The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Holmes, no!’ As I leapt up to follow, two burly policemen tackled me and brought me to the ground. I lunged up and onto my knees, but they held me back. Between their struggling forms, I saw my friend plunge through the doorway and into the inferno.

  ‘Dear God, Holmes!’

  ‘Stop him!’ someone cried.

  ‘Nobody can go in there now,’ said the policeman to me.

  ‘But that’s my friend!’

  ‘Say goodbye. You’re not going in there.’

  It took three of them to hold me back. Both curtains were now burnt, and we had a clear view of the conflagration that was once Mycroft Holmes’s sitting-room.

  I saw Holmes’s tall figure moving through the flames. He bent as if to inspect something on the floor.

  ‘Holmes!’ I shouted.

  He stood again and moved uncertainly away from the window. It was hard to see. He appeared to bend down again. Or did he fall?

  I was shouting uncontrollably. A fourth policeman joined us, but they could barely contain me. As I tried to break free from them, a miraculous vision presented itself.

  On the landing just in front of the door appeared the tall, angular figure of Sherlock Holmes, silhouetted against the flames, carrying in his arms the limp figure of Heffie O’Malley. Behind him roared orange flames. In front of him the inky night suddenly lit up with a blue flash. A photographer!

  Holmes took a step forward and paused. I noticed flames licking the cuffs of his trousers. They were on fire! Sparks rose from the material, and he stumbled.

  In an instant, three firemen converged on Holmes. One scooped Heffie from his arms and two others caught him and conveyed him from the landing to the front walkway, laying him on the pavement. A man flung a thick, wet blanket over his legs as another threw one over the still form of Heffie. Their clothing sizzled and steamed.

  The policemen holding me released their grip and I ran towards my friend, but a fireman blocked me.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ I shouted. ‘A doctor!’ They let me pass.

  Holmes lay still on the pavement, eyes closed, his clothing scorched and smoking. Unconscious? I took up his good hand and felt for the pulse. He was alive! In that moment, that was all that mattered. I stared down at his soot-blackened face.

  Holmes opened his eyes. ‘Watson,’ he said. ‘Heffie?’

  I turned to see the girl sitting up, wrapped in wet blankets. She was conscious and being given water to drink. She coughed and looked over at us.

  ‘She is safe,’ I nodded. His eyes closed. Two men approached with a stretcher and I stepped back to let them through.

  CHAPTER 29

  Embers

  The next morning, Holmes was stretched out on the divan of our sitting-room, his lower legs carefully bandaged by me, with help from another doctor on the scene. I had once again given him morphine and was keeping a careful eye on his respiration. The morning papers were spread before me on the dining table. Front page centre was a large, dramatic illustration of Holmes, standing tall in the doorway of Mycroft’s home, fire raging behind him, the flames lapping the lower part of his trouser legs, sparks everywhere as he carried the unconscious Heffie in his arms. The illustrator had enjoyed a certain liberty: Holmes looked demonic.

  The headline read, ‘Inhuman Detective Braves Hell to Save Girl’. Below that, in smaller letters, ‘But leaves brother to die in St James inferno’.

  The byline, of course, was Gabriel Zanders. In it, he described Holmes as having superhuman powers to have been able to walk through flames. ‘Only a creature from heaven or hell could withstand the violent conflagration through which he ventured to save a dying girl.’ I shook my head in disgust. Below this was more sobering news. ‘The body of Mycroft Holmes, the detective’s older brother, was found burned nearly beyond recognition in his own sitting-room. The cause of the blaze was not confirmed, but believed to be a kind of incendiary device. The explosive attack was attributed to anarchists.’ I felt ill.

  Further down on the page the article offered theories why Sherlock Holmes ‘rescued a street orphan but failed to save his own brother’. I sighed in frustration. Even in the face of heroism, Zanders persisted in pursuing his agenda of making Holmes seem both inhuman and errant.

  A groan interrupted my reading. Holmes was surfacing into consciousness and I was instantly by his side. His eyes opened halfway, then closed as he was hit by a wall of pain. In my own life, of the many injuries I suffered through my army career including gunshot wounds, broken bones and pleurisy, I recall burns as perhaps the most painful of all.

  Holmes groaned again. ‘Morphine …?’ he mumbled.

