The heat had most of the staff and customers in a foul mood, but the debilitating heat kept truculence to a minimum. Voices were low, and no one paid any attention to either Holmes or myself as we started to recover from our—rather reckless in hindsight—recent exertion. A pint of strong ale and some bread, ham and cheese had me feeling more like my old self, and although Holmes ate sparingly, he too appeared somewhat refreshed. He still looked off-color, but his breathing was back to normal and he no longer winced with every movement.
Now that we had caught our breath, our thoughts turned to our intruder, and the reason for his attack on our apartment.
“For a half-dead man, he kicked like a mule,” Holmes said. He started to laugh, then thought better of it as a fresh stab of pain hit him.
“You need rest, Holmes,” I said.
He smiled.
“And I am enjoying plenty of it right this minute,” he replied. “Besides, we left the room quite a mess in our wake. Mrs. Hudson will have discovered it by now, and I do believe it might be best to keep a safe distance for a few hours.”
That was an assessment I could agree with—the chance of being on the receiving end of Mrs. Hudson’s scathing Scots anger was not something to be approached lightly.
“Speaking of the mess,” I said. “Do you think our man was sent to destroy the samples?”
“I am sure of it,” Holmes replied. “Despite my bruised ribs—and ego—he showed little sign of wishing us harm, and every sign of being intent on a single purpose. And, yes, I believe he was sent—wound up and dispatched to duty like a clockwork toy.”
He sat back, sucked in a deep draft of smoke, then changed the subject—or so I thought.
“Tell me, Watson,” Holmes said. “In your travels, did you ever hear of the Zombi?”
“That old wives’ story? It is no more than a tall tale told to frighten the gullible. Surely you have no truck with that?”
“Not as such,” he replied. “But I believe the right combination of toxins and hallucinogens might be employed to bring a man to a state that looked so much like death it might be mistaken for it. And in such a condition, a man might also be most susceptible to manipulation; he could readily be bound to do the will of another.”
“I can see the logic in that,” I replied. “But why do you bring it up now?”
“Because, my dear Watson, a man in such a state could be made to do almost anything—be it destroy a laboratory desk in a house in Baker Street—or dig tunnels all night with little to no pause for sustenance or rest. And I believe we know who that guiding hand might be. Once this blasted heat abates somewhat we shall head for the town home of William Gatherford—a man with many and varied interests, the most valuable of which are his mining activities here in England … and his sugar-cane harvesting in Haiti.”
I started to make what I assumed were the same connections that Holmes had made already. “And you really believe he has been managing a squad of half-dead slaves, here in London?”
Holmes looked grave. “I hope not,” he replied. “But remember what Mrs. Pemberton said?” He lapsed into a most faithful impersonation. “‘Stories that fair made me skin crawl.’”
I was thinking of pale men emerging from dark tunnels again, only this time they were not exactly alive—nor were they exactly dead—and black stitching at their lips prevented them from telling me one way or the other.
We sat there in the bar for several hours, sipping a second beer and smoking, mostly in silence, for Holmes had given me rather a lot to ponder over. People came and went, complaining bitterly about the heat, but there in the shaded corner of the bar we were quite comfortable, and I could have happily settled in for a long stay had Holmes not been like a bloodhound on a scent.
It was just after four when he announced he felt rested enough to be able to proceed.
“We must beard him in his lair, Watson,” Holmes said. “Men are at their most vulnerable when they are at their most comfortable—and where is more comfortable than the surroundings of hearth and home?”
I felt like piping up with an epithet about the joys of Baker Street, but Holmes had already pushed himself out of the corner seat. He grimaced, but once again waved me aside.
“A certain degree of stiffness shall be my penance for being caught off guard. Believe me, Watson, I will not underestimate one of these half-men again.”
We went back out into what was still sweltering heat and I surreptitiously checked that my revolver was fully loaded as we once again headed across the Thames and into Vauxhall.
3
Holmes seemed to know the route to our destination. He was walking easier now, but his face was drawn and haggard, and he was clearly still in some degree of discomfort.
Luckily we were not intending to walk any great distance.
Gatherford’s residence was a large townhouse on the northernmost edge of Clapham Common, a tall, handsome sandstone dwelling in a row of similar properties. An open ironwork gate led us onto a long narrow garden path and up to an imposing oak door with a heavy knocker carved as the roaring head of a jungle cat. Holmes used the knocker to rap on the door, three times, hard.
A butler opened the door; he looked nearly as old as any man we had seen in the Diogenes Club the night before.
“Sherlock Holmes to see Mr. Gatherford,” Holmes said, and breezed past as if invited. If the butler was perturbed in the slightest, he did not show it. He scuttled ahead of us and showed us to the doorway of a large sitting room where he announced Holmes’ presence before showing us inside.
We walked into a room unlike any English sitting room I had ever visited. Animal hides lined the floor in place of carpets—tiger, wolf and possibly bear, although I did not peer closely enough to determine exactly. The walls were festooned with native masks, weapons and shields from a wide variety of cultures and a long glass cabinet showed off a large collection of jewelry, statuettes and ceramics from across the globe.
