“I thought your instructions were that he was to be brought to you in one piece,” said Holmes to Starkey.
“That is true,” came the reply, “and he was. Can I help it if a couple of my lads have been a little enthusiastic in their dealings with him since he got here?”
“Enthusiastic?” I said. “This is barbarism. I must examine the fellow straight away. He looks half dead. I can scarcely make out whether he is breathing or not.”
“All in good time,” Starkey said.
“Greensmith, I presume, was given the opportunity to object to such molestation,” said Holmes. “Specifically I mean that he was able to protest his innocence of the crime of which he stands accused by you.”
“He did say one or two things while the boys were busy softening him up,” Starkey said. “‘You’ve got the wrong man. I’ve done nothing.’ I took it that he was just trying to save his own skin. You can never rely on anything a bloke tells you while he’s on the receiving end of a drubbing. It’s only after he’s gone the distance that you’ll start getting the truth out of him, and your Mr Greensmith looks ready for that now, if you ask me.”
“I still insist upon examining him,” I said.
“And I insist,” said Starkey, with stern emphasis, “that you stay exactly where you are, Doctor, unless you wish to take his place in that chair. Your continued good health rests entirely on my goodwill, remember.”
The sound of our voices stirred Greensmith out of his beaten stupor. He raised his head and looked at us blearily through eyelids so fatly swollen they were almost shut. A frothy mixture of blood and spittle leaked from his slack lips. He was at death’s door, I could tell. Without urgent medical attention he might not last the night. He might not even last the next hour.
I did not need to impart my diagnosis to Holmes. His sombre expression told me he had arrived at the same conclusion.
“Mr Greensmith?” said he. “Daniel Greensmith?”
The man in the chair mumbled a few words. Barely intelligible, they seemed to constitute an acknowledgement that that was his name, along with a plea for mercy.
“Mr Greensmith, I am Sherlock Holmes. I have been seeking you on a matter of some urgency. I am going to help you, and I trust that you can help me. I need to know about Notting Hill and about Inigo Niemand. Anything you have, any scraps of data, may be crucial.”
Greensmith merely moaned. He was too far gone to make any sense. He barely seemed to understand what was being asked of him.
Holmes turned to Starkey. “You have sold me a pup,” he said with some asperity. “Our deal is off. Watson and I are going to leave now, and we shall be taking Greensmith with us.”
“Really, Mr Holmes?” said Starkey, eyebrows arching. “You are welching on a bargain, and to cap it all you have the temerity to say you are making off with my property?”
“This man is not property, yours or anyone’s. He is a victim of the foulest injustice, and there will be consequences.”
“And now you’re threatening me. Hear that, lads?” Starkey addressed this remark to his men, who had remained outside the cabin. “Somehow Mr Holmes has got it into his head that we should be scared of him.”
A collective low chortling conveyed what the assembled thugs thought of that.
“I promised your men a baritsu lesson,” said Holmes. “I am going to give them that very thing, although it may not be in a manner quite to their liking.”
He stepped smartly out of the cabin, and as I peered past Starkey through the doorway, I saw him immediately adopt one of the attacking postures of his martial art. His hands orbited each other, half-clenched like talons, and he rested his weight upon his back foot while lifting his front foot so that it was almost en pointe.
Starkey’s men fanned out in a semicircle around him. One of them smacked fist into palm. Another licked his lips with relish.
Before battle could commence, Starkey produced his pistol.
“Mr Holmes,” said he, aiming at my friend through the doorway.
Holmes glanced round. “You said you would like to have seen baritsu in action, Starkey. Here is your chance. Why pass it up?”
“I’m not risking you winning your way to freedom.”
“And I,” said I, drawing my revolver and pointing it at Starkey, “am not risking you taking Sherlock Holmes’s life.”
“You have a gun too.” Starkey sounded crestfallen but phlegmatic. “Why did I not anticipate that? Well, this is a pretty pass. What now, eh?”
I cocked the hammer. “Now you tell your men to untie Greensmith, and Holmes and I shall help him out of here.”
