Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London

by Stephen Mertz

  "Of course, Commander." Holmes nodded. "Matters of state always take precedence in my brother’s life."

  I wondered if anyone else present detected the faintest trace of disappointment that I heard in that remark.

  Overhead, the Blackhawk was lowering the wicker basket for its next boarder.

  Chapter 5

  "You’re quite right," said Holmes one month later. "Your readers may be gullible enough to want to read about zombies but no editor who fancies himself a man of the world would buy one syllable of it."

  These were the first words to pass between us in thirty minutes.

  It was a close, rainy day in March. I sat in my favorite chair and had idled the past thirty minutes lost in thought, gazing through the rain-streaked window at what few pedestrians and carriages sought to brave the inclement weather that made the world a gloomy place.

  I said with a chuckle, "Holmes, for you to draw such a ‘deduction,’ based on my prolonged reflection, is frankly beneath you. Has there been a day since our return to London from Devonshire that one or both of us has not raised the matter of what happened there, of Moriarty’s escape?"

  He stood before the mantle of the little sitting room of 221B Baker Street and set his beloved violin in its case. He sat down and lit his pipe.

  Holmes, Mary and I had been questioned as to what had happened by Commander Standish. From Mycroft there had been no further communication, which was normal given what I knew of relations between the Holmes brothers. Mycroft would be hard at work at the Ministry or buried deep in his seclusion within the Diogenes Club.

  Mary had fully recovered from her wound; a stalwart creature of beauty, grace and intellect, and now I knew her mettle. She and her mother were presently away at the seashore, visiting a relative whose health was in decline. I had already that morning posted my daily missive to her, and had received and read her letter to me.

  Holmes had lapsed into that peculiar ennui that often gripped him between cases. I had seen no indication that he had resumed his recreational use of cocaine, a habit I frowned on as I was well aware of the drug’s ultimately debilitating effect on the mind and on the body.

  On this morning, however, Holmes’ playing of Mendelssohn seemed to have lifted his spirit.

  And I will admit that at the moment of his remark, my thoughts indeed were centered on precisely how to convey through prose those events that had transpired at Castle Moriarty.

  "Each day you begin composing upon a fresh, crisp new sheet of paper," said he. "You then cease writing approximately midway down the third page. The muse is a difficult mistress, is she not?"

  I sighed my frustration.

  "I can hardly break the oath of secrecy I pledged both you personally and Her Majesty’s government. And by the way, it is considered a breech of common etiquette to read over someone’s shoulder."

  "I was not reading, dear fellow, I was glancing." He tapped out a bowl of ash from his pipe. "Common etiquette has never been my strong suit. My advice is to leave the matter unchronicled."

  "I regret to say that I’ve reached the same conclusion," I admitted. "It’s simply not feasible to contribute such a lurid and singular episode to a canon of work which has thus far maintained a modicum of good taste."

  "If not restraint," Holmes muttered under his breath. He tapped down a fresh bowl of his imported tobacco. "But you believe, don’t you, Watson?"

  "I was there. I saw those walking abominations doing Moriarty’s bidding. I’ve read the texts you’ve called to my attention. In voodoo patois the Professor is their bokor and they the living dead, under his sorcerer’s control because they have no will of their own. It’s the scientific data that’s compelling. The appropriate drugs entered into the blood stream as a powder, the coup de poudre, and a living person becomes a zombie. That is Moriarty’s hold over those poor devils. Holmes, what in God's name could he be up to with those ... zombies?"

  His countenance became as gloomy as the weather outside our window. "When I know that, Watson, my life will again attain meaning."

  I leaned forward in my armchair to get a better view of the street.

  "Hullo."

  "An observation of interest?"

  "A brougham has just stopped at our front door. A fellow is stepping from the coach. He’s approaching 221 and he’s stepping smartly to get out of this beastly weather. The brougham is drawing away."

  Holmes slouched into an attitude of indifference bordering on indolence.

  "Good. I’ll welcome any diversion from this fixation on Moriarty."

