Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  I can only be sorry that the case ended without firm conclusion, for it did, as Holmes promised me that night on the Embankment, show me unsuspected colors in the spectrum of human mentality and human existence. Yet this was not an unmixed blessing. For though I know that my fever dream was no more than that—a fantastic hallucination brought on by illness and by Carnaki’s own curious monomania about otherworld cults and ancient writings—sometimes in the shadowland between sleep and waking I think of that terrible blue-lit abyss that lies beneath an old priory on the borders of Wales, and imagine that I hear the eerie piping of chaos rising up out of blasphemous angles of night. And in my dreams I see again the enigmatic Miss Delapore, standing before the chittering congregation of nightmares, holding aloft in her hands the skull of Lord Rupert Grimsley: the skull that now reposes in a corner of Holmes’s room, wrapped in its red cardboard box.

  The Mystery of

  the Worm

  JOHN PELAN

  I have reviewed the remarkable facts of this narrative and conclude that even now, in a world where air travel is considered unremarkable and engines of war can spit death from the skies, the world is not yet ready for the truths exposed in it. The events of that awful night in 1894 shall remain chronicled in these pages, safely among my other papers until such a time as our world is prepared to learn great and terrifying truths.

  Over the years my friend Sherlock Holmes has had his share of odd visitors, from women of the hysterical type in various sorts of distress to members of the royal family, ludicrously disguised in an effort to maintain a degree of anonymity. Whatever the nature of the errand, whatever the request for aide, Holmes has, as may be expected, remained the perfect gentleman and treated one and all with courtesy and aplomb. The unusual sequence of events culminating in the affair that I have previously referred to as “The Case of the Remarkable Worm Said to be Unknown to Science” began in the late spring of 1894, some mere weeks after the conclusion of the business with the ferocious Colonel Moran.

  Holmes and I were both in the sitting room, reading; Holmes, a monograph on Egyptology by Professor Rockhill, and I indulging in a weakness for the sensational with Dick Donovan’s latest mystery novel. I knew Donovan slightly from the Savage Club and had always needed to be discreet within earshot, lest references to friends’ cases should find their way in fictionalized form into one of his lurid shockers.

  We were startled from our reading by the sudden rap at the door. An unexpected guest! Holmes rose quickly and showed our visitor in with all due courtesy. The man was perhaps thirty, tall and lean but moving with a grace that belied his size and athletic build. He had with him a small bag, which he placed carefully on the table before taking the seat that Holmes indicated.

  He looked at my friend. “You would be Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective?” At Holmes’s nod, he turned to me. “Thus making you Dr. John Watson?”

  “Yes.”

  Satisfied that he was in the correct apartment, our guest withdrew a small wooden case and handed us each a card, on which was printed:

  DR. ROBERT BEECH

  Entomologist

  “I am engaged in the study of insects; those that are native to Africa and the Far East are my area of specialty. I have come to you gentlemen with a bit of a problem that has me perplexed and I have hopes that Mr. Holmes can perhaps be of assistance.”

  Holmes said nothing, but steepled his hands and looked at our visitor with his full measure of attention.

  “On a recent trip to Egypt, I found some rather unusual items in proximity to one another. I am afraid that the relationship of these items is too far beyond my rather specialized area of study for me to discern any clear sort of meaning. But you, Mr. Holmes, are famous for solving puzzles; would you mind very much having a look at what I have brought along? Your assessment of these items would be most appreciated.”

  Holmes nodded and our visitor opened his bag, carefully taking out three very peculiar items. The first was a cylinder of metal, rather greenish in hue, with an intricate pattern of markings that seemed to me to be completely devoid of any possible meaning. The thing itself was about a foot in length by four inches in width and a thickness of about half that. The markings apparently covered all the surfaces and were a chaotic mélange of whorls, slashes, and geometric shapes. As I peered at the object a pattern of sorts seemed to emerge, but my eyes must have suffered some strain from my recent reading, as the inscriptions seemed to shimmer and shift as I stared at them. Blinking, I turned my attention to the other items on the table.

