He would not elaborate on the matter and, despite the hour, insisted that we make another stop before heading home to Baker Street. We took a carriage, and Holmes gave instructions for dropping us off. I recognized the address immediately. I lit up a smoke and wondered why we were heading, at this late hour, for the Diogenes Club.
3
The Diogenes Club is one of the more opulent of the many gentlemen’s clubs in town, being frequented by more lords, captains of industry and minor royalty than any other establishment in the city. The walls are lined with fine old English oak; the pillars are marble; the fittings polished to within an inch of their lives; and the floors set in mosaics in the Roman style. One can almost smell the reek of influence and power.
Despite a score of members being in attendance that night, the place was as quiet as the morgue had been earlier—indeed, the morgue had been considerably more lively. Elderly chaps sat in deep armchairs sipping brandy, smoking fine cigars, reading their newspapers and not speaking a word to the others who were scattered at intervals in the large lounge engaged in similar practices. I had never understood the appeal of compulsory silence, being a voluble chap in the main, but Mycroft Holmes seemed more than happy to spend much of his leisure time—if that was the right word for it—in this establishment.
It was he we had come to see, although for the life of me I could not fathom what use Mycroft could be in the current matter—nor why Holmes would enlist his brother’s aid so early in a case. Normally their sibling rivalry precluded such meetings until they were absolutely necessary, and even then the brothers met more on sufferance than from any family bond there might be between them.
A doorman as elderly as those he served showed us through to the rear office where Mycroft held court. At least we were able to speak in this inner sanctum, although Mycroft kept us waiting while he read from a sheaf of papers, then signed the last one with a flourish.
“Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis,” he said, with a hint of sadness. I knew something of the power Mycroft wielded in the corridors of Westminster; it was more than possible he had just signed a death warrant for some foreign—or even domestic—dignitary. But he showed no further sign that it had affected him any more than the bite of a flea might affect an old dog. He rose from his chair and went straight to a lacquered drinks cabinet that probably cost more than my annual medical stipend and pension combined.
“It will have to be sherry, I’m afraid,” he said. “Tonight’s brandy is not of the highest quality and I am loath to force it on you. I do, however, have some fine cheroots in compensation. Make yourself comfortable, Watson. A visit at this hour from my brother must mean a matter of some import. This could take some time.”
I sipped Mycroft’s admittedly fine sherry and smoked his cheroots while Holmes set out the details of the case so far, including the mysterious happenings in Vauxhall, the visit from Mrs. Pemberton, our trip into the workings in the tunnels, and the events of the later evening in the morgue. Mycroft did not interrupt at any point, merely sat, eyes hooded, soaking up information in much the same manner as I have seen my friend Holmes accomplish the task.
Once Holmes was done, it was Mycroft’s turn. He fired a series of questions at Holmes, almost too fast for me to follow, given the lateness of the hour and the soporific effects of the sherry. Many of the questions were on matters I thought of little consequence, such as the state of Mrs. Pemberton’s shoes, or the arrangement of the oil lamps in the tunnels. Mycroft also quizzed me, rather sharply in my opinion, on the condition of the body in the Scotland Yard morgue.
Once the talking was done, he refilled our glasses and passed round fresh smokes before he joined us in the small trio of armchairs in the center of the room.
“This is indeed serious,” he said to Holmes. “I can see why you might think it is a matter for my attention. But as you are aware, a great many of those in places of power are also businessmen—and these new tunnels are expected to greatly enrich the pockets of many, both in and out of Parliament. I shall need more than our suppositions—no matter how well informed—if I am to leverage enough power to shut them down. I need more facts, Holmes. Can I trust you to get me something in the next twenty-four hours?”
Holmes smiled thinly. “I think I had better, don’t you? We may not even have that long.”
Finally my frustration boiled over. “Would either of you chaps like to stop speaking in riddles and tell me what the blazes is going on?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I thought that was perfectly obvious,” he said.