  There came a knock at the door.

  "A gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes."

  "Show him in, Mrs. Hudson."

  Holmes’ landlady duly showed in and left us alone with a rather dour fellow, dressed in modest tweeds. His age I estimated to be near thirty. Dreamy, melancholy eyes. A bushy moustache and sandy hair, worn on the long side but neatly combed across and back from a severe left part.

  He looked from one of us to the other.

  "Mr. Holmes?"

  Holmes replied without rising. "I am he. This is my colleague and confidant, Doctor Watson, whom you may trust with all and any information that you entrust to me. And you are?"

  "My name is Herbert Wells. I am associated with the Royal College of Science in South Kensington where I earn a meager personal income as a tutor." The melancholia in his hazel eyes deepened. "I should say straightaway that I’m not altogether certain that my problem, well, I’m not sure I will be able to pay you."

  Coolness settled upon Holmes and seemed to chill the warmth of the sitting room.

  "Indeed?"

  "But I trust, sir, that the nature of the problem itself will enable me to draw and sustain your interest and efforts on my behalf."

  "Mr. Wells, you may be right. Allow me to assess such likelihood by providing, please, a concise account of the circumstances that have brought you to me."

  Our visitor took a seat, his back held straight, a prideful set to eyes and jaw.

  "I am not only a tutor. I happen to be a published author."

  I snapped my fingers.

  "Of course. I should have recognized your name. Are you are H.G. Wells, by any chance?"

  "I am."

  "Well then," I said, "it’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve read your work. The Invisible Man and The War of the Worlds are outstanding works of the imagination."

  Wells’ dour expression brightened. "Thank you, Doctor. Mr. Holmes, have you read my work?"

  "Not the novels, I’m afraid. Watson’s published narratives have quite sated my appetite for melodramas concocted to distract a semi-literate readership."

  Wells burst to his feet.

  "I happen to craft works of popular art for thinking readers! I did not come here to insulted."

  "I was about to add," said Holmes, "that I have read and found of interest your articles in The Science School Journal on the reformation of society. The notion of free love is an interesting concept. Your most provocative notion is that of a World State."

  Wells remained standing, tweed cap bunched in his balled fists. But his anger and defiance of manner subsided.

  "A World State is inevitable, gentlemen. Some mighty big eggs are going to get broken making that omelet, thus people back away. It will take more than one war, I fear, to ultimately lead us to the collective planetary consciousness necessary to undertake such an endeavor."

  Holmes nodded. "A planned society, an end to nationalism, allowing people to progress by merit rather than birth. Yes, I am aware of your publication and your ideas. Would you therefore be so kind as to oblige me, Mr. Wells, by resuming your seat and letting me know how I may be of service?"

  Wells harrumphed a muted chuckle.

  "Forgive me. I was captain of the debating team, you see. It is my nature to take up the gauntlet when there is a difference of opinion."

  "Understood. Pray proceed."

  "I should begin then, I suppose, by saying t
hat my latest novel is to be called The Time Machine."

  "By Jove," said I, "that does sound intriguing."

  Holmes admonished me with a glance and a terse, "Watson, please."

  I settled back in my chair, determined to listen without further interruption.

  Wells said, "The plot of the novel deals with a time traveler and like many of my novels embodies, as themes, those ideas expressed in my articles in the Journal, and theories resulting from my fascination with the whole notion of time travel. In fact, I am chairman of the United Kingdom’s chapter of an international organization of scientists and enthusiasts like myself who share an interest in such a radical theory. We privately publish a quarterly journal to exchange and debate our ideas on the subject." His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I will tell you in all confidentiality, Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, that I am in the process of constructing what I believe will be a time machine."

  I could not contain my gasp of astonishment.

  "Time travel? Is such a thing possible?"

  Wells offered a wry smile. "In fiction, quite effectively. In reality…we shall see."

  Holmes got a fresh bowl of tobacco going.