  ‘I have it right here,’ I said, readying a hypodermic.

  ‘No. No more!’ He held up his good hand. ‘How much have you …?’

  ‘Quite a bit, Holmes. Do not concern yourself with that.’

  ‘How long have I been out?’

  ‘Six hours. You were very lucky. Your clothing was on fire. Mostly first-degree burns below the knee. Some may blister. We will have to keep an eye—’

  ‘What of Heffie!’ His voice was cutting, his eyes opened wide.

  ‘She is upstairs, sleeping. She suffered smoke inhalation but will be fine. You were just in time. Though, my God, Holmes, that was a foolhardy move.’

  ‘I sent the girl into peril. I could never forgive—’ He began to cough. ‘Give me today’s newspapers,’ he ordered, struggling to sit up. I hesitated, then helped prop him up with pillows and handed him the papers. He fumbled, one-handed, with the large pages. ‘Damn this hand!’

  ‘Dr Meredith rewired your fingers last night. He was not happy with you.’

  Holmes stared at the front page which I had laid out on his lap. He exhaled sharply in disgust. ‘Zander! He cannot leave this Devil thing alone.’ He scanned the article, then closed his eyes and sank back into the cushions. ‘Read me the agony columns.’

  ‘Holmes, perhaps you missed … It says they found your brother’s body—’

  ‘I read it. And yes, I saw the body. Please, Watson, the agony columns. Do as I ask.’

  The combination of shock, pain and the drugs had addled his brain. He had come upon his brother’s body, half destroyed in the fire. Why would he wish to read gossip and personal notices right now? In the early days of his practice, before Holmes had made a name for himself, before clients of all ages and means flocked to his door, he had sometimes found new cases in the agony columns. He had continued to read them for amusement, and to keep up with the rhythm of the city. But right now? Shock, perhaps. His brother was dead. I could barely fathom it myself.

  Just then, Heffie appeared at the door, pale but alert and moving normally. She cast a worried look at Holmes, approached and sat near him on a chair. She reached out to touch him, but I shook my head and she pulled back her hand. ‘Thanks, Mr ’olmes. I understand you carried me out o’ there last night.’

  ‘He needs rest,’ said I.

  ‘Foolish of you to go in there, Heffie,’ Holmes murmured.

  ‘Your brother, sir. ’Alf burnt up when I got there.’

  ‘I saw the remains,’ said he. ‘There was not much left when I arrived. What did you notice?’

  Heffie hesitated, looking to me for reassurance. I nodded. He had better hear what she had to say, the sooner the better.

  ‘Did you see who it was?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I don’t know your brother,’ said she. ‘It was a big ’eavy man in a nice suit.’

  ‘Hair. Did you see his hair?’ Holmes was trying to sit up.

  ‘Top of ’im was gone. Some kind o’ explosion, I reckon. Body was more burnt than anything nearby. No face left. No ’ead, really.’

  ‘An explosive, followed by some kind of incendiary device. My brother normally would not miss something so obvious.’ He waved the finger of his right hand in the air dismissively.

  ‘Holmes!’ Even knowing him as I did, his dissociation shocked me.

  ‘Shoes. What kind of shoes?’ he
persisted.

  ‘Cheap boots. Scuffed,’ said the girl.

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘How could you notice that, Heffie?’ I wondered.

  ‘That is why we employ her, Watson. Good, Heffie. It was not Mycroft, then.’

  ‘Then who was it?’ I exclaimed. ‘And why would—?’

  ‘My brother wants the world to think he’s dead.’

  ‘Because he is H, next on the list after G?’ I said.

  ‘It is likely. As you said, H was next. And Lady Eleanor Gainsborough, if she is on the list, is protected by Lestrade and his men. The Goodwins, if they heeded my warning, are also out of reach. The killer grows impatient. Part of my plan.’

  ‘Holmes, are you certain the body was not Mycroft’s? It could be him in someone else’s, er … shoes? How can you know?’

  ‘Because of this.’ He pointed to something on the page spread upon his lap.

  I took it up and read, from the agonies:

  ‘“Achy. The palace wood, the bizarre on your road, the sun at highest, entreat, request, desire. Filially, fly aloft.”’

  I flung the thing down. ‘This is nonsense!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What on earth does it mean, then?’