“Maybe to you—but not to me.” I turned to Holmes. “Come on, old chap; throw an old dog a bone and let me in on the secret.”
Holmes seemed genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry, Watson. I assumed you were following the gist of the matter. It is too late to go over it all over again. Let us just say that we fear an evil is among us, one with the potential to cause us great harm. And it is one that we must act quickly to nip in the bud, for we have seen the first signs that whoever is using this evil might not be in control of it.”
On that rather sour note the evening was called to a halt.
Holmes turned to Mycroft as we were leaving. “I will need the names of the main money-men behind it,” he said. “It has to be one of them that is responsible.”
“I agree,” Mycroft replied. “I shall have the names to you on the morrow. Just find me something, Sherlock. Much may depend on it.”
On the short drive back to Baker Street I tried to persuade Holmes to open up on his thinking, but he shook his head.
“Postulating without all the facts can only lead to later misunderstandings, Watson. You know that. But you saw the state of that man in the morgue. I have been wondering—what if there were more like him? Tens, hundreds, thousands more. Can you imagine that? If you can, then you will have some idea of what has Mycroft—and myself—so worried.”
I could indeed imagine it—in my mind’s eye it looked somewhat like the aftermath of battle—shuffling, shocked soldiers, deafened by gunfire, wits slowed by the horror of what they had just seen. I could easily imagine them walking in silent formation, out of deep, dark tunnels, a never-ending horde of them emerging, unblinking, into the light of day and dispersing out into the city.
It was not a particularly pleasant thought.
As a result of our protracted meeting in the Diogenes Club, it was after three in the morning before I finally reached my bedroom, and by then I was too tired to think. I dove into a most welcome sleep—only to wake an hour or so later to the sound of Holmes moving around in the main room. I considered getting up to join him, but the comfort of the bedding proved more welcoming than the thought of watching Holmes work, so I stayed abed. When I dozed off again the light was still flickering under the door.
Sherlock Holmes was on the case.
Chapter Five
EF
After I rose—somewhat later than normal, and only just in time for breakfast—I joined Holmes at the workbench and began applying a variety of tests to the samples that had been taken from the man in the morgue.
Holmes was working on the skin and blood, so I took the hair. No matter whatever way I looked at it, no matter how many assays I employed, there seemed to be nothing out of the normal. I hoped that Holmes would have better luck, but knew better than to disturb him. I gave in at some point mid-morning when Mrs. Hudson asked if I wished for some tea, and I retired to my chair in the fireplace with a pipe once the pot was empty. Holmes, in the meantime, had not once looked up from his work.
Despite it being yet early, the day was showing every sign of being another in a line of warm ones, and I was rather hoping that I might be allowed to spend it in the relative cool of the apartment. Mrs. Hudson had left the door open and I could hear her high voice singing from the kitchen—an old Scots lullaby of which she was particularly fond. Having had my breakfast, tea, and a smoke, I was quite content with the world—until I remembered the events of the p
revious night. I felt a chill deep in my bones at the memory of the morgue, and the poor man whose mysteries Holmes was even now trying to unravel.
“I was right, Watson,” Holmes said, finally breaking his silence around noon. “There is a toxin of sorts in the blood sample. I believe it to be partly an extract from the Jimson weed, one of the deadlier forms of nightshade.”
“Datura stramonium?” I replied. “Yes, I can see where you’re coming from. But that is mostly either a hallucinogen or a killer in my experience.”
Holmes demurred. “But in China I believe it to also be used as an analgesic, to render patients unconscious during surgery.”
I nodded. “I have heard of that, although I have never seen or heard of it being used outside the Orient.”
“And our man on the slab was unconscious, was he not?”
“I am none too sure what state that man was in,” I replied. “And if it was a toxin, that still does not explain the fact that the man was as dead as anyone I’ve seen, yet still managed to rise up and walk.”
