Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  In the sacrificial chamber, Ian was suspended above the pit by a rope around his waist, secured with a pulley arrangement to the wall and ceiling. His wrists were also bound with thick knots and tied behind his back. McGloury lit a candle that protruded from the eye socket of a goat’s skull, an inch below the rope, close enough to eventually sever it. “You must have left your common sense back on the prairie, cowboy. Did you really ken you’d get away with it, man?” McGloury inspected his handiwork while lecturing, “Deirdre’s resurrected our old ways. She said this was the original purpose of this peculiar chamber.” Then he added gleefully, “You’re revivin’ an old tradition.”

  “Glad to oblige,” came Ian’s polite, but edgy, reply.

  McGloury snorted, “A pity you weren’t so obliging in your loyalty to Deirdre.”

  “You don’t have your smiling brand on me. It was just business.”

  McGloury gave a short laugh. “You see, Deirdre’s got a bit of obsession about betrayal—you might recall the history of these caverns. Aye, betraying her was a daft thing to do, and very poor business.” McGloury blew out the match, tossing it to the ground as he joined two armed men standing at the chamber entrance beside the sweeper man. The sweeper gave McGloury a withering look and swept up the match.

  They all left, but McGloury leaned back in, “I suggest you use the time to contemplate the error of your ways.” McGloury motioned his thumb at the rope, already beginning to singe from the candle, and added, “I’d do it with some haste,” then left closing the door.

  The sweeper man brushed some dirt into his dust-pan and emptied it into the pit.

  Near the lagoon entrance, Deirdre’s men finished wiring the crates of cordite.

  Deirdre yelled across the water, “Put the detonator in the escape chamber!” The men waved in acknowledgement.

  Von Traeger took note of the fog. “Mein Priesterin!” He barked in relief. “I think the fog is burning away.”

  Outside, the fog was thinning, and the grey sky took on a faint tinge of blue.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The Ruined Church & H.M.S. Dreadnought

  The monk grinned in satisfaction as, through his telescope, the rapidly thinning mist unmasked the outline of the battleship below him in the firth.

  Aboard the Dreadnought, Commander Bernard, appearing a little green around the gills, staggered to the bridge in a uniform altered more for a yachting regatta. He gave a weak salute to Captain Summerlee and leaned unsteadily against the bulkhead. Ramsgate strolled in behind Bernard and nodded cheerfully to Sebastian and Summerlee. “I must say, breakfast was excellent. The navy always travels first class.”

  “Please …” Bernard said faintly.

  Summerlee stared at Bernard in amazement. “The man’s sea sick! In port?”

  “Naval Intelligence,” offered Mycroft as an explanation.

  Summerlee nodded in understanding then turned back to Bernard. “You may inform their Lordships that we’re getting underway.”

  Bernard tried to carry on his end of the conversation (though all that was required was a perfunctory “Aye, aye, sir.”). “Good. They’ve been as impatient as infants.” Bernard took a step forward then retreated back to the bulkhead for support. He held up his hand, signaling he was fine and continued haltingly, “Lord Baskerville keeps demanding to know whose idea it was to put the crows-nest behind the smokestack.”

  “It’s not a ‘crow’s-nest’!” protested Summerlee testily. “And it won’t be a problem!”

  High above the bridge, two ratings—as sailors are called in the Royal Navy—in the crow’s-nest (really a spotting platform) stared down with concern at the smokestack below them. The oily black coal cloud was growing thicker, but, luckily, blowing away from them.

  “Whose idea was it to put that there?” asked the first rating.

  “I’d like to ’ave ’im up ’ere when we turn into the wind.” contended his mate.

  “Coo. Who’d sell a farm and go to sea?”

  The conversation was cut short by a deep blast of the ship’s whistle. The white steam from the whistle swirled around them.

  On deck, levers were pulled, the capstan rotated, and the anchor chain emerged from the black waters of the firth, one huge studded link at a time. Sailors with hoses drenched the chain in a high-pressure stream, cleaning off all mud and sea-life as it slid through the hawsehole.

  On the bridge, the telegraph indicator was rung down to “Ahead Slow.”