  ‘It is a message from my brother,’ said Holmes. ‘“Filially, fly aloft.” Brother Mycroft. It is our code.’

  ‘But what of the rest?’

  ‘Shakespeare, Midsummer Night’s Dream. “And I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you to con them by tomorrow night and meet me in the palace wood …” You see, I am to meet him. Secretly!’

  ‘Well, it is not very secret if you are telling me. But when and where?’

  ‘“The sun at highest” – he means noon. What time is it now?’ He sat up, looking about him in a panic. The clock near the door had stopped at three. ‘Three?’ he shouted. ‘Dear God, how long have I been out? I must run!’

  ‘Calm yourself. The clock stopped.’ I consulted my watch. ‘It is only eleven-thirty. But where, Holmes? You are manic. You may still be in shock.’

  ‘Bring me my boots! Heffie! Where are they? What time is it?’ He continued to shout.

  ‘Not a good idea, Holmes. Sit back down. I just told you it is half-past eleven.’

  ‘Good. Still time! My boots!’

  ‘Holmes, there was a dead body in Mycroft’s flat. Who killed that person? And if it was not Mycroft, who was it?’

  Heffie brought Holmes his boots and set them down before him. He sat down and picked one up with his good hand.

  ‘That is of little importance, Watson.’

  ‘Well, I am glad you think so. The police, however—’

  ‘Wheat from chaff, Watson, wheat from chaff!’ he shouted. ‘Discerning the relevant details from the irrelevant!’ He leaned down and was struggling with his one hand and bandaged lower limbs to put on the first of his boots. He was truly manic. Holmes had idiosyncratic reactions to drugs, that I knew.

  ‘What is relevant is for you to rest!’ I insisted.

  ‘’Ere, I’ll ’elp you,’ said Heffie, leaning down to do so. I shook my head at her, but she ignored me.

  ‘Tie these,’ Holmes ordered. Then, to me, suddenly reasonable: ‘My brother must have found a corpse with similar proportions in a morgue, Watson. Remember, Mycroft has the government and all of its personnel at his beck and call.’

  I was shouting into the wind with Holmes. They continued to struggle with his boots. I gently edged Heffie aside and began to help, purposely slowing the process.

  ‘Holmes, you are not in your right mind,’ I said. He picked up the paper and stared once more at the agony notice he claimed was from Mycroft.

  He paused, then gasped and jumped to his feet. ‘Achy! Of course! Mycroft figured it out.’ He looked about him in a panic. ‘A key. A is key! Let me see the Anson files, Watson.’

  ‘Yes, only sit back down to read them.’

  He did so, and I brought him the thick police file from the table. He thumbed through the pages in a rush. He was shaking with something – excitement, shock, madness, perhaps. This whole thing was lunacy. I wondered if this published newspaper ‘message’ was misinterpreted by a brain twisted by too much pain and too many drugs. I was also worried that he could die from the exertion. In the manner of a family member who accompanies a chronic drunk to a pub, was I assisting in my friend’s self-destruction?

  Holmes was not so far disturbed that he failed to notice my concern. ‘Stop worrying, Doctor. There will be time for that later.’ He continued to read, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Five minutes passed. He flung the file to the floor. ‘Yes, Anson!’ he shouted, ‘Of course!’

  He sprang to his feet, upending newspapers and files and sending them flying. He moaned in pain and staggered, and Heffie scrambled after him, ducking under his good arm to hold him up. His head swivelled back and forth. ‘What time is it now?’ he shouted. ‘The clock has stopped.’

  I was convinced he had lost all reason. We had just discussed the time. ‘It is ten to twelve.’ I turned my back on Holmes and reached into my doctor’s bag.

  ‘Get me my coat! I am to meet Mycroft in ten minutes!’

  I glanced back to see Heffie take his greatcoat from its hook near the door and hold it up to him. He struggled into it. Could he be running into some kind of a trap? And in this desperate state? I waivered, then made a decision. My back still to Holmes, I loaded up a hypodermic and primed it.

  I crossed to him, took one coat sleeve and yanked it down. Without hesitation, I plunged a needle straight through his shirt and into his arm, injecting a strong dose of morphine, rather faster than was recommended. ‘You are going nowhere in this state, Holmes,’ I said.

