Lady Sherlock

by Brooks Arthur Wachtel

  “Welcome back, ma’am.” He grinned and jabbed the metal barb toward her stomach. Tasha bent away as he swung it, but the harpoon cut a painful slash in her left arm. Mother grabbed the wound and felt her warm, wet blood trickling down her hand. Tom moved in for the kill.

  As he jabbed, she grabbed the long wooden shaft and swung him into the wall. He was stronger than she thought, for he kept hold of the harpoon and struck Mother in the jaw with its wooden end. Mother staggered, but forced herself to recover. She lunged toward him and kicked the harpoon from his grasp. It fell to the ground. They both dove for the spear. Mother was quicker. She got it, rolled along the ground, raised the weapon, and impaled Tom in mid-leap. The harpoon ran him through, protruding from his back. He clutched it and fell against a crate, pinned like an insect on a collector’s card.

  Down the tunnel, another man ran toward Tasha, his knife poised to throw. She retrieved her gun, fired, and hit him just as he threw his blade. Mother somersaulted away, and without stopping, smashed feet-first into the crypt door.

  The ancient wood gave way. Tasha landed on her feet. Deirdre spun to her, caught off guard by Tasha’s sudden appearance. They both froze.

  “Where is my daughter?” Tasha asked grimly.

  “Here—forever!” Deidre replied with a glimmer of glee on her face. She reached for the plunger as Tasha raised her gun and fired. But the shot didn’t stop Deirdre from depressing the plunger. The mad priestess laughed in triumph. “You missed.”

  Tasha’s grim face slowly softened into a humourless smile. All was still. There was no explosion.

  Deirdre’s triumphant smirk faded as she gave a quick glance down at the plunger. Mother had shot away the wire connecting the detonator to the cordite. Deirdre looked up, and their eyes locked.

  “Laura,” said Tasha in a harsh whisper.

  The priestess remained silent and motionless.

  Mother hurled her revolver to the floor, and with an insane, unwavering gaze, advanced on Deirdre.

  Deirdre held her ground; her arm slipped from the detonator handle to her side, releasing a long needle from her sleeve into her hand. “This’ll put a smile on your face,” she hissed.

  Mother stopped.

  Tier upon tier of ancient skeletons surrounded the two women. In this chamber of death, they stood motionless, like coiled serpents. Then Mother screamed like an enraged animal and sprung upon Deirdre, smashing her to the ground. The poisoned needle clattered out of her hand. Deirdre struggled, visibly afraid; she was no match for the fury she had unleashed in Tasha.

  Mother lost all control, attacking with berserker rage. I am glad I did not see it. At that moment she wasn’t thinking of me, or of anything. Her mind, usually in such command, was overwhelmed by the very emotions it spent such energy repressing. She slammed Deirdre into the cave wall, smashed her head to the ground and pounded on her in a frenzy long after Deirdre had lost consciousness.

  Then Tasha stopped. Perhaps it was the warmth of the blood on her hands, but some deep sense forced her to cease, knowing that anything further would kill Deirdre, and as much as part of her wanted that, another, more enlightened part, did not. Mother collapsed to the ground, clutching her injured arm, laughing and weeping at the same time. The rage drained away and rationality took control. She heard my name escape from her lips and forced herself once more into action. Trailing blood, Tasha left the chamber.

  McGloury heard the muffled sounds of the battle and eyed me as I stood like a statue where he had placed me on the edge of the pit. The time had come for him to act.

  The cult marksmen pinned down the landing party below them with murderous fire from the machine gun. Sebastian wisely kept under cover as the marine next to him returned fire. The crack of his lone Lee-Enfield was answered by a fusillade from the Maxim.

  “We can ’ardly ’it ’em from down ’ere, sir!” the marine complained to Sebastian. As he ducked down, the top of the wooden crate he was using for cover was splintered by machine gun rounds. Then the whirr of the Maxim suddenly stilled.

