This Is How You Die

by Matthew Bennardo

  “So there are two machines?”

  “Unlikely. Suppose, rather, that there is one machine, which functions exactly as Gould—or Locarde, if it is he—claims that it does. Granted the truth of that premise, I would submit that the prediction for the mouse would be genuine, whereas the prediction for Noakes would be a clever forgery.”

  “On what basis?”

  Holmes gestured expansively with his pipe. “Suppose such a machine existed, and that it were left in your keeping—a machine that could foretell, without the possibility of error, the manner of death of any creature! To what end would you, John Watson, put such a fantastic device? Apart from the obvious use of learning your own fate, I mean.”

  My brow furrowed. “The thought of it makes my head spin, Holmes. The paradoxes that might be entailed…”

  “Dispel with the abstract, for the moment. Try to think practically.”

  I pondered the question. “I suppose it could be applied for diagnostic purposes. I might use it to determine cause of death in a cadaver or to discover whether a particular condition were likely to be lethal. That would inform my potential courses of treatment or palliative care.”

  Holmes clapped his hands. “There! You see, Watson? You are a doctor, and so your mind proceeds directly to medical applications. Whereas an entrepreneur might manufacture and market the device in pursuit of fortune. A government agent might devise some clandestine political scheme. And a mind like Moriarty… well, such a mind might well discover uses so fiendish as to make possible a criminal empire!

  “But Locarde is not another Moriarty. He is bright enough for his class, but petty. Had he inherited or stolen such a device following his master’s downfall, he would be like a dog returning to its vomit. A blackmailer at heart, he would find a likely mark. He would first convince them of the machine’s real power, instilling in them a numinous fear. He would then contrive to present them with a false prediction that could be averted… for a price. Does it not strike you as singular, Watson, that no prediction recounted by Mr. Noakes except for his own included any reference whatsoever to the timing of the death? ‘GARROTED THURSDAY NEXT.’ No other prophecy indicates anything more than proximate cause or means of delivery.”

  I mulled this over. “There may be something to what you say, Holmes. But I’m afraid I am stuck on the idea of the machine itself. To perceive such knowledge is incredible enough, but to put it into words would require a mind—impossible, for a mere machine!”

  “Perhaps,” said he. “Although if any mind could devise a mechanical counterpart, it would be my old foe. Consider also that there may be some truth after all to the fabulous claims of the spiritualists and that Moriarty, in his genius—for he was a genius, Watson—merely devised a means of dragging superstition into the realm of science.”

  “That’s an interesting thought,” I rejoined, “but is it any more probable than uncanny coincidence?”

  Holmes frowned. “You make the very point, Watson. We have engaged in much speculation, with very little hard data. If such a machine were to come into my possession, I would need to perform many experiments before drawing any firm conclusions. But that is a luxury we do not have. We must act quickly if we are to protect our client.”

  “But surely he is in no real danger,” I said. “Not if the threat of his death is truly a blackmailer’s hoax.”

  My friend’s expression became grim. “You presume that Locarde is working alone and that he is above murder. On the latter point, I can assure you that he is not. Having failed to extort Mr. Noakes, he may settle for ensuring his permanent silence… if not on Thursday, then on Friday, or the next week. And there is also the matter of whether or not Gould is, in fact, Locarde. I believe that it is more than probable, but I do not think we can risk involving the police just yet. It would be difficult to persuade them to ransack a gentleman’s home on such evidence… and we do not want to create difficulties for ourselves in the event that I am wrong.”

  “Then what do you propose?” I asked.

  “I stated earlier that I have kept a file on Locarde. His habits and weaknesses are known to me, and it should not be difficult to enter his residence clandestinely.” At this, Holmes gave me a significant look. “Provided he is sufficiently distracted, of course.”

  Now I knew what was coming. “What do you want me to do, Holmes?” I said heavily.

