by william Todd
He returned after a five-minute absence and re-entered our compartment with a grim expression.
“No communique from Lastrade?” I asked.
“It seems getting things under control at The Scrubs is a bit more demanding than I had anticipated. Nothing from Lestrade. Perhaps by the next station…”
He perked up a bit as he sat on the seat across from me and asked, “How was your endeavor? Did you see anyone casting their gaze in my direction? And before you mention the two gentlemen on either side of the platform with their clean-shaven faces, trimmed hair, and grey suits, they are two of the plain clothes officers.” With a hint of irritation, he added, “The Yard couldn’t have been more obvious than had they held up placards, but it is a step up from the uniformed police.”
“Yes, well I came to that same conclusion myself. They seemed too properly dressed to be lounging about on a station platform.”
Then, glancing through the large window I pointed out a greasy-looking fellow standing along the bricked wall of the station with his hands in his pockets. He was bedecked in a stained work shirt with its cuffs drawn up to the elbow and black pants with suspenders. His stare was intent, and he was looking right into our compartment. “He has not moved since we pulled in, and he has had his eyes trained on you from the moment you stepped off the coach.”
When Holmes engaged him directly, a small grin pinched the man’s face. He then turned and quickly exited the station platform, disappearing into the station-proper.
“Shall we give chase?” I asked as I began to stand.
“No, Watson. There is no reason to chase a minnow when we hunt a whale. By the time we reach the building he will have, no doubt, disappeared.”
As I returned to my seat the train lurched forward, almost throwing me into Holmes’ lap.
“And we would have lost our coach, as well,” he added with a droll smirk.
We were trundling onward once again.
I then decided to ask a question that had been weighing on my mind since we left Baker Street. “One thing that has not yet been discussed is what exactly is our strategy in all of this? It seems we are heading into either a wild goose chase or worse, a setup, and I am at a loss as to what will be our response to either situation.”
“In a game of chess, Watson, we can anticipate many moves ahead, but we cannot know which piece, the pawn or the rook, the king or the queen, to move until our opponent has made his. He may make a move that will end the game quickly, or he may be making anticipations of his own, in which case the game may become a lengthy one. All we can do now is wait for the next move.”
As we watched the rolling green landscape pass us by a quiet melancholia then settled into our cabin. Our moods were an antithesis to the open and airy hillsides that passed us by. These were intermittently intertwined with thick patches of woodland and a high, unblemished sky above.
Such was the quiet and repetitious clip, clip, clip of the rails until movement to my right, Holmes’ left, caught our eye. A gentleman passed by the door of our cabin. He was nondescript in almost every way, yet we both noticed the surreptitious glances he gave us as he passed by.
“Come, Watson. Your service revolver may be of use to us, momentarily.”
Holmes stretched his long frame from the seat and I was quickly at his side. When he opened the door to the cabin and peered down the corridor to his left, it was empty; however, the click of the rear door was clearly discernable two cabins down.
“Hurry, Watson before he escapes!”
We both ran down the corridor. Holmes cracked the rear door of the coach open as I pointed my service revolver through the opening. My field of view was clear.
Once he opened it entirely, the full tenor of the moving train hit our ears. We both stepped out onto a small, railed platform with descending steps at either end. Wind whipped about wildly as the train raced along in a long, lazy arc following a heavily-wooded tree line on one side and a patchwork of farmland on the other.
To our left, the man had his back to us, watching the rushing landscape. He was leaning a bit forward with his hand clutching the railing. His dark hair thrashed wildly in the rushing air.
I had my revolver in hand but concealed in my jacket pocket.
“Are you in need of any assistance?” Holmes bellowed above the roar of the train.
The man instantly turned around. He was only momentarily caught off guard then settled into the situation. “How did you know?” he asked.
“Your glances spoke volumes as you passed our cabin,” Holmes replied. “Who sent you?”
He gave Holmes a yellowed smile. “Now what fun would that be if I gave away the surprise.”
“Come clean, now. There is no escape for you.”
At this, I produced my revolver.
The man put up his free hand in mocked surrender. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”
There was a slight jar as the train began to cross a trestle, a slow-moving river some distance below.
“This in my queue, gentlemen,” he then said. “You shan’t have to wait long, now.”
I must say that I was not prepared for what the man did next. He let go of the handrail, bent his knees, and with a violent leap backwards, jumped from the train, just clearing the two-foot lip of the trestle. In only a second, he was gone, no doubt landing with a splash in the river below.
We stepped back inside and closed the door behind us. Holmes wore a very worried expression.
I said, “I am flabbergasted that the man would risk his life leaving the train in such a fashion rather than hand himself over to us.”
“He did not jump to escape us. He was planning the jump all along. His job, as well as the man at the station, was only to observe and report.”
“What does it all mean?” I asked.
“It means, my dear Watson, that the observing and reporting is over. I fear that one of those missing puzzle pieces may cause us some great harm in very short order.”