A man—Gatherford I presumed—stood in the center of the room, a tall, lanky chap with thinning hair and a stoop that made him look almost servile. There was however plenty of strength in his grip as he shook my hand.
“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, as I live and breathe. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Pleasure is not a word I would use under the circumstances,” Holmes said, and sat down, rather heavily, in the nearest armchair. Anyone not familiar with him might not have seen anything untoward, but I knew my friend. He had taken on a pallor I did not like at all. The high red spots had returned on his cheeks and dark shadows hung around his eyes. He grimaced as he took out his cigarette case, and there might have been more than a slight tremble in his fingers as he lit a smoke. His voice, however, was calm and measured when he addressed our host.
“It is clear you are a traveling man, Mr. Gatherford,” he began. “Tell me, how was Haiti?”
If Gatherford was in any way flustered by the directness of Holmes’ question, he did not show it. He sat opposite Holmes, and I took his cue and sat down in the chair nearer to Holmes than the businessman.
“I have had news that you have stumbled across my venture,” Gatherford said, lighting a smoke of his own. “I was given a full report of your little ‘inspection’ of the tunnels. I trust you have found nothing untoward?”
Holmes laughed bitterly.
“Unless you would call heavily drugging a work force into slavery and bondage untoward, then no,” Holmes said softly.
Now it was Gatherford’s turn to laugh. “You are as melodramatic as I might have imagined, Mr. Holmes. I can assure you that my work force have a better standard of living, and better working conditions, than ninety per cent of the laborers toiling in other parts of the country. They are treated with respect, they are rewarded for their work, and they suffer little to no physical discomfort while in my employ. What more could a worker ask for?”
“What more indeed,” Holmes said quietly. “So you would refute any charges of exploi
tation? ‘A dead work force is a happy work force’ is hardly a motto that will catch on with the man in the street.”
“Dead? Wherever did you get that idea, Mr. Holmes?” Gatherford said. “The drug merely makes them more susceptible to orders and ensures precision in their work. Any resulting dulling of the senses is purely temporary and a small price to pay for the productivity benefits it bestows. It is the way of the future, Holmes. Just you wait and see.”
Holmes went quiet, but I could not help but express a growing outrage. “And what of their humanity—and their families? What of them?”
Gatherford waved a hand airily in the air as if the question was of no import. “Their contracts ensure that they are well rewarded for their work. I assure you; it is all aboveboard.”
“I would like to see that for myself,” Holmes replied, rather sharply.
“That should not be a problem,” Gatherford said. He took out his pocket watch. “It is just after five. We have several hours to spare before the night shift clocks on. Can I interest you gentlemen in a light supper?”
3
Whatever else could be laid at his door, Gatherford’s table was of the highest quality. We were served up trays of cold meats, fresh fruit, the finest of cheeses, and bread still warm from the oven. I ate heartily, expecting that we might have another long night ahead of us. Holmes, however, scarcely touched the food, merely nibbling on an apple or a small piece of toast. Every so often he would wince in pain, but he waved away any attempt I might make at ministering to him.
“Do not cluck around me like a mother hen, Watson,” he said. “I shall be fine.”
Although he looked anything but “fine,” I knew better than to push him, for it would only antagonize him further. I contented myself with eating most of his share of the fare on the table after finishing my own, and felt rather better with the world by the time it came to retire to the sitting room for a smoke.
Gatherford had talked volubly all through the meal, and we now knew rather more than we needed to about his varied business interests, his adventures in the near and far eastern seaports, and his desire for a clear, bright future full of willing, if rather docile workers.
“There is great profit to be had for a man with the will to make it happen,” Gatherford said. “I believe I can ensure the might of the Empire will never fade—indeed, it can only be strengthened by what I have in mind.”
“You intend to enslave the British people,” Holmes said. “For that will be the only logical outcome should this new idea of yours catch on. Unscrupulous men will take advantage of the desperate—they always have and they always will. As I said before, bondage and slavery is the only outcome. If that is your new, strong Empire, then I for one want no part of it.”
Again, Gatherford laughed.
“I had not heard that you were so prone to dramatic outbursts of sentimentality, Holmes. I thought you to be a stronger man than that.”
Holmes did not smile in return. “Then I am happy to disavow you of any such notions,” he said. “I refuse to believe that any good at all can come of your activities.”
Gatherford still smiled. If our intention had been to shake his complacency or find his vulnerability here in his own home, we were doing a dashed bad job of it, it seemed.
“I see you will not be swayed until you have seen for yourself,” Gatherford said.
He looked at his watch again. “Come, then. It is almost time for the night shift.”
Chapter Seven
EF
It was less than a mile to the Vauxhall workings from Gatherford’s residence, but he insisted we take his carriage. The butler obviously doubled as driver, sitting up in the seat, staring straight ahead. If I had not seen him at the table speaking to his master, I might have believed him to be another of the lost souls, so still was he sitting.
Holmes seemed more than happy to take the carriage. It was obvious to me that his wounded ribs were causing him a great deal of discomfort, but his indomitable will would not let him succumb to weakness—not when there was the slightest chance that the case might be drawing to a climax.