  On the platform, the ammunition belt feeding continuous death from the Maxim ran out and the loader reached into the ammunition box for another. As he did, the box suddenly jerked away from him. He spotted a hook tied to a rope pulling the crate, and before he could utter a word, there was another jerk and the box vanished around a corner. The loader signaled to a marksman and, his rifle at the ready, the rifleman entered the tunnel to investigate.

  The marine near Sebastian used the sudden cessation of machine-gun fire to dart deeper into the chamber. He was instantly hit by rifle fire and staggered back atop Sebastian. The commander looked down in disgust as his once immaculate uniform was smeared in blood.

  A marksman on the platform lit a stick of dynamite, taken from a box well under cover from the firing. He tossed the makeshift grenade into a cluster of marines who were using a small winch and crane as cover. The explosive detonated in fire and smoke, collapsing the crane and killing most of the marines and sailors.

  Mother raced into the small chamber that once held McGloury’s collie. There was no sign of me. She had not found anyone in the near-deserted tunnels who could give her any information. Mother was reduced to searching for me, chamber by chamber. Von Traeger stepped out of the shadows, his rapier ready. Tasha faced him and demanded, “Where’s Laura?”

  He tried to slice her with his blade, but she narrowly avoided his skillful attack.

  “You have made a fool of me!” he snarled, but as he swept at her again and again, she dodged him. Tasha spotted his spare rapier on the other side of the chamber, resting against the wall. He saw where she was looking, stepped back, raised his sword in salute and bowed. Mother, ever on guard, picked up the blade. Von Traeger gave her a nasty grin. “Fräulein, I am going to enjoy this.”

  “Dinnae gut your fish till ye get them!” chided Tasha, imitating the local accent.

  He growled and lunged, but to his surprise, she parried, and the duel of Von Traeger’s life commenced. With cold fury, Mother backed him out of the chamber. She was a grim fighting machine that relentlessly pressed on and on. Von Traeger hid behind a crate and Tasha’s blade became stuck as she swung. He used his one advantage, slicing her already injured left arm. That lapse enraged Mother. She was as furious at herself as she was at this arrogant imbecile, and she pressed on with even greater savagery.

  As she forced him into retreat, he gasped in amazement, “Impossible … women cannot fight!”

  “There’s only one reason you are still alive.” She smashed the sword from his hand and snapped her blade between his eyes. He froze. “Now,” she said with finality. “Where’s Laura?”

  In the tunnel, the marksman thought he spotted the Maxim ammunition box ahead of him. Suddenly, he was ensnared in a lariat; Ian decked him with a solid right hook, then rubbed his sore hand. With a sense of purpose, Ian retrieved the rifle and dashed back down the tunnel toward the platform that overlooked the lagoon, where the cultists poured down fire on the Marines and ratings.

  As more dynamite exploded, the marines and sailors realised their battle was hopeless and retreated back toward the launch. The cult marksman on the platform ignited the fuse on another stick of dynamite. This had been his own idea, and he was delighted his strategy was working so effectively. He picked his target, a sergeant and two privates racing from the cover of some crates toward the motor-launch. He reached back to toss when a gunshot—ignored among all the other gunshots—cracked. That sound was the last he would ever hear. The bullet went through his brain, and he fell, the explosive pinned beneath him.

  Ian, at the tunnel entrance, emptied the rifle into the other marksmen and then ducked back into the shaft as the survivors, now aware of an attack from behind, spun and opened fire on him.

  One of the cultists rolled over the body pinning the still burning dynamite. His act was brave—but too late. As he was about to toss the explosive to the Marines below, it ignited in his hand. By some miracle,
the explosion did not blow up the nearby cordite, but the Maxim, the marksmen upon the platform, the battle, all vanished in that fateful detonation.

  The marines halted their retreat, and with the armed ratings, rallied and swarmed into the chamber. With the cult marksmen’s advantage of cover and firepower gone, the few survivors were efficiently routed by the better-trained Marines.

  Sebastian fell behind the skirmish, and slipped away into one of the tunnels.