He no sooner had uttered those words when there was a muted explosion somewhere in the distance ahead of us. A moment later, there was a great metallic screech, such that I had not heard since my days in Afghanistan. The train jerked forward violently.
“Come, Watson! We must take refuge in a cabin and brace ourselves!”
We sought refuge in the last cabin. I saw the look of horror upon the young lady’s face whose cabin we were invading, as we struggled to make it through the entranceway.
Holmes yelled something to her over the din, yet she did not hear, or more than likely, understand him. At that point, he grabbed her by the shoulders and almost threw her into the opposite seat.
I immediately knew what he was doing. She had been facing forward. If the train came to any kind of abrupt stop, she would have been thrown forward. Facing backwards with her back against the padded seat rest would save her from more injury than that for which she was currently in store.
As I took my seat and braced myself, Holmes did something next for which I had not planned and quite frankly stunned me. I will do my best to describe his actions, although no words can adequately explain what I saw him do. Holmes straddled the frightened young lady with his knees dug deeply into the crease where the back rest and the seat rest met. He then placed his feet at forty-five degree angles at the level of, and directly beside, the lady’s knees at the edge of the seat. Holmes then pressed his body tightly against her, holding on tightly to the back of the seat rest, his head tucked next to hers. The man had made himself into a human safety harness, strapping her in with his own body.
I barely heard him yell, “Trust me!” as the young woman’s face whitened in horror before we felt a massive deceleration, a thrust forward, a horrible crashing, then I went airborne and all went black.
Chapter 6
Lestrade later conveyed to me that he and Jefferies burst through the station master’s door at Paddington station. Each were already holding their credentials in their hands to
ward of unnecessary questions. “Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. This is Detective Jefferies. I need to commandeer a train to Swansea. It is of vital public security.”
The station master, a well-dressed and portly middle-aged man with whiskers and a wild frock of red-tinged grey hair stood from his chair and examined the cards of each. He gave an accommodating smile and said, “Paddington station is at your service, gentlemen. Sam MacQuarrie, station master.” The Scottish accent peppered in his speech was as sparse as his natural hair color.
With growing agitation twisting his features, Lestrade replied, “Yes, well we assumed since the placard outside on the door said Station Master, and you were sitting behind the station master’s desk that you would, in fact, be the station master.”
Mr. MacQuarrie’s features shrunk noticeably at the remonstration, and he slowly lowered his heft back into his seat. He continued with a puzzled, yet more subdued countenance. “My apologies, sir. How may I be of service to Scotland Yard?”
It was then that Lestrade, realizing his reply was more misdirected anxiety than anger at the station master, calmed himself to a more gentlemanly tone. “Your apology is not needed, Mr. MacQuarrie, but mine certainly is. My only defense is that it has been a trying morning and my agitation is high, at the moment. At any rate, we need a train as soon as can be acquired.”
The station master rose and worked his girth around from the desk and sat on its corner. “May I ask what you’re needing a train for?”
“I can only say that there has been a prison riot, some inmates have escaped—one particularly worrisome fellow, and we believe they are in pursuit of a particular passenger on a train bound for Swansea. That is all I am at liberty to divulge.”
“Should I increase security here?” the station master nervously asked.
“I believe the only one in danger, at the moment, is the man the escapees are looking for.”
“Swansea, you say?” The robust Mr. MacQuarrie got up and, pulling a pair of pince-nez from his pocket, consulted a large map of southern and western Britain and Wales that had been gummed to a large window looking out into the station. The map was webbed with tracks across its surface and a legend on the right. “It looks like we have a four-o-clock leaving shortly for Swindon.”
“We will need it beyond that, I’m afraid,” Lestrade said as he settled himself beside the station master, eyeing the map, as well.
Squinting at the legend, MacQuarrie rubbed his scruffy chin and added, “Well, this particular train is the last one to Swindon for the night. Usually, we put the passenger cars in a siding there, take the train over to Bristol to the turntable, turn it around, and it heads back to Swindon in the morning for the first commute of the day back to London. I can call ahead and have another train ready for the morning trip. Once we drop off the passengers in Swindon, the train can be all yours.” Consulting the map again he then added, “It looks like the four o’clock to Swindon is the last train on the tracks between there and Swansea till tomorrow morning, so you should have a clear shot if you need it.”
“Come,” said Lestrade. “You and I shall make the arrangements with the engine driver.” He then consulted his pocket watch. “Fifteen minutes, Jefferies. Get everyone ready.”
“Platform four,” the station master interjected as he picked up his peaked cap and adjusted it on his head.
They exited the office, Lestrade and the station master going left and Jefferies going right.
Fifteen minutes later, Lestrade, Jefferies, and ten other constables were in the first coach lurching towards Swindon.
As the train picked up speed, Jefferies asked, “Do you think we can get to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson in time?”
“It will all hinge upon whether we were able to get that telegram to Gloucester before Holmes’ train.” He slapped his knee angrily. “Damned us for missing him in Swindon! If he does not get that message in Gloucester, we may already be too late.”