  The second was a crudely carved stone that looked like nothing so much as a starfish hewn from common quarry rock. While this may have been of some interest to an archaeologist, I could not fathom what possible relationship it had to the metal cylinder or to the repulsive third item.

  The third item was much more in keeping with Dr. Beech’s vocation. It was a large glass vial, which he carefully unwrapped from a thick cloth, revealing the contents: a singularly repulsive worm floating in formaldehyde. The creature was about an inch long and resembled a centipede, though with a good deal fewer legs. The head of the beast displayed nasty-looking mandibles surrounding what appeared to be a stinger or proboscis of some sort. I shuddered involuntarily.

  While many of the lower forms of life seem strange or even repellent to us, there was something about this thing that went beyond physical repugnance. It felt unclean somehow. I was somewhat gratified that the creature was quite dead and at no risk of escaping to go burrowing about in our apartments.

  “The worm,” our guest went on, “is of singular interest, being found in arid deserts in a solitary state with no visible source of nutrients. The other objects are interesting curios, but of no great import, though I thought that, with your knowledge of cryptograms and the like, you might be able to translate the markings on the cylinder.”

  During the whole of this narrative, Holmes’s eyes had darted quickly from the worm to the cylinder to the carved stone. Suddenly he sprang to his feet.

  “Sir, I’ll ask you to leave now. You are no more a professor of entomology than am I. You are a common fraud, and these things you have brought along are of no more interest than the sort of curios that Barnum displayed in his museum. Good day to you.”

  For a moment I thought the stranger would attempt to strike my friend, as he fairly trembled with rage at Holmes’s accusations. But he regained his composure, silently gathered up his things, and left without another word.

  I looked at Holmes quizzically, awaiting some sort of explanation for his uncharacteristic behavior.

  There was a twinkle in his eye as he turned to look at me. “Good old Watson. You think I’ve gone mad from cocaine, that I am addled and cantankerous as the result of the drug. No, no, don’t deny it, old man—it’s plain in your expression. I assure you, I haven’t gone mad, nor was I being any more discourteous than was mandated by the situation. These are deep waters, Watson, deep waters indeed! Our ‘guest’ is a very dangerous man, and I would not have behaved as I did were I not certain that he had only a sword and knife upon him and that your revolver was near at hand.”

  “Great heavens, Holmes, I saw no such devices, though I applied your methods as best I could . . .”

  “Well then, Watson, what did you make of our visitor and his bag of gewgaws? The situation was very transparent.”

  I summarized my observations as I recalled them: “Our man was considerably above average height and athletically built, which, while unusual for a scientist, is not unheard of, particularly as his branch of study calls for a good bit of fieldwork. He was dressed well and carried a walking stick, certainly more as a fashionable accessory than from any physical need. Again, not the usual affectation of a man of science, but again, not unheard of. He was perhaps thirty years of age, young for his profession, but of an age where he would be more likely to be pursuing fieldwork than molding young minds in the halls of academe. All in all, nothing to contravene his story.”
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  “Splendid!” Holmes clapped his hands and leaped to his feet, beginning to pace back and forth. “Watson, you have learned my methods well! Everything you say is accurate and plausible upon the surface. However, you saw only what our visitor wanted you to see and did not truly observe what was there to be observed.

  “The walking stick he carried concealed a sword blade—I have seen its type many a time. You failed to note the unusual head of the cane that provides for a guard and grip necessary for combat. That in itself is not damning, but taken with the other evidence, it is clear that our man is not who he claims to be.

  “Did you not take note of his wrists? His right was at least an inch or more thicker in diameter than the left. This, coupled with the calluses on his right hand, is indicative of a man who spends a good deal of time handling a sword—which, in turn, is suggestive of a duelist. Further, I noted his tendency to place his weight on the balls of his feet; again, the mark of a man who spends no little time in practicing swordplay.”

  “Holmes!” I exclaimed. “That’s astonishing. You could not possibly have had more than a slight glimpse of his wrists.”