  Water boiled about the stern as the four gigantic screw propellers started their revolutions.

  In the ruined church, the monk saw black smoke erupt from the Dreadnought’s twin funnels and the battleship start to make way. With his eye still glued to the telescope, he excitedly ordered the second monk to send the message. Watching the battleship move majestically out of the anchorage, he found that he admired her … she was a beautiful ship. Her business-like lines radiated power, efficiency and functional elegance.

  Anyone who could read a newspaper knew that the Dreadnought had altered the balance of naval power. She would give her name to an entire class of ships and, the British government proclaimed, make old-style battleships as obsolete as wooden, sail-powered, ships of the line. That wasn’t entirely accurate, but one fact stood out: naval power would now be estimated by the number of Dreadnought-style ships in the fleet. The great powers raced to complete as many Dreadnought-type ships as their will and national treasure allowed. Britain was ahead with one finished and three more soon to be laid down. Germany had none. First Sea Lord, Admiral Fisher, boasted, “We shall have ten Dreadnoughts at sea before a single foreign Dreadnought is launched!”

  The Dreadnought was the darling of the naval world and, even more, the public. And because of that, the perfect tool for Deirdre’s plan. The monk rubbed his hands with glee and grinned to his companion. “It’s going to work, lad. We’ve waited centuries, and now the day has come. If only my grandfather and father were here, they’d dance a jig.”

  The other monk nodded in grinning agreement. “Aye, Deirdre’s a wonder!”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The Caverns

  Von Traeger, at a wooden table in the main chamber, rechecked his course on a navigation chart, working with dividers. Deirdre read the message from the carrier pigeon, “Dreadnought’s making seven knots,” she informed the German. The turbine-powered Dreadnought was capable of much higher speeds—up to twenty-one knots, but while in the confined waters of the firth, until she reached the open sea, her speed would remain more modest.

  He grabbed a notepad and started calculating. “She’ll pass us in …”

  “Ten to fifteen minutes, depending on the current.”

  Von Traeger dropped the pad and pencil to the table in annoyance. “Perhaps you would care to command the U-boat, as well!”

  She ignored that. “You had better cast off. Have you confirmed your final arrangements?”

  Von Traeger resented her questioning him. He prided himself on efficiency. That was, after all, what Prussians were known for. He huffed and allowed, “Ja. After the attack, I will make for the sea and rendezvous with my yacht. Once on board, I will scuttle the U-boat, destroying all evidence. Neither Germany nor England will be the wiser.”

  She nodded in approval. He clicked his heels, “Möge der Tag bringen uns Glück!”

  “Do as you were instructed and luck will not be a concern. You are squandering time, Baron.” She made a small gesture, motioning him toward the U-boat.

  Having been thus dismissed, Von Traeger marched to the sub and battened down the hatch. Men cast off mooring lines and jumped to the shore. The sub’s internal combustion engine sputtered to life, water bubbled white around her stern, and she began to move down the lagoon toward the cave entrance and the firth beyond.

  Deirdre caressed her crescent-moon pendant, watching in satisfaction. The pieces were all falling into place, as she knew they would.

  Blake was undoing Tasha’s bond
s so that she could feed herself from the large wooden bowl of porridge steaming on the nearby stout table.

  “Did you pass a good night, ma’am?” asked Blake. He was a simple man at heart who had nothing against Tasha; she was simply on the wrong side. He unfettered one of her arms. “Porridge, ma’am. Have to keep your strength up, you know.”

  “Very true, and I am sorry for this,” she said, and then spun around with her free hand grasping the back of Blake’s head. With perfect accuracy, Mother slammed his face into the sturdy bowl of porridge. Focusing all of her considerable strength into the one arm and bracing herself, Tasha forced him under.

