Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus

by P. C. Martin

  Chapter Eight

  Mycroft Holmes called at our flat at around three o'clock the following afternoon.

  “Brother Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” said she, “I must firstly proffer my most earnest thanks to both of you. Your assistance and efforts in this perplexing and devious case have not by any means been unappreciated.”

  I bowed my head slightly in humble acknowledgement of her thanks. Holmes appeared to be in a doze.

  “I'm sorry I could not come in last night, Sherlock,” continued the lady, addressing her brother. "I was unexpectedly summoned to Windsor. I wished you could have accompanied me. However, despite her Majesty's profound gratefulness for your participation in this case, she expressed a certain disappointment at our lack of positive achievement so far.”

  From deep within the cushions of Holmes' chair came a sonorous laugh. Holmes' figure, following the sound, emerged suddenly from the cozy depths, and made for the large plate of sandwiches Mrs Hudson had sent up with tea.

  “Too bad,” said he, in between mouthfuls. “I do hope you told her gracious Majesty that the matter is not yet closed, sister Mycroft.”

  “Indeed, Sherlock, that is precisely what I did not do.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because if we are to follow the trail which has been laid out before us, we must not be hampered by insignificant details, still less by official recognition. If we admit defeat, that is, that the submarine plans are lost to us forever, we can then continue our investigations uninhibited by the usual pressures of state and Empire. If we locate the Engine cards in the process, well and good. If not, which is the more likely, we shall at least have the satisfaction of probing these fresh circumstances to their depths.”

  “True,” said Sherlock, brightening. “My dear sister, I really must congratulate you. What is the recovery of a few Engine cards in light of the plot we have caught wind of?”

  I admit that my confusion grew increasingly during the exchange between brother and sister.

  “Now just a minute, Holmes,” I broke in, “what's this all about? What plot? Whose plot?”

  “Ah, that is what we must discover, my good Watson,” replied Holmes, taking up another sandwich. “But if my sister is correct, and I am prepared to bet all my worldly goods that she is, this little case we have undertaken to solve is a mere song-and-dance routine masking the surface of a great cauldron of mysterious doings. Our friend Pierre Nemo, alias Peter von Oberon, alias Pierrot, revealed rather more to me than he might have otherwise, had he known better. I wish I knew where to find him now.”

  “Is he not dead?” I queried, in some surprise.

  “I would give much to know that for certain, Watson,” said Holmes. “This case has had several features of interest, and this latest is the most interesting of all. Is Nemo dead, and if he is not, where is he now?”

  “That will soon be ascertained,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Already our international agents have been set to work researching his known contacts and tracing his past history. We know that he attended university in Berlin as Peter von Oberon, and subsequently took employment as an international agent for Moriarty Industrial; the name 'Pierre Nemo' has not yet appeared on any register at our disposal. But we are placing our sensors in every crevice imaginable, and if he is alive, we shall know it before long. Here we must deeply lament the loss of Sir James Valentine; he knew more about Nemo's ancestry than any other. His assistance would have been most invaluable to us at this juncture."

  "What about the Rajput warriors that were captured?” Holmes asked. “Have none of them squealed?"

  "The police haven't been able to get them to speak a word, yet," said Mycroft; "at least not in a language anybody in Christendom can understand."

  "The sacred tongue of the Rajput order," said I. "It is passed down from father to son, and taught to no outsiders, save only select students of their arts."

  "I have no doubt that your people will tickle an English-speaking nerve before long," said Holmes soothingly. "Or perhaps one of your men could acquire the necessary fluency by becoming apprentice to another Rajput band in North India. In the meantime, there are other tracks to follow."

  "What tracks?" I asked.

  "Several are open before us, and one is most promising. The submarine designed by the original Nemo contained some very interesting articles of machinery, which must have been made upon specific order by some unsuspecting manufacturer. Most likely the Captain selected a different provider for each piece of equipment, so as not to arouse untimely suspicions, and it follows that each piece was ordered under a different name; however, there must have been a point of convergence someplace, which, when traced, must lead to the center of our spider's web."

