Violet did.
I heard a loud report. The beast yowled in pain and released my shredded arm. The giant dog turned to face its attacker.
Now, understand, the Webley-Pryse .455 was about the largest, most impressive, most expensive service revolver available. I’d bought mine—just as most of its other patrons had—to avoid the wretched Enfield the army would have provided. That said, my Webley was preposterous. An unnecessarily big, heavy thing, it fired a round better suited to knocking down rhinos than repeated precision target shooting. The grip was made for a larger hand than mine. Certainly larger than Violet’s.
She didn’t care.
She ran at my assailant with her arms outstretched, clutching the Webley in both hands. As she neared she pulled back the hammer and fired again. The bullet caught the gigantic dog in the side of the head and he reeled back. As soon as Violet recovered from the recoil, she pulled back the hammer and fired again. The bullet struck the beastly dog on its back, just near the spine. Her final shot struck him to the heart. With a complaining sort of wail, as if it meant to say, “Hey, it’s not fair when people hurt me!” the beast collapsed, writhing on the ground a few feet from me. Much to my surprise, it began to issue thick curtains of swirling smoke. The body within began to shift and change.
From above me, a luminous, man-shaped being descended. Random tendrils of energy arched from him and traced scorching trails along the ground as he spluttered, “Hey! What have you two done to young Barghest?”
“Holmes?” I wondered.
“Of course, Watson.”
“What’s happened to you?”
“Hmmm? Oh, this… I had to drink that entire demon. Far too much power. Really, I can’t imagine how so strong a thing made its way here. The barriers around our world must be in a right state. Oh, and you’d best keep your distance for a while. I seem to be rather electrical at the moment. Gads, it’s all over me…”
Violet stepped forward, pale-faced and shaking. “Um… Mr. Holmes… Did you say ‘Barghest’?”
“Yes, of course. Barghest.” Holmes pointed one glowing finger at the dying creature by my side. A wayward bolt of electricity arched out and singed some of the fallen beast’s hair off. Sure enough, within the swirling fog, the form of the monster continued to change: now like a huge hound, now disturbingly bipedal.
“Er…” I said. “Oh dear.”
“What?” said Holmes. “You mean, you didn’t know? I thought when Miss Hunter told us, ‘He is a monster, not a child,’ we were all on the same page. No?”
Violet and I looked at each other, aghast.
“What have I done?” she asked.
“Nothing about 28,000 field mice and rabbits won’t thank you for,” Holmes laughed. “Oh, come now… The boy’s strange absences? The fact that the dog was only patrolling the grounds some nights? Rucastle’s fear of his own supposed pet and how quickly he stepped in to make sure Violet did not try to get between young Barghest and his monstrous instincts? For heaven’s sake, his name was Barghest! Did you not know what a barghest was?”
I had to drink that entire demon!
Violet and I stared at each other, in helpless confusion.
“Well really, now,” Holmes snorted. “I must say: when it comes to figures from myths and legends, the British school system leaves much to be desired. You ought to look it up sometime.”
“So… what’s going to happen, Holmes?” I asked.
“If those wounds are mortal—”
“Yes. I should certainly think.”
“Well then, the beast’s body will eventually come to rest in whichever of its two states is its most natural one.”
Violet made a sour face and reasoned, “So, I am either going to have to explain why I have shot someone’s dog…”
“…Or someone’s child,” I finished. “Yes, that might be a bit problematic.”
“I should say so,” Holmes agreed. “In fact, for a newly out-of-work governess with gunpowder residue all over her hands, I’d think it’s pretty much top of the list. Allow me to suggest that perhaps we should not be discovered here.”
I shook my head. “I’m not fit to travel. You two get out of here. Violet, leave the pistol. I’ll tell them nothing.”
“And you think that would stop them hanging you?” said Holmes. “No, no. Good thing for you two I’ve got rather an amazing amount of power to burn off, so…”
There was a crackling flash of light.