  Tasha had no personal dislike of Blake. He was merely an obstacle to be overcome. She was fighting to stop a slaughter that would ravage Europe, but she was also a mother protecting her child. She needed freedom of action, and to achieve that, Blake had to die. All of Mother’s impressive powers were focused on that goal and Blake was doomed. Tasha strained—her mouth a straight determined line. Without oxygen, Blake weakened and his struggles waned. When they ceased, Mother lifted his face from the bowl. A mass of glistening red pulp lay where his nose used to be. She let the body slide to the floor, freed her other arm, and methodically rifled Blake’s pockets. She took his revolver, finding—to her surprise—it was her own Webley Bulldog. Ian must have given it to Blake after she had been disarmed. Then she left the now lifeless chamber.

  As Tasha entered the connecting passageway, she was spotted by one of Deirdre’s armed men. He was most likely a poacher, for he silently stalked her, shikari-like, as she exited the prison chamber, keeping close to the wall.

  She halted, sensing him, and turned, but he ducked behind a projection of rock. Mother hurried on, rounding a sharp corner. He crept up cautiously, and lingered on his side of the corner, listening for any sign of her. The game was cat-and-mouse, but now he wasn’t certain which was which. He cocked his revolver, leapt round the corner and landed like a cat, gun ready. He was good, but what he saw surprised him, for he saw nothing. The tunnel was empty. There was no hint of Mother, nor was there any place for her to hide that he could see. He nervously trod into the tunnel, his head oscillating from side-to-side.

  If the cult member had been alert to the cavern roof, he would have seen her above him, clinging to irregularities in the rock like some incredible insect. She soundlessly dropped down behind him, leaned close to his ear and whispered: “Boo.”

  Startled, he jumped, but before his feet touched down, her fist smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling.… The expression, even then, was down for the count.

  The tunnel emptied onto a wide ledge in the main chamber that ran uphill and terminated over the open maw of the sea entrance. There were crates and equipment all about Tasha, as well as sticks of cordite connected by fuse wire. A workman loitered at the far end. Tasha exited the passage and ducked behind some crates. One of the crates was open, and she spotted sticks of dynamite. She stashed a couple of sticks in her belt. One never knew when a large explosion might be convenient.

  Back in the passage, three more armed guards found their unconscious compatriot on the tunnel floor. No amount of persuasion would rouse him. They drew their revolvers and rushed down the tunnel.

  The little U-boat had nearly reached the mouth the cave, and open water lay beyond. Above it, on the ledge, a workman lit his pipe, watching the sub while leaning against a large crate. Tasha, suddenly behind him, wrapped her arms around his neck and dragged him under cover. While keeping her hand over his mouth to prevent him from alerting the others, she snapped the worker’s neck, searched his pockets, and found the box of wooden Vesta matches he used to light his pipe.

  Bullets started flying around her. The guards had spotted Mother and were racing toward her while shooting. Tasha used the workman’s body as a shield, then tossed the dead cultist aside and bolted to the top of the ledge.

  Deirdre, alerted by the firing, spotted Tasha across the lagoon, rushing to the edge of the ledge as the guards closed in. She calculated all of Tasha’s options and her counter-measures. Then Deirdre saw Tasha rush to a case of cordite and target it with her Webley. The guard’s bullets were already striking near the explosives. Deirdre yelled at her followers. “Stop firing! You’ll blow us to atoms!” Her men halted at their priestess’s command.

  Tasha yelled to Deirdre, “Stop that U-boat or I’ll fire!”

  Deirdre had already played this scenario in her mind. “It’s a poor bluff, Lady Dorrington. You might kill Laura.” Then she ordered her men, “Take her!”

  Tasha had not really expected Deirdre to believe that she would fire, but it was a move she had to play. The gamble bought a little time, and she used it to back further away from the men and toward the ledge. Deirdre’s acolytes closed in. Below her, the sub was just passing under the cave mouth.

  Tasha pivoted, shoved the gun into her belt and dove into the lagoon. She swam to the sub and grasped a diving fin. Bullets splashed and whizzed all around. Tasha hung on as the U-boat cleared the cave. She felt cleansed by the cold water, and the open sky above was a liberating contrast to the oppressive confinement of the death-cult’s caverns.