“Or…” Starkey pivoted abruptly, so that his pistol was pointing at Greensmith. “How about I put a bullet in him instead? He’s the trophy here. Without him, you have nothing. It’s no skin off my nose if he dies, whereas you will lose out.”
“If I see your finger so much as tense on that trigger,” I said, “I will shoot. I will not hesitate.”
“Are you a killer, Dr Watson?” said Starkey. “Do you have what it takes to murder a man?”
“Try me.” I firmed my grip on the revolver.
Starkey looked into my eyes. What he saw there was what I meant him to see – grim fixity of purpose – for he appeared to have second thoughts. Then, all at once, he lowered his weapon.
“If he means that much to you,” he said, motioning at Greensmith, “take him. I’ve no need of the wretch. I’ve had my fun with him. Hopefully he’ll have learned his lesson and won’t come round Shoreditch bothering anyone again.”
“Empty it,” I said, nodding at the weapon.
Grudgingly Starkey thumbed the release catch on the barrel and tipped the cartridges out onto the floor.
“Toss the gun into the corner.”
He did that too. “But I’m not telling my men to untie him.”
“Fine. Then you do it.”
“I am no one’s lackey. I’d rather die.”
In the fact of such mulish obstinacy I had no alternative. Keeping my revolver trained upon Starkey, I set about undoing the knots on Greensmith’s ropes myself. With only one hand it took a while.
In the meantime Holmes guarded the doorway of the cabin. “Don’t be tempted to rush at me,” he warned Starkey’s men. “I will be able to hold you off long enough to give my friend plenty of time to shoot. You wouldn’t want your boss’s death on your heads, would you? Without his leadership where would you be? And of course, it only takes one bullet to kill a man. That leaves Watson with four in the cylinder to distribute amongst the rest of you.”
Their meaty faces registered comprehension and compliance. Holmes’s logic seemed unassailable.
At last the ropes tumbled free. I propped a shoulder beneath Greensmith’s armpit and hoisted him to his feet. He sagged against me, just so much dead weight.
I walked him past Starkey and through the doorway. Holmes fell in step beside me, putting his own shoulder under Greensmith and sharing the burden.
Starkey’s men remained in their semicircle, a barricade of sizeable bodies and sullen expressions.
“Let them pass,” said Starkey, trying to sound munificent but unable to keep a note of bitterness from his voice.
The barricade parted. We strode through.
“Don’t think I won’t forget this,” Starkey called out after us. “I am a man who knows how to bear a grudge. There will come a time when you both shall pay for what has happened here, and it’ll be sooner than you think. You mark my words.”
“We stand ready,” Holmes called back, without looking round.
We continued to walk, all but dragging Greensmith between us. I could hardly believe that we had done it. We had bearded a brash, mercurial gang boss in his den, we had rescued Greensmith from his clutches, and we were going to get away scot-free.
That was when Allan Quatermain appeared and everything went to pot.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CHOICE OF TARGET
We heard a sud
den commotion behind us. A gunshot rang out. A round ricocheted off a wooden support pillar just beside us, showering us with splinters.
We turned to find Quatermain wrestling with one of Starkey’s men, having manifested seemingly from nowhere. The thug had a pistol which he had been keeping concealed until, doubtless at a silent gesture of command from Starkey, he had taken it out with the intention of shooting us from behind as we departed. That was why Starkey had averred so confidently that our comeuppance would arrive sooner than we thought. He too had had an ace up his sleeve.
Quatermain wrenched the man’s gun arm up, so that the second round he loosed off at us also went wide, disappearing amongst the roof beams.
Another of Starkey’s men threw himself at Quatermain. Then the rest of them piled in. Quatermain was buried under a scrum of burly bodies. I saw him flailing, lashing out at his attackers with one hand while still vying for control of the gun with the other.
“Holmes,” I said, “against those odds I don’t think even Quatermain can prevail.”
“I concur, Watson.”
Leaving me to support Greensmith on my own, Holmes launched himself into the fray.