And then, there was 221B.
I was back in the comfort of home. Well… that’s not to say I was particularly comfortable…
“Miss Hunter, why don’t you see if you can get Watson up on the couch without grinding his wounds about too much,” Holmes suggested. “I’m afraid I must go out. Still too much electricity, I fear. Oh well. Perhaps I’ll take a stroll in the park and electrocute a few dozen benches, or something. Ta-ta.”
* * *
And so the matter came to rest.
Of my many wounds, well, we shall come to that in a later tale. Suffice to say, I wasn’t having very much fun with them.
As to what had truly happened at the Copper Beeches, I had no compelling explanation. Holmes seemed to feel he did.
“Ah, the sad tale of a lonely woman, Watson! The widow Rucastle, alone in that home with only her daughter—and her poor company, since she was rather crazy. Imagine Mrs. Rucastle’s relief to discover a powerful demon in the woods behind her home. She struck a bargain, promising her only daughter in payment of the demon’s services. Her prized turkey was transformed into a man—or something like it— to be the husband she knew she could never find on her own. The local barghest, magically bound to her, became the precious little boy she’d never had. What a happy little family it must have been, until the payment came due!”
“That is utterly preposterous, Holmes.”
“Hmpf! I’d like to see you do better, Watson.”
I couldn’t.
Oh, and we seem to have ruined Hampshire a bit. Terribly sorry. Holmes was once again responsible for a minor but permanent magical change to our world. You can only encounter it within an eight-or nine-mile radius of the Copper Beeches, on stormy nights. As the electric potential gathers, the Copper’s death-screeches become audible. The storm the night of our final confrontation seems to have preserved them, somehow. As the lightning gathers, Jephro Rucastle’s terrible screams will echo out over the hills and forests until the threshold of tolerance is reached. Then, a flash of lightning and the rolling thunder ushers silence back to the land.
You know, until just before the next strike. On nights with multiple discharges, well… I’m informed the Copper’s screeches have made Hampshire’s springtime squalls near-intolerable.
I’d rather hoped the trauma of her first adventure might quench Violet’s taste to pursue more. But no, her resolve held. Not to mention the fact that—since the Tollers and Mrs. Rucastle knew her name—it seemed judicious for Violet to pursue her next adventure as far away as possible. Holmes knew of a little problem in Egypt that needed looking into, so that is where she went.
She visited England some months later and reported her success to us. By then I was recovered enough to make her an odd little gift. Clearly, if she was going to lead a life of danger, that derringer had to go. I went to the local gunsmith and purchased her a Webley, like the one she’d used to save my life. That night, I removed the handles and shaved them down so a smaller hand might fit around and a shorter finger might reach the trigger. Then I cut the barrel so short, it was barely a quarter-inch past the revolving pin. By the time I was done, it was an ugly little bugger. I hadn’t realized how much the shortness of the thing and the slim little handle must contrast with a revolving chamber fat enough to hold six .455 rounds. Not only that, but it lacked a forward sight; Violet’s chance of hitting anything at a range of over fifteen feet was greatly diminished.
So I bought another one and gave it the same treatment. Now, if it were only half as l
ikely she could hit something, at least she’d have twice as many tries.
I was rather sheepish when I showed them to Holmes. I thought he might make sport of me and I could hardly have blamed him if he had. But no, I woke the next morning to find he’d copper-plated the pair of them and somehow bleached the wooden handles a perfect white.
“I hope you don’t mind, Watson,” he said.
“Not at all, Holmes. They seem greatly improved.”
“More than you know, I would deem. I have chosen copper because it has special significance to Violet. I have infused charms of protection into the plating. I stayed up half the night thinking which traits were most valuable to an adventuress—”
“Don’t call her an adventuress, Holmes.”
“But she’s—”
“I know, but say ‘adventurer’, won’t you?”
