There followed a long night of questions, recriminations and no little shouting on Lestrade’s part; the fog was lightening with the approach of dawn before the three of us were given leave of the Chelsea townhouse. Lestrade was smart enough to know that there was something afoot, but also smart enough to take our word for it that we had disturbed the intruder. He had the manservant still in the cells in the Yard, so he was now bereft of suspects apart from Northwich himself, a man clearly not up to the job of ripping a friend’s head from his torso not once, but twice. Lestrade let us go with an admonishment to stay clear of his investigation and we made our weary way back to Baker Street, having to take three separate carriages to complete the journey, and arriving back as the rising sun burned through the fog.
Mrs. Hudson chided us on arrival as only a Scotswoman of a certain age can manage, but within ten minutes of returning we had a warming fire in the grate and the smells of cooking breakfast wafting up from the kitchen. However, if Northwich was feeling any more comfortable than previously, he did not show it. He sat in the fireside chair, chewing hard on a cheroot, red-faced now.
“He will come for me next, won’t he?” he said, almost shouting. “We let him out and he is coming for me. You must help me, Holmes. You must.”
Holmes sat quietly tapping tobacco into his long pipe.
“Must I? It seems I have been helping you for some time now—and look where it has brought us.”
“But it is him—you saw him. It is Alexander, come to retrieve what is his.”
“I saw a man wrapped in swaddling,” Holmes said. “Nothing more can be conjectured at this junction.”
I remembered the bullets that I had put into the figure; none of them had done much to slow it—but I held my peace as Holmes continued.
“Besides—if I am to believe what you are implying, I now have what your attacker wants.” He patted his pocket, where I imagined he had the amulet hidden away. “All we need to do is prepare ourselves and wait. If your attacker is so intent on recovering this prize—and he has shown every indication of being so inclined—then he will come to us. Then, and only then, shall we be able to bring the case to a conclusion.”
3
Northwich’s exertions finally caught up with him after a hearty breakfast, during the course of which he could scarcely keep his eyes open. I gave him the use of my bed and resigned myself to the fireside chair. I heard Northwich’s snoring as I lit the first of what would prove to be rather too many smokes that day.
“What do you make of it, Holmes?” I asked. He sat across the fireplace from me in his favorite chair, pipe in one hand and the clay tablet in the other. He had studied it from all angles for some time, but had not spoken.
“It is exactly what it appears to be, Watson,” he said. “It is a prayer to Ra for the safekeeping of the dead in their long sleep before awakening to glory. It is precisely as magical as any other piece of clay you will ever see.”
Once again I thought of my gunplay of the previous night.
“I know I am only a fair shot,” I said quietly. “But I hit him, Holmes. I hit him every time. The blighter should by rights have been lying at my feet, not running off down the road like a blasted whippet.”
“Some kind of body armor, perhaps?” Holmes said. “Maybe you should aim for the head next time.”
Sometimes I found it hard to tell with Holmes whether he was pulling my leg or stating a bald fact—this was one of those occasions.
“So what now, old man?” I replied. “This case has turned dashed messy.”
“That it has, old friend. Let us pray we are on hand to save the last member of the ‘three musketeers’ from his fate, but the lack of particulars in the matter vexes me, Watson. It is as if the solution is forever just out of reach, could I but grasp at it.”
Holmes fell into reverie again, staring into the fire as if a great secret could be divined in the flames. I fetched a cup of tea from the pot on the table—it was rather too well stewed for my liking, but its warmth going down did much to dispel the chill of the Chelsea fog. Before I knew it I had drifted off to sleep sitting upright in the chair.
3
It was late afternoon before I resurfaced. I was surprised to find myself remarkably rested; the old chair having, over the years, become so used to the shape of my body that it had held and supported me in a snug embrace. Holmes was still in his chair. He raised an eyebrow on seeing I was awake.
“So we are back in the land of the living, are we, Watson? I hope you are rested, for I fear we may have further adventures ahead of us this coming night. Would you be so kind as to ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare something? I do believe we will need some fuel in our bellies.”
Mrs. Hudson had already planned ahead, as was her wont. Less than half an hour later she laid out a table and served up a most delicious stew of potatoes, parsnips, carrots and mutton, all to be soaked up with fresh-baked bread rolls. I woke Northwich with some difficulty, and he joined us, somewhat tardily, in finishing up the meal. By the time we retired once more to the fireside, it was once again growing dark outside.
Holmes surprised me by rising as we finished our smokes.
“Let us be off, then,” he said.
“Off? I thought the plan was to lay a trap?”
“And we will,” Holmes said. “But not here. We need somewhere away from prying eyes—and somewhere where Mrs. Hudson will not be placed in any peril. What say you, Northwich—would you feel more at home in Islington?”
Northwich laughed bitterly. “I’d feel more at home in Cheshire. But needs must when duty calls. I am sorry about my behavior earlier. I am not prone to taking quite such a funk, but seeing poor Richards so soon after Grimshawe …” The color went from his cheeks again, but he refused the offer of any further stiffeners. “No—I have been running long enough. Let us finish this—let us finish it tonight.”