  He flashed a wolfish grin. “I have observed a certain stiffness in your leg of late, my dear friend. I expect it is a flare-up of your old war wound. Perhaps it’s time you consulted a physician.”

  At Holmes’s insistence, I undertook a disguise before we set out. “There is no reason to suppose that Locarde is personally familiar with your features, as he is with mine,” he explained. “But it will be good not to take chances.” From Holmes’s store of theatrical supplies, invisible inserts altered the profile of my cheeks and nostrils, heavy-rimmed glasses were placed on my face, and additional grey was added to my moustache. “I don’t think we should venture anything so dramatic as a false beard or nose, for Locarde will be especially alert to such tricks, and you have less experience than I in avoiding the telltale signs. Nor can we alter your body shape via clothing, as he will be examining your leg as part of your complaint. It will help, however, if you change your posture. Try to shed some of that military stiffness.

  “And one more thing—we must go unarmed. In the unlikely event that I am apprehended, possession of a weapon would seriously compound any burglary charge.”

  By way of costume, my jacket lapel was studded with an ostentatious jade pin, and I was handed a cherrywood cane with the carved head of an English bulldog. All told, I felt rather a fop. “It works to your advantage,” said Holmes, “to appear eccentric and well-to-do. I shall give you the card of one of my aliases, Richard Burlstone, a retired contractor. If pressed for details, you need only blather about public works and the importance of a good handshake, that sort of thing.”

  Once Holmes had outfitted himself with dark clothing and a low-brimmed cap, we set out in separate cabs for Locarde’s High Street address. It was a freestanding brick building, longer than its front suggested, with the public entrance facing the street and a private apartment on the upper storey. I was greeted at the door by an elderly woman with a sour face who seemed to be three-quarters deaf. After taking my coat and hat she attempted to seize my cane, forcing me to rely on emphatic gestures to convey that I required it for my infirmity.

  We had timed my visit for late afternoon, near the end of the hour when Locarde saw prospective patients, and I did not have to wait long in the anteroom before being taken into the consulting office. This was a room of moderate size, with a solid oak desk and the usual shelves of books, charts, and medical paraphernalia. Had it not been for the objets d’art strewn about the place—such as the Fabergé miniatures grouped in one corner of the desk—it might have been my own office. There was a small door at the back of the room, which could only lead to the hall.

  I had been seated for about five minutes when Locarde entered. He was a slim, sallow-faced man with pinched features and wispy hair and an expression that was flat and devoid of emotion. His deep-brown eyes were sharp and alert, however, and his motions were confident. I stood and offered a handshake, passing him my false card as we took our seats. He produced a pince-nez from his jacket pocket and carefully looked over my credentials. “Well, Mr. Burlstone,” he said in a high, reedy voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s my right leg, you see,” I said, trying not to sound like my usual self. “I thought I might have had a bit of gout, but it’s been acting up for longer than usual, and I have been in a great deal of discomfort.”

  “And how did my name come to your attention?” he asked crisply.

  This took me aback. “Oh, well… a fellow at the club said you were the chap to see; that’s all. I don’t take my business just anywhere, you know. I was told you had a very discriminating clientele.” At this last, I fingered
the jade pin on my lapel.

  Locarde returned a thin smile. “Very well, Mr. Burlstone. I will conduct a preliminary examination, after which time we can set up an appointment schedule and discuss my fee. If you would please stand up…”

  We both rose. As I did so, I passed my cane between my hands to support my leg. Strangely, Locarde’s attention seemed drawn to the object.

  “I beg your pardon, but might I get a better look at your stick?” he asked.

  I leaned on my chair to support my leg and held up the cane. “Certainly, but I don’t see—”

  “The pommel—that is a bulldog, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And the wood, cherry?”

  “Yes, I believe so. What of it?”

  To my surprise, Locarde had grown unaccountably tense. The room seemed dimmer than it had a moment ago. “I’m afraid I am not accepting new clients at the moment,” he said in a clipped tone. “You should be on your way.”

