

  In the confusion, Holmes was separated from his original opponent, and had barricaded himself behind an overturned table, his revolver spitting murderously at intervals against a gang of ruffians, who, no doubt having recognized the famous detective, had singled him out as their principle enemy. Miss Holmes' appearance was that of a great biped panther, for her black fur train was thrown about her shoulders, and with her face ensconced in the same half-mask that had enveloped her in our last encounter with enemies, she was emptying the charges of two Moriarty-727 pistols into a line of armed roughs, which fast dispersed as some of their number collapsed. Realizing that both Holmes and his sister were otherwise engaged, I scanned our surroundings for the man and woman whom we had originally come to seek.

  It appeared that Miss Valentine, having somehow wrenched herself free from Mycroft's grasp, had turned at once to escape; Nemo, on his part, had taken advantage of Holmes' diverted attention to break away from their fight and join his lover in retreat. My eyes, smarting in the smoke-laden atmosphere, quickly caught sight of his tall figure darting through the chamber, picking his way, as it were, across a debris-strewn battlefield peopled with crazed warriors. Not three yards ahead of him, halfway towards the exit, ran Miss Valentine, plainly recognizable by her blonde head, severely disarranged by the absence of the long hairpin which had kept her locks in place. I started forward to follow and arrest their flight, but as I did so, the woman suddenly gave a shriek, and with a paroxysm of motion, collapsed upon the ground.

  The man behind her screamed her name in a heart-wrenching cry of anguish and agony I shall never forget. He flung himself down by her side. My training as a battlefield medico sprang instinctively into action. In an instant I had crossed the room, heedless of the flying projectiles all about me, and knelt by the woman's fallen figure. She had been struck down by a great volley of bullets; her blood soaked through her vestures and pooled about her on the ground.

  I toiled over the lady in a desperate and futile attempt to save her life. Pierre Nemo knelt opposite me by his lover's prostrate form; he alternately caressed her brow and assisted my actions, as great tears dropped from his face onto the bloody mass of clothing and hair which lay between us. He held her limp hand tightly, kissed her fingers and face profusely, all the while whispering endearments in a language I could not understand, though I thought it might be German.

  The shattered body of Victoria Valentine lay heav
ing, unresponsive to my efforts, until one last long moan of anguish escaped her lips, her eyes became glassy, and the motion of her chest subsided into stillness. Feverishly I cast aside my last reserves, and attempted by every means in my power to bring the breath of life back into the corpse before me. All my efforts were in vain.

  I looked up, conceding defeat at last, from the patient who was beyond my reach, to the face of the man before me. His fine, wide-set black eyes, streaming in the profusion of his grief, met mine at that moment, and read in my expression the conclusion of all hope.

  His look will haunt me until I too meet my last rest in silence. Never have I witnessed a more poignant baring of another human soul as in that instant, when every vestige of Pierre Nemo's loss and grief was transmitted from his eyes to mine. I could have wept with him, and indeed my own eyes stung with a sudden flux of moisture. We neither of us said a word; for one moment all time was suspended, and the two of us knelt, alone in an empty world of silence, beside the hollow cocoon which had housed the beautiful Victoria Valentine.

  Suddenly the moment was broken, the silence shattered, the deafening shouts and noise of gunfire and mayhem once more surged up in my ears and pounded through my brain. Nemo's eyes hardened, rage and hatred welled up, expelling the pathetic grief from his countenance, and he gave a bass cry that chilled the blood in my veins. Then, flinging his lover's corpse across his shoulders, he rose to his feet, and ran through the confusion towards the door.

  Sherlock Holmes brushed past me at that moment, running after the fleeing Nemo, a smoking revolver in one hand, as I remained in my posture of genuflection, deeply moved by all that I had just witnessed.

  “Been amusing yourself, have you, Watson?” he called to me in passing. “Hurry, man, hurry!” A menacing figure suddenly rose up before him from the shadows, barring his way to the door; Holmes swatted away this obstruction with his loaded crop, and disappeared through the aperture. I followed after Holmes up the rotting steps and along the passageway to the door by which we had first entered.