  My friend smiled and continued his explanation. “Did you not note his curious tan?”

  “Of course I did—he looks like he has recently been burned red as an Indian.”

  “Precisely, Watson; and that is exactly what I found curious about it. A man who truly spent a good deal of time out of doors would display a much deeper and more even sort of coloring, consistent with frequent exposure to the sun over a prolonged period. Our man has the appearance of your average Londoner after his first trip to a sunny clime; hardly likely if he were telling us the truth about his occupation. Further, his calling card gave no address; a common enough practice of the world traveler, but, taken with the intensity of his tan, it immediately suggested fraud. Our man is most emphatically not accustomed to any location more exotic than our own coast.

  “No, Watson; there is an odd game afoot here and I would like to be sure of the identity of our opponent. I suspect that we shan’t have long to wait.”

  The timing of Holmes’s remarks was uncanny; even as he spoke a hansom cab stopped at the curb and a lone passenger disembarked.

  “Watson, fetch your revolver from the drawer and keep it close at hand. Unless I am very much mistaken, the gentleman you see approaching is dangerous on an order of magnitude that makes our previous guest seem an unruly urchin. I will show him in.”

  “Holmes, if he is as dangerous as you say, what purpose can possibly be served by inviting him inside, other than to put ourselves at peril?”

  “Come now, Watson.” Holmes’s eyes held a twinkle indicative of his investigative instincts having been fully aroused. “Are you not the least a bit curious as to why such a man would seek out the world’s foremost consulting detective?”

  The man that Holmes ushered into the room was unusual, though certainly no more so than our earlier visitor. A youngish man of possibly Mediterranean descent, he was as immaculately dressed as any of the indolent scions of the Empire’s wealthiest families. His height was about average, and he seemed from his carriage to be in fine physical trim. There was nothing odd about him at all until one took into account the large black cat perched on his shoulder and his oddly piercing eyes. They were, without a doubt, the eyes of a mesmerist.

  “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am Dr. Nikola,” he said, taking the chair that Holmes indicated. All the while his feline companion eyed us with a baleful, unwinking stare. “I must first apologize for sending Persano to see you. I needed to be certain if your mental resources merited the accolades that have been bestowed. Persano’s subterfuge would be discernible to a superior mind, but might well have passed muster with a lesser intellect.

  “I sent Persano because, of all my assistants, his aspect is the least likely to cause alarm. But enough of that. My purpose in visiting you, Mr. Holmes, is quite simple. While I may well be the greatest intellect of this age, my studies are limited to certain fields of inquiry, just as your studies are focused on certain other disciplines. Allow me to explain the conundrum that confronts me and I am most certain that you will agree to lend assistance in a most worthy endeavor.”

  To say that the man was arrogant would be a gross understatement. He was clearly mad—and Holmes had invited him in! Our guest took no note of my expression of incredulity as he uttered his preposterous statements. Holmes merely nodded, listening carefully and keeping his gaze fixed on the cat, which sat there motionless save for a rhythmic lashing of its tail. He did not speak until our guest had concluded.

  “Perhaps, Doctor, you had best begin at the beginning and explain why it is you think I can shed some small light on this enigma that confronts you.”

  Nikola inhaled deeply as though preparing for a great physical exertion. The cat remained still, save for its tail. “Mr. Holmes, I have recently returned from Egypt; to be more precise than that is not in my best interests to reveal. Suffice to say there is an ancient city, long thought to be lost, that my studies were able to locate.

  “I am, as you no doubt know, a scientist. I have dedicated my rather long life to establishing a perfect world, one that shares the advantages to be offered by all the sciences, both the known and the arcane. To that end it is necessary that I live an extraordinarily extended length of time, and that others able to contribute measurably to my Utopia of Science are gifted with similar longevity. But I am getting ahead of myself . . .”

  “Just a moment, sir.” I could not countenance listening to any more of this madness without comment. “You talk of your years as though you were a senescent oldster. You cannot possibly be more than thirty-five at the oldest.”