My friend delivered a flurry of blows which sent two of Starkey’s men reeling, one clutching a shattered nose, the other a dislocated wrist. A third thug lashed out at Holmes with a pocketknife, the blade missing his throat by a whisker. Holmes retaliated by swatting the knife out of the man’s hand and at the same time driving a fist hard into his solar plexus. The breath left the fellow’s lungs at the kind of speed and pressure of a gust of air from a set of bellows. Holmes bowled him over, and he lay on the floor clutching his belly and gasping.
The intervention by Holmes gave Quatermain sufficient respite to ward off his remaining assailants. He now had possession of the gun belonging to Starkey’s man. For a moment I dared to think that matters were now firmly in hand once more. Between them, Holmes and Quatermain had succeeded in undoing our reversal of fortune.
Then Starkey emerged from the cabin, and his pistol was back in his possession. He had had sufficient time to reload it. He took aim.
I, hampered by Greensmith’s bulk, failed to raise my own pistol in time. Starkey got off a shot, at close range. I heard a roar of pain and saw Quatermain recoil, clutching one arm. He staggered and fell to his knees, face contorted in agony. Blood poured down his sleeve.
Starkey traversed the few paces between them and pressed the barrel of the gun to Quatermain’s temple.
“Mr Holmes!” he bellowed. “Stand down, this instant, unless you wish to see your saviour’s brains plastered all over the floor. You too, Dr Watson. Drop your firearm. It’s your turn to be the one who capitulates. Do it!”
With the utmost reluctance I laid my revolver down on the ground. Despair and resentment churned in my gut. Holmes, meanwhile, allowed himself to be seized roughly by two of Starkey’s mob. His arms were pinioned behind his back.
“Now then, what’s all this malarkey?” the gang boss said, jabbing his gun hard against Quatermain’s head. “Some old coot comes blazing in like a firework, waving his fists about, starting a ruckus. Where are you from, eh? What’s your connection to Mr Holmes? Are you his father or something?”
“Hardly,” Quatermain replied through gritted teeth. “I am someone who could not stand idly by while one of your men aimed a gun at Holmes and his ally.”
“Yes, and very heroic of you it was too.”
“And very cowardly it was of you to authorise shooting someone in the back.”
“You have fire,” said Starkey, grinding the gun into Quatermain’s skull. “I like that. It’ll be a shame to snuff it out.”
“He has nothing to do with any of this,” said Holmes to the gang boss. “I do not even know why he is here. I have no meaningful association with the fellow, and therefore you should feel free to release him.”
“I think that is up to me to decide, not you.”
“Nonetheless, holding him hostage is in no way advantageous to you where I am concerned.”
“And yet you surrendered, meek as a lamb, when you saw he was at my mercy. Does that not somewhat contradict your assertion?”
“I am here,” Quatermain declared, “because I happen to have been keeping a weather eye on Daniel Greensmith. I learned that, in his guise as Black Jack Corcoran, he had got into difficulties. Feeling a perhaps unwarranted sense of responsibility for the fellow, I went looking for him.”
“And found Watson and me in a fine predicament,” said Holmes. “You realise, Quatermain, that I was attempting to distance myself from you just now? Denying any link between us was all for your benefit, and you have unpicked my efforts.”
Quatermain grunted.
“Quatermain,” said Starkey. “Is that your name? Come on, answer me. Yes? No?” The gang boss prodded him with the pistol yet again.
“Yes, that is I. Allan Quatermain. And if you jab me with that gun one more time, you rascal—”
“You’ll what?” Starkey sneered. “You’re in a great deal of pain, Mr Quatermain. It’s written all over your face. There’s a bullet lodged in the meat of your arm and it’s hurting like the devil. I doubt you could even stand, never mind attack.”
“You might be surprised.”
A thought appeared to strike Starkey. “Wait. Allan Quatermain… You’re the explorer, aren’t you? The fellow who travels to the African wilderness all the time and tames the natives and depletes the wildlife.”
“A most inexact summation of my accomplishments.”