  "I daresay, Mr. Wells, you have succeeded in piquing my curiosity. I expect some sinister party is out to take possession and/or otherwise exploit your invention."

  The opportunity to differ with Holmes put a glint in Wells’ eye.

  "No, it’s not that at all. My invention is secreted away and I believe it cannot be found. She is safe enough. I've come to you because of a young man, a lad really, who has come to temporarily lodge with my wife and me. An extremely precocious teenager."

  "A difficult age."

  "First, though," said Wells, "some background on my home life."

  "If it’s pertinent."

  "But that’s just it, don’t you see? I don’t know what’s pertinent and what isn’t because, well, frankly, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know what the blazes is going on! My wife and I have been married for only a few months and I regret to say that there was considerable discord under our roof before our young lodger arrived." Wells cleared his throat. His eyes dropped to his shoes. "I seem to be one of those unfortunate souls cursed by uncontrollable romantic impulse."

  Holmes said through a cloud of pipe smoke, "Ah. Free love."

  "I married a cousin. We wed much too young. Then I fell in love with the girl who is now my wife. I was her tutor. That element of my history is the source of our discord."

  "As a tutor you remain in regular contact with other attractive young women and girls."

  Wells sighed. "And, blast me for a fool, I too often yielded to temptation."

  "You were saying about your house guest."

  "Quite so. We corresponded voluminously after becoming acquainted through the organization, exchanging ideas on the subject of time travel both in our quarterly publication and in personal correspondence. I regarded his enthusiasm for my theories as, well ... inordinate though frankly rather flattering. That said, my wife and I were shocked when the young man appeared—uninvited, mind you!—on our front step, having managed to travel alone all the way here with the express purpose of wanting to collaborate on my time machine. Ridiculous, of course, and I told him so. Still, well, uh, we took him in. It was only the Christian thing to do, considering his age. He’s sixteen, but the boy is, how shall I put it, well, he’s intellectually brilliant and yet otherworldly. Socially awkward. He’s the reason we’ve come to you, Mr. Holmes. The young man has vanished from our home without a trace. My wife and I don’t know what to think or do. I feel responsible in large part for his being in London. I want you to find him."

  "The boy’s name?"

  "His name is Albert. Albert Einstein."

  Chapter 6

  We caught a train from Waterloo Station. Wells and his wife lived in Woking, a large town and civil parish located in the west of Surrey.

  Along the way, Wells and I struck up a conversation regarding the current crop of popular writers, resulting in a spirited debate over the comparative merits of two recent titles by H. Rider Haggard.

  For his part, Holmes sat with his back held straight, staring at his reflection in the rain-streaked window glass and the passing world beyond, speaking not a word throughout the journey. He had often enough voiced his contempt for fiction in general, always upon publication of one of my stories.

  "One gets quite enough fiction in the daily news," is how he would phrase it.

  Maybury Road was a quiet, residential neighborhood. The hansom cab that brought us from the train station drew up before Number 143, a pleasant enough narrow, two-story structure similar to those abutting its either side.

  It wasn’t raining in Woking, but the day was damp and dreary.

  An attractive young woman greeted us at the door.

  "Darling, welcome home. Gentlemen, please come in."

  She was slender, several years her husband’s junior. Sandy hair and comely features. She stepped aside to allow us entry. Easing past her, I caught the faintest scent of jasmine perfume.

  I followed Holmes into a tastefully furnished sitting room that was warmed by a cheery fire in the hearth.

  Wells and his wife embraced briefly on the doorstep. She murmured something into his ear. She then closed the front door and they joined us.

  Wells said, "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, this is my wife, Sarah, though the family has always called her Jane."

  Jane’s eyes lowered.

  "Please, Herbert. These gentlemen don’t need to know about me."

  Almost in unison, Holmes and I said, "How do you do?"

  We received a short, polite nod in return. Her eyes remained downcast.

  Wells said, "Mr. Holmes has consented to help us in trying to locate Albert."