  Holmes said nothing, but the glance he flashed in my direction was more than adequate to convey that I had said more than was prudent. Our guest seemed to take no offense at my challenge, but went on as though he were a professor lecturing to a particularly obtuse class of students.

  “For what it is worth, I believe my physical condition to be that of a man of thirty, not thirty-five. It may interest you to know that I appeared much the same as this when your Duke of Wellington overcame the French monster. There are certain compounds known to a few that greatly prolong the human life span. For many years I have been engaged in a mutually beneficial correspondence with a Chinese gentleman who I have every reason to believe was young when the pyramids of Giza were being constructed. Our communication has resulted in my sampling a certain compound, many years ago, with obvious beneficent effects. However, my colleague has been somewhat reticent about giving me enough information to reconstruct his formula.”

  Holmes finally spoke. “I am very familiar with your reputation as a vivisectionist, but now the purpose behind your experiments becomes only too clear. You’re after eternal life! You believe that your colleague has found a chemical key to immortality and you mean to replicate it.”

  “Quite right. I know just enough of the composition of the elixir to place its original source in Egypt, and to number among its ingredients the royal jelly of certain species of bees. To attempt to re-create the formula from this knowledge has been an exercise in futility that has kept me from fully pursuing other areas of interest. I have recently concluded that my Asian friend may not be alone in possessing the formula that I require. I believe that there are other beings to whom what I call the ‘Elixir Vitae’ is as common as cheap gin to a Stewpony laborer.

  “What I’ve discovered concerns the materials that my man Persano brought to show you. Allow me to explain the curious circumstances surrounding their discovery and we shall see if you infer the same conclusions as do I.

  “There are places in the Egyptian desert where entire cities of antiquity lie buried under shifting sands, and modern towns where children play with the bones of kings and wild dogs tear at the bodies of the high priests of the old gods. A strange place indeed, a place which I believe holds the origins of the Elixir Vitae.

  “I have
made mention of my Asian colleague. Through the subtlest of hints and the wildest of coincidences, I have concluded that he may well have walked the earth long ago, in the identity of a pharaoh of the ancient kingdom. With that in mind, I gathered some of my most puissant aides (and those that can travel publicly without causing undue alarm) and set about to explore my ‘friend’s’ ancestral home.

  “I will spare you the details of our being driven off our chosen course by one of the sandstorms endemic to the region. There is much to discover yet in Africa; Burton and Speke’s finds pale in comparison to what we stumbled across. The veil of sand was torn asunder, letting us be the first humans in many hundreds of years to find traces of the City of Pillars. Few of the pillars still stand; most were buried, save for a few feet sticking out of the sand. They were carved of basalt and were a good fifteen feet in diameter. On the top of each of the nine that we saw was a shallow depression containing metal objects similar to the one Persano showed you. Each cylinder had one of the curious star-stones that you have also seen partially covering it. An interesting and incomprehensible arrangement; if the towers were as tall as I suspected they were, what earthly purpose could have been served by placing these objects on their top? I meditated on this for some time while Persano attempted to quell the fears of our bearers, who seemed convinced that we were in the presence of a great evil. Perhaps most curious was the fact that the star-stones were firmly bolted to the pillars with stout iron bands. Someone had taken a great deal of care at some point to ensure that the stones remained in place.

  “What has this to do with elixirs of longevity, bees and such, you may ask? On the surface, nothing, and were it not for the avarice of one of our bearers, I would have never deduced the connection myself.

  “We had set up camp a short way from the site. Persano, who serves as a personal guard, and I moved our tent some distance farther yet, as is my wont. The desert night was deathly quiet until I was awakened by a horrendous buzzing—the sound of an army of locusts or bees, the air literally vibrating from the beat of their wings. The noise was far deeper and more resonant than that of any insect I have ever heard before. Persano and I stayed where we were, straining our eyes for a glimpse of what was transpiring at the camp. Unfortunately we could see nothing but a shimmering in the night sky.