  McGloury heard the fighting die away and realised that the game was up. Even so, his devotion to Deirdre was absolute, and he was determined to follow her command. He placed his hands on my waist and lifted me over the pit. I was like a statue and not aware of what was being done to me. But I now know that as he was about to drop me, the blade of a sword thrust through his chest.

  Mother had raced into the sacrificial chamber and was there behind us. She grasped me with her injured arm as McGloury toppled into the abyss. The cultist disappeared into the darkness. I can vaguely recall his screams as he plummeted out of sight. I think I can also recall Mother’s agony as she pulled me to safety with her injured arm. I did not react, even when Mother embraced me. Had I been in my senses, the sight of my usually composed Mother weeping and thanking God would have been a remarkable sight to me. But that was not what I saw. My distorted mind envisioned the monster again, ripping away my flesh, crushing me until blood was pouring out of my body. Then I screamed! The horror my mindless shriek brought to Mother was as terrible as anything I was imagining. My vision cleared—the monster abruptly vanished—I saw my broken mother with horrible clarity. That piercing sight—paired with the guilt, terror, and anger brought on by the indelible and ghastly image of Mother evoked by Deirdre’s potions—would echo in our lives for years to come.

  Deirdre, in the crypt chamber, was still on the floor, nearly insensible from the battering Mother had given her. Her fingers stirred, moving through a puddle of her own blood. My scream echoed and distorted in the chamber. Somehow, even through her agony, she managed the ghost of a smile in the knowledge that as injured as she was, the internal wounds she had inflicted on Mother and me would endure far longer.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The Caverns

  Ramsgate was angry. “You mean to suppress this, don’t you?”

  He was speaking to Mycroft Holmes as, along with Captain Summerlee, they walked through the main chamber. All around them, the cave was a beehive of activity. As naval officers examined the partially sunken sub, marines—rifles ready—cautiously searched all the chambers.

  Mycroft thumbed through a sheaf of captured documents. “Hmmm?” he asked absent-mindedly.

  Ramsgate knew that Mycroft had heard every word, but repeated himself just the same. “I said you intend to suppress this!”

  “Of course,” Mycroft replied affably. “You can’t publicly announce that two of the largest limited companies in the United Kingdom and …” He perused one paper in particular, “… the third largest concern in Germany, worked amicably with a group of demon worshippers to start a major war. Not good for public confidence.”

  Ramsgate threw up his hands in futility.

  “What would you do, Commissioner?” Mycroft said to Ramsgate with some sympathy, as he handed several pages to Summerlee while gleaning information from the few papers remaining in his hands. “Charge in and arrest the board of directors? Four of them are members of Parliament. Two of them are members of my party. One is a member of my club. We need them. It’s that simple.”

  “Above the law, are they? Still, I’d like to see something done,” said Ramsgate in asperity.

  “Something will be done. We’ll let them know that we know. And with luck, no one else ever will.” He stopped walking and turned to face Ramsgate. “I’m concerned about Lady Dorrington’s discretion.”

  Ramsgate instantly sprang to Mother’s defence. “I have complete confidence …”

  “She’s a woman, Ramsgate. They have their own inscrutable sense of responsibility.” Mycroft continued walking, eying the Dreadnought papers taken from the murdered commander in St. James Park, “And while we are on the subject … a very intriguing plan. What an incandescent intelligence this Deirdre has. Malevolent, yet darkly magnificent.”

  Summerlee shook his head as he read the captured pages in disbelief. “Remarkable. But do you really think a lone woman could have conceived all this?”

  Ramsgate was long past that kind of narrow-mindedness. Extended exposure to Mother had done that, but he was smart enough to know when to pick his battles, and said nothing. Mycroft simply commented, “You’ve plainly spent too much time at sea, Captain.”

  They came to the detonator, now brought up to the main chamber. Mycroft fingered the device, his eyes twinkling. “I think this Deirdre had a remarkably good idea here.”

  Outside the cavern, the detonator plunger was depressed and an explosion near the cave entrance sent rocks tumbling down from the cliff, sealing the entrance.

  Nearby, Mycroft watched several Royal Marines who were manning three more detonator boxes. An officer signaled and the second detonator was set off.