“And more than walk, I have no doubt,” Holmes said under his breath before looking up at me again. “That is why I said that the Datura was only partly responsible. There is some other chemistry at work here that I cannot yet fathom. We may be able to deduce more after Mycroft replies to me.”
We broke away from the testing to have a smoke by the fireplace.
3
The city had fallen quiet outside. We had closed the windows earlier against the assault of the heat, and our rooms, being shaded somewhat by other buildings, were not in direct sunlight, but even so it was becoming dashed uncomfortable now that the sun was at its highest.
I was thinking again about the cool of the morgue when Mycroft’s promised note arrived, hand-delivered by a courier who was tightly dressed in a red serge uniform and so red in the face from his journey to Baker Street in the heat that I feared for his health. I had Mrs. Hudson fetch the lad a glass of chilled water while he waited to see if Holmes had a reply.
Holmes scanned the note quickly and muttered, almost too low for me to catch, “William Gatherford? Yes, I should have known—he has interests in both coal mining and sugar cane. It starts to make some kind of sense at last.”
“I wish it did to me,” I replied, but Holmes had stopped listening, already heading for the door.
“Come, Watson,” he said. “We have somewhere from which we can make a start.”
He did not make it as far as the stairs. The front door out onto the street was slammed open with a crash that reverberated through the whole building. I heard a yell—the messenger boy, I thought—then a yelp of pain. A higher-pitched scream came, shockingly loud.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Holmes shouted, and was on his way down before I had risen from my seat. I reached the doorway to see Holmes struggling with a burly figure on the stairway—a brute of a man with the build of a bear and the apparent strength of an ox. Holmes was having little joy in preventing the intruder’s rush up the stairs. I moved to try to help and was ignominiously pushed aside as they passed. Holmes hung at the man’s waist in an attempt at a rugger tackle that had no chance whatsoever of succeeding. The man went straight into the main room, half-dragging Holmes across the floor with him.
Holmes disengaged himself and made another rush forward, this time attempting to bring the man down from the ankles up as we had seen Lestrade do in the morgue. For his trouble Holmes got a hefty kick in the ribs that sent him flying, rolling across the floor, too winded for the time being to rise.
I jumped into the fray. At first I tried a half nelson, but the man’s neck was thicker than my thigh and as hard as rock; it felt like trying to strangle a tree. By the time I had decided to give up on that, the intruder had reached Holmes’ work desk. He proceeded to pound at it with fists the size of coconuts, smashing phials and test tubes, retorts and microscope—and all our recent samples—into pieces that he sent flying across the room, scattering broken glass, chemical reagents and mangled brass to all corners.
He turned away, seemingly satisfied with his work. I finally saw his face, and it was only then I realized he had been as quiet as a brick the whole time. Milk-white eyes stared straight through me. I clearly saw the gray pallor of his skin—it was starting to fall inward at his cheeks. Dry, cracked white skin showed at lips that had long been deprived of blood, but more than that, they were sealed shut, stitched closed with coarse black twine. The lips moved, as if attempting speech, but no sound came out. He stood still for several seconds, head cocked to one side, looking as if he was listening to something only he could hear. Then, pushing me aside as if I was a piece of furniture in his path, he made for the door again.
I moved to stop him, but held back when Holmes groaned and tried unsuccessfully to stand up.
“Let him go, Watson,” Holmes said softly. “And help me up. We must follow this one—he may lead us toward an ending.”
I stood aside. The burly figure strode past me without taking any further note of my presence, and even as I helped Holmes to his feet we heard his heavy footsteps descending the stairs.
Holmes had almost recovered from his exertion and was at the top of the stairs before me.
“Come, Watson. No time to dilly-dally.”
I followed, pausing only long enough to retrieve my service revolver from its case on the high shelf near the door. I had a feeling it might be needed before the day was out.