  I blinked in perplexity. “Just a moment, now—”

  “I have asked you to leave,” Locarde snapped, his already high voice rising in pitch. “I will summon the police if I must!”

  My mind went instantly to Holmes. I had given him barely any time to locate the machine. What could account for the doctor’s sudden change in demeanor? Had he recognised the cane and associated it with his enemy? Surely my friend would not be so careless in his choice of props.

  “I refuse to leave until you’ve examined my leg,” I said hotly.

  With the suddenness of a serpent, Locarde darted a hand into the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a six-chambered revolver. “I don’t know who you are,” he hissed. “I don’t know where you came from or who sent you. But you shall depart from this house and not return!” So saying, he fled through the rear door.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I seized my cane and hurried in pursuit. By the time I reached the hall, Locarde had flung open the far door and disappeared from my view.

  “Thief!” I heard him screech, followed by two cacophonous blasts as his weapon discharged. This was followed by an explosive squeal of grinding metal, a heavy crack of wood against wood, and a piteous wail.

  With speed, I traversed the hall and burst into the room. It was clearly the doctor’s private study, the centrepiece of which was a tall iron safe built into the far wall. That safe now stood open; heaped within was a twisted tower of polished brass that could only have been the dreaded machine—only the device was in ruins, its façade obliterated by one of Locarde’s bullets.

  Next to the safe, I could see that Holmes had taken refuge behind an upturned table. Locarde himself stood in the centre of the room, spluttering in panic and fury. “What have you done?” he shrieked. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”

  He raised his gun again, but before he could act I grasped my cane firmly with both hands and swung with all my strength. Perhaps he saw the blow coming, for he turned and jerked back just as the solid wood hit home… not landing on his shoulder, as I had intended, but striking his right temple. I stumbled back with the force of the hit. Locarde moaned, his wild eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped to the floor.

  “Watson!” cried Holmes, and leapt from behind the table.

  In a moment, my friend was at my side. Together we approached the still figure of Locarde, and I put a finger to his twisted neck. “Holmes, I have killed this man!” I cried.

  “It was self-defence. And I fear there was no helping it,” Holmes said. He handed me a folded slip of paper. “This was in the safe.”

  With shaking hands, I unfolded the scrip… and nearly dropped to the floor myself. Printed in neat black type were the words “CHERRYWOOD BULLDOG.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  “He must have puzzled over that one,” Holmes murmured. “It must have been quite the shock when he realised what it meant.”

  “Holmes, what are we to do now?”

  Swiftly, Holmes walked to the safe and the ruins of the machine. Reaching behind, he retrieved a sheaf of old papers bound with twine. “Do you suppose anyone heard the shots?” he asked.

  “Neighbours or passersby, maybe. Locarde’s secretary is an elderly woman and very deaf.”

  “Even so, we must assume the police are on their way. Let us depart by the back way. Since you arrived under an assumed name with an altered appearance, there is nothing to connect Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to this place. Within the safe, the police will find a ledger containing evidence of Locarde’s double life as a blackmailer. Scotland Yard will draw the obvious conclusion that he chose the wrong mark and paid for it with his life… which is the truth, after a fashion.”

  “But what of the machine?” I asked, looking over the gleaming wreckage.

  “Useless at this point, I fear. But I will get a message to my brother Mycroft; he will no doubt wish to have his people examine it. Come, Watson—we can afford no more delay!”

  Later that evening, once we had returned to Baker Street and were seated in comfort before the fire, I broached the subject of the papers that Holmes had removed from the safe. “It could not have been evidence of blackmail,” I said, “or you would have left it for Lestrade.”

  Holmes reclined in his basket chair, allowing his old clay pipe to loll against his chin. After a deep exhalation of smoke, he tilted up his head. “Based on the diagrams, they were instructions for building the machine… and in Moriarty’s own hand. I would know the writing anywhere, of course, but I made a preliminary comparison to the original manuscript of ‘The Dynamics of an Asteroid’ while you were putting on your dressing gown. It is quite authentic.”