We traveled the short distance in silence through a damp, sultry heat that felt like warm fog. When the carriage came to a stop we stepped out onto a flat piece of ground before the entrance to a pitch-black tunnel—a different entrance from either of the two we had taken on our earlier visit.
It was full dark by this time. A squad of tired men came up out of the tunnel mouth as we approached. I had a very close look at them, just to be sure, but there was no sign that they had been afflicted like the man we had chased through London earlier. All of the men seemed perfectly well and fully alive, if rather tired and downtrodden after a long day underground. I stopped one man as he passed us.
“Is everything all right down there?” I asked.
He looked at me at first as if I might be simple-minded,and took his time in answering.
“As well as can be expected, sir,” he said. “’Tis as hot as auld Nick’s armpit and twice as smelly—but it’s a job. It’s made me a few pennies for some ale, and that’s all I ask for.”
He walked away to join his companions. I saw several of them turn to look, and one pointed at Gatherford. Something was said—something profane and crude, and the men were laughing as they walked off. I finally caught a quick glimpse of something we had not seen in the businessman that night—it flitted across his features fast, and was brought under control immediately, but I knew it for what it was—a flash of temper, one that might erupt at any moment. I knew that if I had noted it, then Holmes would not have missed it. Gatherford had at least one weakness—a common-enough one among a certain type; I have seen enough of vanity over the years to know it as soon as I saw it.
3
Gatherford led us past the mouth of the tunnel. Now that the workmen had departed from the area, the site had fallen completely silent. There was something dashed forbidding about the darkness below that had me wishing we had never stood up from Gatherford’s table.
“The night shift will be starting up any minute now,” he said. “They clock in at the north entrance, so they will be already on the site when we arrive.” He seemed to be sure of himself again—relaxed, even. That only served to make me feel rather more nervous.
The aged butler—to this day I still do not know his name—carried an oil lamp ahead of him and we followed the flickering light as we went down into the tunnels. We walked in silence with the butler in front, Gatherford and I just behind, and Holmes bringing up the rear. I checked on Holmes periodically, for he appeared to be struggling on some of the steeper inclines, and I could hear his breathing—fast and disjointed as it was—all too clearly in the confines of the tunnels. He waved me away, but there in the dark he looked in even worse shape than the half-dead man we’d seen in the morgue.
We continued down in that manner for a good ten minutes, the only sound the rattle of pebble and dirt that we kicked up to send tumbling into the blackness ahead of us. As on our previous visit, lamps were strung at irregular intervals along the brick walls but the light they gave out was feeble, to say the least, and did little to aid our descent.
Finally we came to a spot where the brickwork stopped and the tunnel opened out onto a larger open area of fresh workings. Somewhere in the distance I once again heard the sound of metal on stone, a cacophony that grew louder as we walked toward it. The butler stopped, too suddenly, and I almost lost my footing trying to avoid walking into him. I stifled a curse, looked up, and realized we had reached our destination.
A squad of men—a score, at least, worked at the same face Holmes and I had studied on our earlier visit. The men all had their backs to us, and they all seemed to be working in a most methodical manner. Each man had their own part to play in the hewing of rock and earth and the carrying of the waste to long carts that were then sent careering further away to my right into the darkness of another tunnel. They carried out the work as smoothly as a troupe of performi
ng dance artists. Then it struck me. No one spoke. There was no workplace joking, and not a single curse was uttered. The only sound came from the striking of picks on stone and the rattle of the wheels as the rubble-filled carts departed into the dark.
“As you can see, Holmes,” Gatherford said. “Everything is in order, as I said. In fact, everything is in perfect order. Work will continue in exactly this manner all night—and longer if it were required. These men are working at peak capacity.”
“I’ll let Watson be the judge of that,” Holmes replied. I knew what was being asked of me. I picked my way through the rubble toward the squad of workers. The butler followed just behind my shoulder, the oil lamp casting dancing shadows at my feet. Holmes and Gatherford followed some three yards further back.
I reached the nearest worker just as he had dumped a pail full of rubble into a cart. I touched his shoulder—there was no response, so I tugged harder. He turned to face me.
I looked into the face of a dead man.
His eyes were milk-white, full of cataracts. His mouth and nostrils had been sewn shut with the same thick black thread I’d seen on the man in Baker Street, and there was no expression to be seen on his face whatsoever, not the merest hint of a twitch of any muscle. The skin looked greasy and was tinged green with decay.
This man wasn’t just near death—he had been dead for some days.
Even as I took in what I was seeing, the butler made his move. Fortunately I had been expecting it. He swung the heavy oil lamp, intending to strike me on the back of the head, but, forewarned as I was, I ducked below it, in the same move freeing my revolver. With all the weight I could muster, I bashed the butt of the pistol into his face, for despite his years he had shown some degree of violent intent, and I was in no mood to respect my elders. He tried to turn away, but all that achieved was for my blow to take him just above his right ear. He fell like a chopped tree, insensate at my feet.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 22