Holmes was silent for long seconds.
“I am not entirely sure about finishing it tonight,” he finally said. “But at least we shall make a start toward bringing about our desired conclusion—and all without having to make a wish of any kind.”
He patted his pocket where he had once again placed the clay tablet. I reloaded my revolver, Holmes lifted his cane, and, heavily swaddled in thick coats against the weather, we went back out into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
EF
Jake, the mute servant, was standing outside in the doorway. He might have only been there for a minute, or he had been standing in the cold for several hours; we had no way of knowing. We could only presume that Lestrade, despairing of getting anything out of the man, had decided to set him free. In any case, there were four in our party as we made for Islington.
Our luck with carriages had, however, changed for the worse, and after standing in Baker Street and hailing with no resultant ride forthcoming for ten minutes, Holmes decided to walk. The rest of us followed him—Northwich and I several steps behind Holmes, and the tall silent servant two steps further back still.
Fog rolled in again—not as thick as the previous night, but several degrees colder, and I was glad of the warmth of my heaviest overcoat as Holmes led us first toward Euston, then east to the townhouses of Islington.
We were destined not to reach our goal.
The first indication that we were being followed came near King’s Cross when Holmes slowed his pace and dropped back to walk at my side.
“Do not turn around, Watson—but have your pistol ready. There is someone keeping pace behind us in the fog. I believe it to be our tall friend from Chelsea. Keep walking—I will let you know if he makes a move.”
Holmes had spoken quietly, so that only I would hear. Northwich realized that something was amiss, but I managed to stay calm and assure him that we were in no immediate danger. I did, however, make sure that the pistol would come free of my pocket easily if required, and I kept my hand near the handgrip in order to be able to draw it speedily.
As we wa
lked past the railway station we passed a rank of available carriages, but Holmes ignored the opportunity of a more comfortable trip, favoring the chance of trapping our quarry out in the open. He led us off the main road as we left the hustle and bustle of the rail system behind. Once again the streets fell quiet around us in a blanket of fog, and once again Holmes slowed in order to speak to me.
“I thought we’d lost him when we came near the station, but he’s back again—about thirty paces behind us. Follow my lead, Watson, and do not be alarmed should I decide on a precipitous course of action. I know this area and believe that local knowledge may give us the upper hand.”
We followed Holmes as he led us into a warren of industrial buildings, most of which were already closed down for the night, only every fourth or fifth warehouse showing any light at door or window. The deeper we went into the maze of buildings, the darker the buildings became, until we walked in deadly silence, the only sound the padding of our footsteps, the only light what little diffused out of the fog itself.
Northwich grew increasingly agitated with each passing moment. “I say, Watson,” he said. “Where the blazes are we going? This is not the way to Islington—at least it is no way that I am aware of.”
“Holmes has a plan,” I replied quietly. “You must trust him.”
Northwich laughed bitterly. “Schemes and plans have not advanced me very far recently,” he said. “I should have fled when I had the chance. Jake would have looked after me. Isn’t that right, Jake?”
He looked behind us, looking for confirmation from the mute.
The servant was nowhere to be seen—there was only a blank wall of fog at our rear.
3
“Where did he go, Holmes?” Northwich said loudly. “If any harm comes to him because of you, I will …”
We turned to look ahead—to be faced with only more fog. Holmes too had gone from view. All I could see was a looming shadow to my right—the wall of another warehouse. Preferring to have something more solid at my back than fog, I pulled Northwich aside until we leaned against the comforting solidity of red brick. A darker shadow to my right told me we stood near a doorway, so I sidled in that direction, taking care not to scuff my feet on the ground—the slightest noise in this fog would give away our position all too readily.
Northwich never moved more than an inch away from me as we reached the door. It was old and somewhat decrepit—and someone had forced their way through it very recently, judging by the clean dry splinters around the lock.
“Holmes!” I said in a loud stage whisper.
In answer I heard a scrape from inside—wood on stone by the sound of it. Judging that we might be safer in the confines of a building than out on the street, I dragged Northwich in, and closed the door behind us, locking it from the inside with an old wooden latch that had survived the earlier break-in.
“Holmes!” I said again.
This time there was no reply. It was darker inside than it had been out on the street, and it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I saw that we had entered a small weaving factory—the space dominated by two large looms, both silent and little more than large shadows ahead of us. High above was a spacious loft area that in some other buildings of this type might have been the housing quarters of the business owners. If that was the case here, then the owners were clearly not at home as the whole place was so still and quiet that it might not have been used for days—possibly even weeks.
Northwich grabbed at my arm. “We should get out of here. We will be trapped should he come upon us.”
“If we are, then so is our mystery attacker,” I said, somewhat more sharply than I might have in a different situation. I stepped away from the door and raised my pistol in front of me, senses alert for any sudden movement or noise. “But do not let me stop you. Take your chances with the fog. I’m staying here.”
Northwich looked to the door, then into my eyes. He must have seen the strength of my resolve, for he fell quiet and did not move from my side. I moved further into the darkness. Northwich followed me, close enough to touch.