“But you are he? That same Quatermain? You must be.”
“Close enough.”
“Well, well, well.” A gleam had entered Starkey’s eye. I could see him calculating inwardly. “This is a turn-up for the books. One of the things people say about you, Mr Quatermain, is that you’re a terrific shot. A veritable deadeye. You can bring down an elephant at a thousand paces.”
“With the appropriate gun, yes. A double-eight breech-loading rifle, for instance. Although a thousand paces, even with an eleven-drachms black powder charge, would be pushing it.”
“Details, details. My point is that you never miss. That’s what I’ve heard tell about you.”
“I never miss when it counts.”
“Then let’s see if you live up to your reputation. Up you get.”
With some effort and many a grimace of discomfort, Quatermain rose from the floor.
“Jem,” Starkey said to one of his men, “bring me Dr Watson’s revolver, would you? Good lad. Now hand it to Mr Quatermain. Easy there, Quatermain. Don’t go having any funny ideas. I’m keeping pressure on this trigger. I’m just a twitch away from firing. All I’m proposing is that I give you a little target practice. A challenge to your hallowed sharpshooting skills. But you need something to aim at and some sort of incentive to convince you to play along. What’ll it be?” He pretended to ponder. “I have it! A capital idea!”
He swivelled to look at Holmes.
“You,” he said. “You can be the target, and the prize will be freedom for all four of you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
V.R.
Over my vociferous protestations, Holmes was frogmarched to a wall and made to stand there, facing outward. Quatermain, in turn, was instructed to position himself some thirty yards from my friend. Starkey remained directly behind Quatermain, gun directed unwaveringly at the back of his skull.
Quatermain took a moment to familiarise himself with my revolver. “Webley Bull Dog,” he said. “Nickel-plated. Ivory grip. Top-break loading. Kept in excellent condition, for which my compliments, Doctor. Eley’s No. 2 smokeless cartridges, by the looks of things. A good choice, although I might have gone for a .450 calibre round myself rather than a .442. Higher grain count, greater stopping power.”
“Eley’s has served me well thus far,” I said, marvelling that Quatermain should be considering a handgun’s stopping power when he was about to fire it at a man he knew to be my close friend.
“The Webley is not renowned for its accuracy at a range above twenty-five yards,” he added, “but I shall make allowances. It will not hinder me.”
“See that it does not,” said Holmes. He sounded unduly upbeat. Indeed, he evinced no concern at all to be participating in this sinister, deadly game that Starkey had organised. His courage was remarkable. I doubted I could have been so sanguine were I in his shoes, although I must admit to wondering whether the three glasses of Tokay he had drunk not long earlier might have played a part.
“As near as you can to Mr Holmes’s head,” Starkey told Quatermain. “I don’t want you to kill him. I don’t even want you to clip him. I just want to see how close you can get without actually hitting him, and once that is achieved, you may all go free.”
“Yes, I am clear on the rules, Starkey,” said Quatermain tersely. “Holmes? I must implore you to remain quite still. I assure you that you are in no danger. All the same, any sudden movement by you may have regrettable consequences.”
“I shall be as still as a statue,” said Holmes. “You need have no worries on that account. Just prove to me that everything they say about your marksmanship is true.”
“I shall endeavour to.”
Quatermain raised the revolver in his right hand. His injured arm – the left – was still bleeding profusely, and I could only imagine how greatly he was suffering from the bullet wound. I prayed that the pain would not distract him from the proficient completion of his task.
Meanwhile Greensmith, whom I had laid out upon the floor, was going into rapid decline. I could all but see the life ebbing from his supine frame. Save for offering him the occasional encouraging exhortation, however, there was little I could do in that moment. I could only hope that the ghastly scenario playing out in front of me would be over with soon, so that I could find him the help he needed before it was too late.
“Come along, Mr Quatermain,” Starkey chided. “Hop to it. We haven’t got all night.”
Quatermain sighted down the barrel, closing one eye.
Sherlock Holmes--The Devil's Dust Page 9