  I felt a thrill run down my spine. “Then… the machine may be reconstructed?”

  “Sadly, the instructions are written in cipher. Like the remains of the device itself, they will go to Mycroft’s people at Whitehall. But I doubt highly that any of my brother’s men will be able match Moriarty’s talent for mathematical encryption. Such genius occurs only once or twice in a generation. Perhaps in a hundred years or so, the code will be cracked. Or perhaps some engineer of special brilliance will be able to deduce the operation of the machine from its shattered parts. Who knows?… It is entirely possible that within our lifetime, such devices will populate the offices of every general practitioner and corner druggist.”

  “I shudder at the thought,” said I.

  Holmes smiled. “You would not relish the triumphalism of the religious predestinationists, Watson?”

  “You know that theology is beyond me, Holmes. I refer to the temptation to use the machine myself. I have never desired such information and do not truly desire it now… but I nevertheless admit that it carries the intangible allure of the forbidden fruit.”

  Holmes clucked his tongue. “You have a poet’s soul, Watson. It is an asset to your pen but a detriment to your logic. To the well-ordered mind, such knowledge can hardly be thought detrimental. It may even bring peace, of a kind. Consider the beatific countenances of some condemned men, even as they march to the gallows, or the clarity of a soldier who does what he must, though he knows his cause is lost.”

  Something in Holmes’s tone as he spoke these words aroused a suspicion within me. “Holmes… you were alone with the machine before its destruction. Tell me that you didn’t use it on yourself!”

  Holmes shut his limpid eyes and reclined, and for a moment I thought I perceived the shadow of a smile about the corners of his mouth.

  “I think that I shall take honey in my tea this evening,” he said.

  I got no more out of him for the remainder of the night.

  * * *

  Story by John Takis

  Illustrations by Indigo Kelleigh

  BLUE FEVER

  ATHBA HAD A DEATH TO SING.

  She stood straight and tall at the front of Lord Keloth’s small, nervous group of court musicians. The smell of jasmine, orange flower, and oakmoss rose from dim braziers at the corners of the banquet hall, mingling with t
he scents of roast meat, delicate sauces, and sweets. Courtiers whispered and jibed, no doubt forming and breaking alliances even as the banquet’s courses were changed. A clockwork servitor’s gears clicked incessantly as it scuttled with an insectlike gait from table to table. It paused and pointedly brushed a crumb off Athba’s skirt before rolling away again.

  She breathed deeply, willing herself not to tug at her thick black hair or to fuss with the robes hiding her voluminous figure. Style was everything with Lord Keloth, and though he had not disliked a song of hers yet, she could guess at the penalty for failure. He perched heronlike on his throne, draped in scarlet silk, his eyes fixed on hers.

  “Athba,” he said, “do you have something to sing me?”

  It was a silly question. Of course she did. Her deathsongs were the sole reason she enjoyed Lord Keloth’s patronage. She nodded, and he gestured to the group. As the lead violinist drew her bow, Athba drew breath.

  The song began with a wordless, plaintive tune on Nanu’s violin. Athba sang her first verses soft and menacing, in a tone that hinted that something else lurked underneath.

  Sunlight glinting red

  Off of ruby-tinted scale:

  Teeth, claws, and wings

  Worked in intricate detail…

  Slowly, she sang the story of a gift: a life-sized dragon worked from rosy glass. This was not an ordinary royal gift, but something deposited mysteriously during the night, with nothing but an enigmatic note. In reality, Keloth’s guards would never have allowed such a thing; in the song, it could be explained away as magic.

  Lord Keloth, in the song, found it on his morning walk to the throne room. (The tempo increased slightly; Nanu took up tense repeated notes, hypnotic and nearly dancelike.) Anyone bestowing such a gift would know he had reason to fear glass sculptures, but Keloth was no coward, nor a poor sport. He had it installed in his courtyard.