  "But Holmes," said I, "you said that the stolen submarine plans are inconsequential compared to the new plot you have unmasked. What then is the purpose of tracing the origin of equipment built over twenty years ago?"

  Holmes looked towards his sister, who, after a short contemplative pause, undertook to reply.

  "The Nautilus was a technological miracle from end to end. Its steam generator for internal systems and propulsion remained a complete mystery to our experienced Navy builders and scientists, even after two years of intense study; the steam engine used to propel the submarine was powered neither by H202, nor coal, but by something entirely different. There was a complete electricity-based auxiliary system, but the submarine's truly marvelous feats of prowess were apparently performed under the influence of some energy quite unknown to us. The team in charge of rebuilding the submarine were, of course, aware of this problem. The plan was to build the submarine exactly according to the plans, and use the auxiliary electric system to power the vessel until its main power source could be properly researched and defined. Sir James argued that, once the ship was built and in motion, a better understanding of its mysterious workings could be obtained. However, now that we no longer possess the ability to recreate this marvelous machine, we are faced with a series of staggering questions. What exactly is this new energy that we know nothing of? When was it discovered? Who discovered it, and how? How did Nemo acquire his knowledge, if indeed he did not discover it himself? What are its limitations? If such a powerful agent of force can be used to sustain a submarine, to what other ends can it be employed? Did Nemo alone possess the knowledge of its usage? I, for one, do not think he was alone in his knowledge. If there are others, who are they, where are they, and most importantly, what do they intend to do with this power?”

  Understanding began to dawn on me as I listened to Mycroft Holmes' words. I uttered an exclamation of wonder.

  "But this inquiry will be a colossal undertaking. It may take years!"

  Mycroft Holmes smiled gently. "That is undoubtedly true, Dr. Watson. The investigation of this affair cannot be rushed along, for it promises to run a great deal deeper than anything we can even imagine at present. Fortunately, we do not lack for clues to help us direct our search, and I have every faith in the agent I have employed."

  "Yes, it proposes to be by far the most interesting problem I have ever undertaken to tackle," said Holmes, complacently sending reels of blue smoke curling heavenwards. "It will be a refreshing diversion from the humdrum routine of my career of late. Petty crimes, committed by petty criminals, with petty, uninteresting minds. So few of my cases these days rise out of the commonplace morass of human indecency and pettiness. Even this Nemo, who at first interested me greatly as a specimen, proved himself to be a great deal duller than I had at first given him credit. And as for Miss Valentine..."

  "A scheming minx," said Mycroft Holmes, rising from her chair. "Reprehensible in all her ways. Heaven knows she has done a great deal of damage in her short lifetime. Thank goodness we need trouble ourselves no further on her account. Well, Sherlock, you will hear from me again soon. Good-bye."

  During the months following our adventures in the case of the stolen Engine cards, the tenor of our lives was not significantly alt
ered, though Holmes often went out on solitary excursions that sometimes lasted up to several days, and he refused a good many clients. His energies, it seemed, he reserved for the strange web of mysteries which he and his sister had stumbled upon, surrounding the origin of the Nautilus submarine, and he diligently followed up every line of inquiry he could get hold of, though he was uncharacteristically taciturn in his conversations with me on the subject. It was all I could do to get him to speak of the matter at all.

  The missing Engine cards did not resurface, and the Navy was unable to build its Nautilus submarine. The various deaths associated with the theft were explained away in a satisfactory fashion to the hungry masses of the nation, and, for which I was truly grateful, no mention was made of the devilish suspicions surrounding the late Victoria Valentine. Her death was attributed to a tragic accident, which, though lamented by the public, nevertheless was considered a merciful occurrence, in the wake of her brother's death, and that of her fiancé Arthur Cadbury. No mention was published of Peter von Oberon.

  This affair is a matter now of history—that secret history of a nation which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its public chronicles.

  End of Manuscript—Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus © 2011 by Noble Beast