  Inside, an explosion rocked the main chamber. A cave-in started, and boulders battered the U-boat, completing the job of the leak and sending the makeshift craft to the bottom of the lagoon.

  Up above, Mycroft nodded in satisfaction as the officer signaled for the last detonator. The final explosion would destroy and seal the evidence. No one would know what happened here, for at least as long as it mattered. Only the ruins near McGloury’s cottage remained intact.

  The dolmens with their tortured faces are there still.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Glasgow Central Station

  The train whistle blew inside the monumental enclosed platform of Central Station. Scaffolding from the recent enlargement clad the side of the ornate building, and the massive new bridge over the River Clyde was completed, but was not yet open to the public. The Caledonian Railway had made every effort to see to the comfort of its passengers. There was even a first-class hotel, which fronted an entire side of the station. That hotel—with its up-to-date plumbing, elegant restaurant, and comfortable beds, as well as the station with its modern steam trains, connected to an efficient transportation system—was only a few scant miles away from Deirdre, with her macabre caverns, demon-worshipping acolytes, and life-stealing potions.

  Ramsgate stood on the platform trying to make small talk with Mother, a woman who, even under pleasing circumstances, disdained idle chatter. Tasha stood before the open doorway of a plush private railroad car attached to the Royal Scot. Her left arm, in a sling, was causing her pain. She interrupted Ramsgate and asked him to thank Mycroft Holmes for the use of the private car.

  “Since there can’t be any public recognition, he felt it was the least he could do. He’s rather keen on hushing this up.”

  Tasha was more than aware of that, and agreed with Mycroft, though not for the same reasons. She simply thought that in the end, exposure or suppression would make no difference in the course of world events.

  “How’s the arm?” asked Ramsgate.

  She smiled, “It’s nothing.”

  “And Laura?”

  Her smile faded. She had led me, as if I was walking in my sleep, to a bed in the private car. Mycroft had offered a nurse, but Mother refused. Watching over me was her personal responsibility.

  Ramsgate changed tack. “Deirdre isn’t being let off. It’ll be nineteen fifty before she sees daylight again. What a monster.”

  Tasha’s eyes flashed. “A genius!” she said with bitter admiration. “The way she manipulated those armaments manufacturers; revitalized her cult. The sham case she arranged for me, perfect in almost every detail and arranged on very little notice.”

  Ramsgate was surprised at Mother’s admiration. “Let’s be thankful she wasn’t too good,” was all he could manage.

  “It hardly matters; the war will come. Soon. And I don’t think this
world we know will survive it.”

  “Why didn’t you kill her? I would have.”

  Mother’s lack of response provided no insights.

  The final whistle blew from the engine.

  “There’s someone else who wanted to say goodbye,” said Ramsgate as he nodded down the platform. Ian was approaching, flanked by two constables. At Ramsgate’s signal, the pair let him walk alone toward Mother. Ramsgate nodded toward Ian. “Mr. Holmes took your suggestion to heart, Tasha.”

  Tasha closed her eyes, sighed, then tenderly kissed Ramsgate on the forehead. “Thank you.”

  Ian came close and Ramsgate retreated, leaving them alone. Ian looked self-consciously at Tasha, neither of them comfortable. He let out a breath and finally spoke, “They’re sendin’ me back to Montana. You wouldn’t know anything about that—” he gave her a weak grin.

  She did not return his attempt at intimacy, “Let’s just say I like to pay my debts.”

  Ian’s smile faded and again there was an uncomfortable pause. This time Tasha spoke first, “Stay there, Ian. Build a new life in the clean air of a new world; escape the storm that will soon wither this old one.”

  He nodded and they faced each other.

  “Goodbye, Tasha.” He started to say more, but she held up her hand, stopped him and shook her head. He understood, then gazed into her eyes, trying to read them, but they were also silent.

  The train behind Tasha started to move. She stepped into the doorway of the railroad car, watching as Ian—the lone figure on the platform, isolated by white steam—receded into the distance.