The messenger lad was standing by the door, rubbing at a bruise on his forehead already the size of a small egg. Mrs. Hudson stood, back against the wall, at the foot of the stairs, the look on her face telling me immediately that she was more concerned with the damage to the front door than any harm to herself—or indeed, to us. I was glad that there was no time to explain the extent of the mess upstairs, where a variety of chemicals would currently be eating their way through rugs, curtains and possibly even floorboards.
I gave what I hoped was a placating grin and followed Holmes out into the street just in time to see our quarry turn south into one of the maze of alleyways that led down through Soho and its environs.
“The hunt is on, Watson,” Holmes said. He appeared to be in some discomfort, and I guessed he would have a colorful set of bruises around his ribs later. It did not, however, seem to slow him unduly, and I had to hurry to keep up as we crossed the road and pursued the man down into the alley.
3
So began a chase that was to last almost an hour through the center of the city.
We kept our quarry in sight, trotting along some twenty paces behind him. He never turned round or acknowledged our presence, merely kept his head down and kept moving. He stayed to side streets and alleyways, avoiding the main thoroughfares at all times unless they had to be crossed. Several pedestrians looked at him curiously, but for the main he was left to his own devices, just another lost soul on the streets of the Old Lady—one among many.
By the time we passed through Soho and reached the alleys that ran behind the Hilton, the heat had grown stifling and oppressive, and Holmes was clearly wincing and breathing hard.
“We should stop,” I said as we finally left the warren of alleys and passages we had been traversing and approached the open areas of Green Park. “I need to have a look at those ribs—you might have done yourself a mischief.”
He waved me away.
“We cannot abandon the hunt at this stage, Watson,” he said through clenched teeth. “This may be our only chance.”
Green Park was nearly empty of people, the grass dry, brown and quite fried after the long baking days of the past weeks. A group of children played a languid game of cricket but there was little enthusiasm in it, and several dogs were being walked, both pets and owners clearly suffering under the conditions. Leaves dropped limply from the trees—deprived of water and already going brown despite the fact that autumn was still some weeks away. Hot air seared in my lungs and sweat ran in rivulets down my neck and shoulders. I found it hard going keep
ing up with our quarry, who was the only living thing in the whole park that showed no sign whatsoever of being affected by the temperature.
By the time we crossed in front of Buckingham Palace, Holmes was in worse shape than I, and clearly in agony. His breath came in heaving gasps, and he was unable to stand straight. His face was pale with high spots of lurid pink on the cheeks, and his eyes were far back in shadow, like black pits. But he refused to stop.
“Lay on, MacDuff, and don’t spare the horses,” he said, in little more than a whisper. “We cannot let our man evade us now.”
But despite our best efforts our quarry was getting further ahead with every step and we were hard pushed to keep him in our sights. We pushed ourselves as hard as we were able, but as we turned into the crossroads in front of Victoria Railway Station we were met with a throng of people.
The fleeing man was nowhere to be seen among them.
Chapter Six
EF
Holmes refused to give up. He walked the length and breadth of the station and the concourse, but there was no sign of our man.
“He’s gone to ground, Watson. And it is no coincidence that we are this close to those new tunnel workings. We know where we must look next.”
“Never mind next,” I said, having to lend Holmes an arm to keep him standing. “We need to attend to you before you keel over completely.”
I was of a mind to take a carriage straight back to Baker Street, but he would have none of it.
“We are this close to Vauxhall now,” he said as he rested, leaning against a gas lamp. “There is no sense in going all the way home only to return this way later. All I need is some rest and a smoke. I shall be fine.”
“You need more than that; you need some food and drink inside you, and a cool place in which to enjoy them—we both do.”
I half-carried Holmes past the front of the station and into the Queen’s Arms—a busy bar frequented mainly by people coming or going by train. We found a quiet table in the corner at the rear that was by far the coolest spot we’d encountered since leaving Baker Street, and I left Holmes lighting a cheroot as I went to the bar.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 21