“As you like, Watson. Well, each of them is dedicated to an important trait she will need and charmed to make sure that, to the best of my ability, they shall never abandon her.”
Looking down at the gleaming pistols I saw the word “Wit” had been blazoned on the side of one of the barrels. The other one said “Fortune”.
“Very good, Holmes. This is a fitting gift, indeed.”
“You’ve certainly done your part, too,” Holmes said, beaming at the compliment. “For now, if ever wit and fortune should fail her…”
“Ah, yes. She can then pull out Wit and Fortune and blaze away.”
“Just so. We’ve done our best, Watson. The rest is up to Miss Hunter. Woe to whatever demon she sets her sights upon.”
“I cut the sights off, I’m afraid.”
“You know what I mean, John.”
Violet Hunter went on to have many adventures, without Holmes and me. I recall that she was mentioned in connection with the demise of the False Skeleton Gang and the strange case of the Silken Sword of Zacsh-I-Khor. But really, I have heard so little of them that if they are ever put to paper it must be by some other hand than mine. I think of her often. In my sadder moments, I sometimes reflect on that “silly little thing” of a kiss and wonder if she ever remembers it, too. I was sure it couldn’t have meant as much to her as it did to me, but… No, let me cease my remembrance of her before it becomes too self-piteous and give her the farewell she better deserves.
In my time with Holmes, I often relied on my innate cowardice to protect me. Holmes was no better. In fact, to that point in our adventures, I had encountered only three individuals who staunchly refused to let fear dictate even a single one of their actions.
One, of course, was Grogsson.
Two were named Violet.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE RED HEADS’ LEAGUE
FROM THE CRAYON-SCRAWLED JOURNALS OF MR. WARLOCK HOLMES
HULLO, EVERYONE! WATSON WANTED ME TO TELL YOU this story, because it’s fairly important and he was knocked out for the best bits.
Anyway, I can’t quite recall what year it was, or what season (but I’m sure it was one of the normal four). What I do remember is that Watson was quite dangerously enthralled with the Woman—which should come as no surprise as Watson was rather easily enthralled by just about every woman he ever met.
But this woman was bad. And there was this ever-increasing chance that Watson would be killed. And then where would I be?
Sad, that’s where.
I was desperate to distract him, if I could only figure out how. For a time, it seemed as if Violet Hunter’s peculiar adventure would be sufficient but, though it certainly provided a few chances to turn Watson’s mind from the Woman, it evolved at such a slow pace as to allow him ample time to turn it back. Even though we were right in the middle of Violet’s adventure, I knew I needed a second case.
You can imagine how happy I was when the bell rang and Mrs. Hudson announced Mr. Jabez Wilson, whom Watson now refers to as “that red-headed ninny”. Mr. Wilson was big and slow, with dim little eyes that always seemed to be looking at nothing in particular and a pendulous lower lip that just hung there as if it were constantly ready to say, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He had the most magnificent head of red hair and a story to match it. In fact, he hadn’t got very far into his tale before I realized it was just what I needed and made him stop.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I would prefer to have my colleague Watson here for this discussion. Won’t you be kind enough to have a seat over there and wait for him? He’ll be along any moment, I am sure.”
He frowned at me and said, “But… uhhhh… I’ve got to get back to m’ shop.”
“No you don’t,” I told him. “You need to sit quietly in the corner until Watson comes home, then you need to tell him exactly what you just told me.”
“But… uhhhh…”
“Shut your fat gob and sit in that corner or I’ll blow you up with magic!”
Which he was good enough to do.
Two or three hours later, Watson turned up.
“Watson! Watson! Watson! Watson! Look what I found! He’s perfect! He’s called Jabez Wilson and he’s got a story for you. Go on, Mr. Wilson: tell Watson your story.”
“You won’t blow me up with magic?” he asked.
“Of course not! What an extraordinary thing to assume. Now come on, tell Watson what you told me.”