  Jane, for that is how I have chosen to refer to her, raised eyes bright with gratitude.

  "Oh, thank you, sir!"

  Holmes said, "What can you tell me about Albert? Your impressions of him?"

  "Why, I guess first I would say that Albert is a most polite and soft-spoken lad, well brought-up. Rather socially awkward, though. And that’s just it, don’t you see? He has tremendous mental gifts and great personal commitment, traveling all this way to meet my husband. But if one is not accustomed to having children about—"

  "Obnoxious little buggers, children," said Wells. "Demanding so much. I find it difficult to concentrate when they’re about. Granted, they can become interesting, Albert being a prime example. The boy’s a prodigy."

  Jane said, "But he’s a boy. I am accustomed to living alone with my husband, or to being left alone to myself."

  "Do you have any idea where he could have gone, or why?"

  "I do not." The terseness of her tone conveyed a nuance of emotion. "We rarely spoke, Alert and I. At our table, abstract enthusiasms, of which I freely admit to being completely oblivious, dominated dinnertime conversation."

  The postman chose that moment to drop envelopes through a mail slot adjacent to the front door, manuscript-sized envelopes among them. They scattered across the floor beneath the mail drop.

  "Ah," said Wells.

  He disengaged his arm from that of his wife, and stooped to retrieve the mail.

  Holmes said, "I should like to examine the guest’s room."

  "Certainly." Wells straightened and started down a short corridor that led to the rear of the house, absently scanning the letters and envelopes. "I’ll show you."

  I could have gone with them, but I decided that there was nothing my friend would miss. Holmes wanted me to stay behind and engage the lady of the house in dialogue, the purpose being to determine if she might know more about this matter than she had thus far let on.

  A brief, awkward silence between us.

  Two strangers left alone in each other’s presence.

  Her jasmine perfume, subtle yet more noticeable here inside the house, titillated my nostrils.

  I admired Wells for having a spouse who wor
e perfume for her husband in the privacy of their home ... though that was hardly a proper opening conversational gambit!

  I said, "I regret this intrusion, Mrs. Wells. I’m sure my friend won’t be long."

  "Not at all, Doctor…Watson, was it?"

  "Dr. John H. Watson, at your service."

  "My husband, as you’ve no doubt observed, is a brilliant man."

  "He’s done quite well as an author."

  "Indeed. Herbert is a fine writer but upon reading his books you’ll notice, I daresay, little regard for the feminine perspective, which I sense, Doctor, that you possess in abundance. Are you a practicing medical physician?"

  "I am retired from private practice."

  "Well, there you go." She placed a slim, manicured hand on my forearm. She smiled. "It is your bedside manner, wouldn’t you say?"

  "I’m, er, uh, sure that must be the case."

  I felt sudden warmth course through me, emanating from her touch. Quite frankly, I was tongue-tied.

  She eased a bit closer to me without removing her fingertips from my sleeve.

  "You will understand, Doctor, how rare it is for a woman to encounter a man who understands a woman."

  At the sound of her husband and Holmes returning down the corridor, her hand dropped away. She stepped back to resume standing exactly where she had been.

  I asked, "Any luck, Holmes?"

  "No, but that’s hardly surprising. Tell me, Mr. and Mrs. Wells, to the best of your knowledge did young Albert socialize with anyone in London other than with you?"

  Wells said, "Not that I know of."

  "He had no friends that I knew of," said Jane.

  "A young man, far from home and alone in a big city. Yes, he would stay to himself, if shy by nature."

  Jane said, "He spent most of his time commandeering the kitchen table with his books and papers and pencils, scribbling out equations as if I wasn’t there in my own kitchen."

  Wells said, "Darling, aren’t you being rather harsh in the boy’s absence?"

  "I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. He’s not a pest but he always is under foot, it seems. Yet I fear for his safety, alone out there in the city." She said to Holmes, "He assured us that his family knew he was here and though they did not approve, they have come to accept his independent nature and ways. I did not feel that we were in any way harboring a mere runaway."