3
We spent five long minutes doing a tour of the factory floor. Apart from the looms and two stools—one of which Northwich managed to kick over and near give me apoplexy—the place seemed completely empty. I even felt confident in relaxing my too-tight grip on the butt of my pistol, and I had just turned to give Northwich the all-clear when I caught a movement in the corner of my eye—something off-white, large and moving fast.
When I turned in that direction, I saw only shifting shadows and motes of dust.
“Come out where I can see you,” I said. “We shall see how many more shots you can take before I put you down.”
My forced bravado proved fruitless. There was no reply.
Northwich grabbed at me again. “Let us go, leave this place,” he said. “This is folly.”
I was coming round to agreeing with him when the tall white figure stepped out of the shadows almost directly ahead of us. I had my first really good look at him, and I did not like what I saw.
If this was merely a man pretending to be Alexander risen from the grave, then he was a better master of disguise than even Holmes could have managed. Ragged tatters of linen, some of it soiled and filthy now, hung from a frame so thin as to be almost skeletal. Indeed, gray bone showed through in places where the linen was unraveling, most especially at the fingers which could be clearly seen as the thing came forward, reaching out toward us as if it were partially blind and having to search for us by touch. A whole section of the swaddling had come away from the left hand side of the head, revealing an eye socket—black as a pit of hell—and a piece of yellowing jawbone, teeth jutting up like gray tombstones, the whole thing stitched together with stringy sinew and decayed muscle. Apart from the fact it was moving, I would have said I was most definitely looking at a long-dead corpse.
My medical curiosity aside, it was apparent that the thing held no fear of my pistol. It kept coming.
“What is it that you want?”
“It wants me,” Northwich wailed from behind me. “As it took Grimshawe and Richards. It aims to have my head.”
“No,” a voice said from above. Holmes stood up in the loft space. He held something above his head that it took me several seconds to make out—it was the clay tablet. “I believe he wants this.”
As if in confirmation, the linen-clad figure looked up, and raised his arms, entreating Holmes to give it the tablet. A deep moan came from under the swaddling—it sounded like a plea.
“What do we do now, old chap?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“We stay calm,” Holmes replied, but if Northwich heard him, he decided to ignore the advice. His backbone once again deserted him. The man headed at a run for the door. Our attacker seemed startled by the sudden action. It turned toward the new sound, and headed in that direction.
“Stop him, Watson,” Holmes shouted. “We might not have another chance.”
I raised the pistol, but the thing was already closing in on Northwich and I could not take the chance of missing one and hitting the other in the gloom. Holmes leaped down from the loft, landing softly beside me.
Northwich squealed as he reached the door and found it locked—he had forgotten that we dropped the latch on entering. Before Holmes and I could reach him the thing once again had its hands round the man’s throat, cutting off his squeals as quickly as they had come.
Holmes and I were too far away to save Northwich, and I feared we would have another corpse on our hands within seconds. But we had reckoned without the loyalty of the manservant. I had quite forgotten about Jake—but he had not forgotten about us. The flimsy door of the factory caved in to show the tall mute standing framed against the fog. He wailed—a formless roar that was full of rage—and tore the linen figure away from his master, tossing it out into the street as a child might throw away an unwanted rag doll. Northwich dropped to the floor as if felled by a thund
erbolt. Jake took one look at the stricken man; then, with another roar, leapt out into the fog in pursuit of the assailant.
“See to him,” Holmes said, and then he too was gone into the fog, leaving me standing over Northwich’s quivering, sobbing body.
3
Despite having taken another funk the likes of which I have rarely seen in a grown man, Northwich seemed none the worse for wear, apart from a row of fresh bruises at his neck that were going to prove to be stiff and painful for some time to come. He was in no immediate danger. If he had more of his wits about him I might have passed him my pistol for his protection, but in his current state he was as likely to shoot me—or himself—as he was any attacker. I stood over him in the doorway, peering into the fog, waiting for a shout from Holmes to give me direction.
Somewhere—it might have been distant, or may only have been yards away, so difficult was it to gauge in the fog—I heard a loud crack, as of wood being broken. Everything fell silent, just for a matter of seconds, then a man-shaped shadow loomed up out of the fog. I raised my pistol, then lowered it again when I saw it was Holmes. He looked as tired as I have ever seen him, and his voice was flat and emotionless.
“I lost him again in the fog, Watson. And you had better come and see—both of you.”
I helped Northwich to his feet—he seemed rather unsteady at first, but followed quickly enough when he thought we might leave him in the doorway. My mind was on other matters—I wondered why the mute, Jake, was not with Holmes.
I found out soon enough. The big man lay crumpled in the gutter, looking smaller now, his face white and eyes wide with shock and pain.
“His back is broken,” Holmes said softly at my side. “I do not think he is long for this world.”
I knelt by Jake’s side, but as soon as I got a close look at him I knew that Holmes’ diagnosis was the right one. The big man was near death—the sound I had taken as that of breaking wood must have been his spine going. Something else was broken inside him—his breath gurgled wetly and bubbles of blood showed at his lips.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 17