  ‘No!’ he cried, and recoiled, pulling his arm away so quickly that the hypodermic remained embedded. He looked down at it in horror, yanked it from his arm, and flung it across the room, where the glass splintered into pieces.

  ‘Idiot! Get Lestrade. He is with Lady Eleanor. I … I … I … Oh, damn you …’ And he collapsed from the drug like a marionette with cut strings.

  Heffie and I caught him and laid him back down on the sofa. We then gently removed the coat, which had only been halfway on. I checked his eyes, his pulse, his breathing. Had I done the right thing? I was not sure. I have never, perhaps, doubted my medical choices so severely. I looked at his pale face, covered in sweat. Holmes surely had not been in his right mind and was manic beyond a doubt. Was there really a coded message from his brother or was the whole thing the ravings of a man in shock?

  I pulled his sleeve back to make sure the needle had not broken off in his arm. It had not. But I would do as he asked and contact Lestrade. Together, perhaps the inspector and I could figure out what would be best for my fallen friend.

  I picked up the shattered hypodermic from where Holmes had flung it, determined that it was useless, and threw it into the receptacle under his desk. I locked my doctor’s case. ‘Watch him,’ I urged Heffie, and after one more glance at Holmes I ran downstairs to send Billy for Lestrade, whom I presumed was still at Lady Eleanor’s house. ‘Hurry!’ I urged him.

  I could not leave the patient for long. I ran back upstairs, expecting to find Holmes as I had left him. Inconceivably, he was awake and standing, face alight with a feverish concentration, breathing heavily. As I entered, he finished injecting something into his arm and yanked out the needle, panting heavily.

  My doctor’s bag lay open. Heffie stood next to it, a piece of wire in her hand which she had no doubt used to open the lock. In her other hand was an empty medicine bottle. Traitorous girl! Her terrified eyes bored into my own, begging forgiveness. In two steps, I bounded over to her, snatching up the bottle.

  Cocaine.

  ‘Foolish girl! How much did you give him?’ I found I was shouting.

  ‘I didn’t give ’im,’ she said. ‘’E took.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘All of it,’ she said in a tiny voice.

  I turned. Holmes st
ood in the centre of the room, his face a ghostly white. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His jaw was slack as he breathed in deep, rasping breaths.

  ‘Dear God! You will kill yourself! Morphine and cocaine together can stun the heart, Holmes!’

  Heffie backed away, terrified for the first time.

  ‘I am fine!’ shouted Holmes. ‘Pain is gone!’ He flexed his good arm, rolled his head alarmingly on his neck. He appeared inhuman. Uncanny. It was like Frankenstein’s Monster awakening in a new, unknown body.

  ‘Holmes! You are as far from fine as I’ve ever seen you! You could die from this!’

  He stared at me, not hearing. Then he closed his eyes and shuddered.

  A commotion from below was followed by feet pounding up the stairs. It was Lestrade. He must have been en route when we sent for him. But why? In any case, I was relieved to see help arrive.

  ‘My God, I saw the papers. Mr Holmes, what a time!’ cried the inspector. ‘But more bad news, gentlemen. Oliver Flynn has disappeared. Murdered, we think. An explosion at his house last night. He escaped, but then there were bloodstains on the— er, Mr Holmes, are you all right?’

  Holmes was weaving about the room like a drunkard, looking for something. He looked up. ‘Oliver Flynn is safe in France!’ he shouted. ‘The blood is fake! I organized his disappearance. It is a ruse. He and his family are hiding until—’

  ‘Sit down, Holmes!’ I entreated. ‘Help me with him, Lestrade!’

  The inspector made a move toward Holmes as I closed in on my friend.

  ‘Stay away!’ Holmes roared. We both froze.

  ‘Is it true, then, about Oliver Flynn?’ asked the inspector. I nodded. He looked relieved.

  ‘Who is with Lady Eleanor?’ Holmes demanded.

  ‘Perkins and Mead. Two of my best.’ Lestrade turned to me. ‘Dr Watson, he looks unwell.’

  ‘She may not be safe,’ slurred Holmes. ‘Help me on with this coat.’

  Lestrade looked at me and I shook my head no.

  ‘Mr Holmes, listen to the doctor,’ said the inspector. ‘I am so terribly sorry about your brother, sir. The fire—’