Chapter 7
“I bet hunting for those Schipperkes in Poplar looks pretty good right about now,” I groaned as I threw off the luggage under which I had been buried.
Somehow our coach had remained upright, yet I could tell by our awkward angle that we were no longer on the tracks.
Holmes slowly moved on the floor next to me.
The young lady was sitting upright rubbing the back of her head. Her pastel summer dress was covered in debris and her once pinned chestnut hair had fallen wildly about her shoulders. When she pulled her hand away, it was covered in blood.
“Take care of her, will you, Watson,” said Holmes as he slowly forced himself up on the opposite seat.
“That was quite amazing what you did for this woman,” I said as I removed the remaining luggage from me. I was a bit sore in the knees and between my shoulders, and I had a knot at the back of my head, but seemed none the worse for wear.
“I was able to help one young lady, Watson, but what of the scores on this train I was not able to help?”
I got up carefully and checked on our injured commuter, who still seemed a bit dazed but was coming to her senses quickly. Her pulse was fast but strong. She had a cut on the back of her head, but it was not a life-threatening injury.
I opened her luggage and removed a long piece of cloth, wrapping it around her head to quell the blood loss. She smiled at me as I cinched the impromptu bandage. “Thank you,” she said weakly.
“I am a doctor. You received a nasty cut, but otherwise I believe you fared pretty well, all things considered.”
“What happened?’ the lady queried in a worry-laced whisper.
“I fear that the tracks had been compromised by an explosion, which derailed the train,” replied Holmes.
“How are you faring?” I asked him over my shoulder while I worked on the young lady.
“I have had better days, Watson, I will not lie.”
When I finished with her, I turned my attention to my friend. Blood trickled down his aquiline features from a cut at his hairline, no doubt when his head jolted forward and hit the wall of the compartment.
I turned back to the woman. “Do you mind if I use some garments from your luggage as bandages? This was a trip for which I did not think I would need my doctor bag.”
Gingerly feeling her own bandage with a wince she replied, “Use all that you need for anyone who needs it.”
“Yes, I fear that much more will be needed once we make our way to the front of the train.”
I fashioned another bandage from a silk slip and tied it snugly around the head of Sherlock Holmes. Then, after grabbing as many pieces of clothing as I could, we all helped each other up and exited at the back of the coach.
We had settled some twenty feet from the track at almost a forty-five-degree angle. The two closer coaches were similarly strewn. The first two coaches, however, along with the engine and tender were a mangled mess. Smoke rose into the sky from the rubble. Great trenches were gouged into the earth from the weight of the untracked iron horse. Muffled cries of pain and fear could be heard from the fractured coaches ahead of us, as the walking wounded began to extricate themselves from the wreckage.
“Hell is empty, Watson. The devils are all here,” Holmes said sadly as he gazed upon the calamity. His eyes held within them a look I have rarely seen. Somewhere in the machinations of that great mind of his he had miscalculated. One of those missing puzzle pieces had held within it the information needed to see that this particular evil had no compunction to kill innocent people in its quest for Sherlock Holmes.
He could no longer look upon the carnage he, no doubt, thought was of his making. He only contemplated the wood line with a singular fire burning in his eyes. It was of such an intensity that the one responsible for this mayhem would feel its singeing heat from wherever he was holed up. That fired burned but briefly, however. His eyes suddenly glossed over, and he became unsteady on his feet. He then suddenly clutched his head and fell to a heap onto the gouged earth.
I hel
ped him into a sitting position. “I believe you have a mild brain contusion. You need to stay put.”
Blinking back pain, Holmes replied, “Go Watson. Your services as a doctor are much needed now. Go help whom you can. I will stay here until my dizziness subsides.”
I turned to our new unknown friend. “Can you stay here and look after him?”
Holmes interjected, “No, Watson. Take her with you. You will need all the help you can get at present. Leaving her with me deprives her assistance with someone else.”
“I am up to the task,” she said determinedly.
“It may not be a pleasant sight,” I warned.
“I want to help in any way I can.”
“I will be fine, Watson,” Holmes assured me. “Go. Help others. I am but a hindrance to you at the moment. Let me lie here a while and get my wits about me.”
“Only if you are sure.”
He only nodded the affirmative.
I looked back once as I and my new assistant rushed off to help the injured. I will admit that it was one of the most pitiable states in which I had ever left my friend.
Chapter 8
As he later relayed to me, when Holmes was secure in his thinking that I was thoroughly engaged in my work, he quickly extracted himself from the ground and made his way to the wood line before being noticed. He did not want me with him for his current agenda, although in my capacity of a man of medicine, I would have been obliged by my oath to leave him even had he wanted me to follow.
Once in the wood line, he removed the makeshift bandage; the wound still stung but was already beginning to clot.
“There is no reason to hide,” Holmes said as he tossed the blood-stained fabric to the ground. “I saw you watching from the shadows of the tree line.”
At this command, a tall, gaunt young man with stubble for hair stepped out from behind a large oak, a long-barreled rifle pointed at Holmes.
“Tut, tut, you will shoot me with all these people within earshot?”