  Deirdre watched in helpless fury. Tasha had used the one strategy that might be effective, though the odds were heavily against her.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  The U-Boat & H.M.S. Dreadnought & The Caverns

  The interior of the little boat was incredibly cramped and very noisy. The din of the internal combustion engine reverberated loudly in the tight space. It was a wise choice to employ the midgets, again wearing their miniature German sailor uniforms, as crew members. For between them, the diesel engines, the electric motors, the batteries, the periscope, the two eighteen-inch torpedoes, and myriad valves, pipes, wheels and controls, Von Traeger had little room for his stocky frame to move. The Prussian heard a thumping from the deck above him.

  “Himmel. Vas ist das?” he said as he stepped to the hatch ladder.

  On deck, Tasha, her clothes soaked and clinging to her, shivered from the cold water and wind as she set the dynamite at the base of the conning tower. Behind her, Von Traeger opened the hatch. He spotted her hopelessly trying to ignite one of the wet matches. He pulled out a seaman’s knife and drew back to toss it, but in doing so, struck the lid of the hatch. Tasha, hearing the clang, fired at him. He ducked back into the sub, slamming the hatch behind him. Tasha heard the hatch being secured from the inside. A few seconds later, atop the conning tower, the periscope started to rotate.

  Down below, Von Traeger realised that Tasha would be unable to light the fuse. He dismissed the thought of her standing on the deck, firing into the dynamite and committing suicide, and returned to his mission. He spotted the Dreadnought in the periscope. Etched on the glass were range-finder markings. The Dreadnought sailed into the crosshairs. He would shortly have the range.

  Sebastian, on the wing of the Dreadnought’s bridge, spotted the sub.

  A rating, at a pair of binoculars mounted on a swivel stand, checked the coordinates etched into a metal faceplate at the top of the stand and shouted, “Sir! Ship bearing green one-five-oh!”

  “It’s a bloody U-boat!” yelled Sebastian in mock surprise as he dashed into the wheelhouse.

  Summerlee, also on the bridge, gaped at him in confusion, “In British waters?”

  Summerlee, Ramsgate, Mycroft, and Bernard rushed to the ports, training binoculars, or simply looking to the coordinates.

  “Green one-five-oh?” asked a perplexed Bernard.

  Sebastian wondered how this man ever survived in the navy. “Green is starboard—to the right,” he offered.

  Mycroft took over Sebastian’s binoculars. “It’s German, all right.”

  Summerlee snatched up a phone. “Why didn’t the lookouts spot this?”

  The lookouts in the spotting top were lost in thick, black, oily smoke from the stack. The two ratings were covered in black soot. One of them yelled into the phone, “What submarine, s
ir?”

  Summerlee hung up the phone. “They’re having problems up there.”

  Mycroft contemplated the sub and mused, “Why are they here? And on the surface—plain as day!”

  Sebastian took advantage. “Looks like the Huns want us to know they mean business.”

  “Business?” asked Ramsgate. “We’re not at war!”

  “Not yet,” said Mycroft thoughtfully.

  The phone buzzed and a sailor, snatching the receiver from its cradle on the bulkhead, answered, listened, and responded, “Yes, sir,” then held the receiver to the Captain. Summerlee grabbed the phone. “Captain.” He listened, then covered the phone and motioned to Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes … It’s their Lordships. What should I tell them?”

  “Tell them you’ll call back,” said Mycroft agreeably.

  It was the best advice anyone had ever given Summerlee. Sebastian was quite satisfied at the U-boat’s effect. All was as Deirdre had predicted and planned; vengeance for an ancient treachery was coming to pass before his eyes. Things couldn’t be going better.

  Tasha, masked from the Dreadnought’s view by the sub’s conning tower, realised that the dynamite was useless and was trying another strategy. If she couldn’t kill this metal beast, perhaps she could blind it. She climbed atop the conning tower and, using the butt of her gun, smashed the glass on the periscope.

  Von Traeger, acting on instinct, jerked his head away from the eyepiece. “She’s smashed the shield!” He sternly peered at his diminutive crew. “Go topside and get her!”

  The little sailors exchanged perturbed looks, then, in unison, glanced to Von Traeger and shook their heads “no.” He was incredulous. “But that was an order! Everyone obeys orders!”