But Watson wouldn’t let him. He insisted on doing that good-hosting thing he does, where he makes tea for our guest and lets them leave their corner and use the bathroom because they’re starting to get all pouty, as if something terrible is going to happen if they don’t. Then Watson did his deduction-demonstration thing where he asked me to observe our guest and tell him what I could discern of the man’s history. Well, I’d been observing him for hours and purposely trying not to, but to humor Watson I fixed Mr. Wilson with my gaze and idly wondered about him. Instantly, my head was flooded with answers.
His hair is red! Don’t trust him! Kill him! Kill him with fire! X’smex urged. But then again, when doesn’t he?
The man is weak. Give him to us, said Covfefe (whom I had several times enjoined to refer to himself as “me” not “us” but some demons’ egos know no boundaries, I fear).
Rak! Rak! I eat the dead! said Eirg. Helpful as ever, Eirg. Thank you.
But then I got a good one: This man has wandered the world on a horse of wood. Swell-rider. Wave-strider. One time, a worker with his hands, until his body failed him. Now he works with wits, which failed the day he began. Bargainer in cast-offs. Collector of lost and stolen things. Purveyor of others’ failure. This man, who has seen the farthest kingdoms of his kind, now ransoms trinkets from the hopeless.
Who said it? Some remnant of Moriarty, still lodged within me? Or maybe it’s just what I thought Moriarty would say if he were still there. Honestly, it’s hard to tell sometimes.
Listening to the little buggers, I nearly failed to notice that Watson was doing his trick. See how the man had a coin with a square piercing on his watchband and a pink-scaled fish tattooed on his arm? That meant he’d been to China. His large right hand indicated he had been a manual laborer, but the softness of his callouses indicated he no longer was. And—yes—Mr. Wilson confirmed he had been a ship’s carpenter. He must also be a freemason, Watson said, as—against that organization’s wishes—he wore their compass insignia on his tie. He did a good deal of writing, because of his sleeves… Blah, blah, blah.
“And he is a pawnbroker,” I added.
Mr. Wilson recoiled in surprise and confirmed that I was correct. Watson turned to me with an impressed expression and said, “Very good! However did you deduce it, Warlock?”
“Oh, I’ve no idea really. It doesn’t matter. Tell him your story, Jabez! Tell him your story!”
“Oh… uhhh… very well…” our stupid guest replied. Stupidly. Because he was stupid. “It is just as Mr. Holmes says. I have a little pawnshop down on Saxe-Coburg Square. It does well enough to keep a roof over my head, but little better. I’m a widower, with no family to support. Nobody but my assistant
Mr. Spaulding. Good thing Spaulding comes at half-wages, for I’m scarcely able to afford that much.”
Here Watson interrupted—a horrible habit of his, for I felt it was a really interesting story. Nevertheless, Watson archly arched an eyebrow and said, “Your assistant works for half-wages? In this market? Your story is remarkable already, Mr. Wilson. Tell me, how long have you had Mr. Spaulding and how did he come?”
“Oh… nearly three months now. He came in response to an advertisement I placed. Had six or seven fellows show up for the job, but Vincent… uhhhh… that’s his name, Vincent Spaulding… he said he’d do the job for half-wages so I picked him.”
“Has the man some infirmity?” Watson pressed. “Some deficiency that enables him to claim only a half-share for his labors?”
“No, he’s wonderful.” Wilson shrugged, very stupidly. “Clever as they come. So clever I sometimes don’t know what he’s talking about. Hard worker. No trouble with women or the bottle. Of course, he spends too much time on photography. Always snapping away. Had to give him my cellar for a darkroom. But then, he’s a good lad. Well… lad… he’s at least thirty, I should think. Funny-looking short little chap. White splash of acid on the forehead. Well one day, about two months ago, he comes running downstairs with the paper in his hands, crying, ‘Oh to be a red-haired man! I wish to God I was a red-haired man, Mr. Wilson.’
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 19