Sherlock Holmes--The Devil's Dust

by James Lovegrove

  “‘I can see that I have allowed my worst, most primitive fears to get the better of me,’ he said. ‘But if you could only have seen those miners, Mr Quatermain… How utterly terrified they were. Their terror has infected me, like some sort of plague.’

  “In the event, setting out the facts before the Fanthorpes did little to allay Wade’s concerns. He had been hoping for reassurance from them. He had expected them to hear him out, tell him he had done the right thing, and promise that the appropriate measures would be implemented.

  “‘But they could not have cared less,’ he said. ‘They showed nothing but disdain. They called me hysterical. Sebastian likened me a breathless old biddy clutching her chest with an attack of the vapours. He said I had been hired to supply frank, impartial reports, not to spout claptrap about magical spells and inexplicable deaths. Samuel Fanthorpe suggested that I was perhaps not up to the job and dropped heavy hints about my contract being put under review. Stanley, meanwhile, said that he and his brothers had already been told about Harry Quatermain via a cable from Van Hoek. The young man, Stanley said, had died of the smallpox that was raging through the region. Such was the determination of Silasville’s resident medic, and who were they to dispute that? Who, for that matter, was I?’

  “‘They were attempting to bully you into submission,’ I said.

  “‘And doing it fairly well. You may be a man of means, Mr Quatermain, with your fortune in diamonds, but I am not. Both parents dead, no siblings, no real family, certainly no inheritance. I am making my own way in the world, and I can ill afford to lose what income I have. My one main qualification is my degree in the geological sciences, and that is hardly a passport to riches. In short, I desperately need to keep the job I have.’

  “Wade sighed heavily, and I felt that it was time to give him a good talking-to. Here, if ever there was one, was a man in need of having his sinews stiffened.

  “‘You are braver than you think, Mr Wade,’ I said. ‘Look at what you have done. You have confronted three very powerful men. The encounter may not have gone the way you wished, but you at least gave it your best shot. You have stood up for what you think is right, at the risk of your livelihood. Take a moment to celebrate the achievement.’

  “A glimmer of pride entered his eyes.

  “‘Furthermore,’ I said, ‘you have furnished me with some valuable intelligence. I have a clearer idea than before of the circumstances of Harry’s death. For that I shall be eternally grateful. Henceforth, I shall carry the baton. You return to wherever it is you have sequestered yourself and leave the rest to me. I am a seasoned old campaigner, a veteran of countless battles. I am prepared to take up arms on your behalf – and Harry’s.’

  “Really, the look of relief that came over Wade then was a sight to behold. His shoulders sank as his woes lifted. He looked about a stone lighter.

  “Not long after that, we parted ways, or so Wade thought.”

  “But you followed him home,” said Holmes, “covertly, as seems your habit.”

  “Of course,” said Quatermain. “He was still too much in the grip of paranoia to trust me with his address, but following him thither, unsuspected, was child’s play. I then set up watch over the place.”

  “Let me intuit why. You were using Wade as bait.”

  “Not exactly. Instinct was telling me – instinct again! – that the Fanthorpes might not be content with simply threatening Wade with getting the sack. If they feared a scandal or scrutiny of their company’s business practices, should Wade decide to go to the authorities with what he knew about Silasville and Harry, they might take things further.”

  “Wade might come a cropper,” I said.

  “So you were standing sentinel over him,” said Holmes, “trying to keep him from harm. At the same time, though, you must have been hoping that something might happen, that the Fanthorpes or someone in their employ might make a move against him. Then, as a father thirsting for satisfaction over the death of his son, you would have an attack to thwart and an enemy to put a face to.”

  “Proof,” said Quatermain. “That was what I was after. Proof that Harry had been murdered. And an attempt on Wade’s life would provide it. I lurked outside that house in Notting Hill day after day, changing position, overlooking it from several different vantages, front and rear. On the rare occasions Wade ventured out, I went with him, keeping him in sight at all times while remaining unseen by him.”

  “A veritable guardian angel.”

  “What I did not realise, until Daniel Greensmith turned up at his door, was that Wade had decided to get in touch with the press. He must have wired Greensmith on one of his outings to the post office and invited him over. Obviously my little rallying talk at the pub had been more effective than I thought. When I spied Greensmith approaching the house I feared he was an assassin of some kind, until it became clear that he was there by arrangement. I eavesdropped at the front window and discovered that he was a journalist and Wade wished to publicise the events at Silasville.”

  “You eavesdropped at the front window?” said Holmes. “I saw no footprints to indicate that.”

  “Ha! Holmes, I do not leave footprints if I do not want to. I could walk across wet concrete and you would not know I had been there.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “No, simply bushcraft. Any Zulu, Bantu, Xhosa, Kikuyu or Hottentot worth his salt could do likewise. It is nothing special.”

  As airily as he dismissed his accomplishment, Quatermain could not help but come across a touch smug. I had an inkling that, although he and Holmes had buried the hatchet, there would ever remain a rivalry between them, each vying to get one up on the other.

  “Wade’s decision to blow the whistle on Fanthorpe presented a problem, however,” he said. “Merely revealing what he knew about Silasville to readers of The Times might not achieve the desired result. It might be considered mere hearsay, especially the part about the Devil’s Dust. That would play right into the Fanthorpes’ hands. They could use it to destroy any credibility Wade’s account might have. ‘Here is a man blathering on about African superstition,’ they might say. ‘How can anyone take him seriously?’”

  “You felt Wade had made an error of judgement,” said Holmes, “so you took steps. You persuaded Greensmith not to pursue the story.”

  “Not much persuasion was necessary, in the event. Greensmith already had half a mind not to follow it up. He, hardnosed reporter that he was, found many aspects of it, particularly the Devil’s Dust, difficult to swallow. He told me that while there was always a certain pleasure in landing a solid blow upon establishment figures like the Fanthorpes, in this instance he doubted there was enough weight behind the punch to make it worth his while. In fact, it might rebound on him. Wade’s testimony was compelling but lacked substance. It was one step up from hearsay. ‘The question a man in my line of work must constantly ask himself,’ Greensmith said, ‘is, “Will this stand up in a court of law?” Because, if not, then taking on men as powerful as the Fanthorpes is a fool’s errand and a fast track to the poorhouse. Unless one possesses watertight proof of malfeasance, their kind are more or less untouchable.’”

  “But even though you thought you had removed Greensmith from the equation,” said Holmes, “you continued to keep tabs on him.”

  “That was after Wade was dead,” said Quatermain. “If the Fanthorpes knew of Greensmith’s association with him, he might be next on the list – a loose end that needed to be tied up. Such was my thinking.”

  “Hence you followed him during his wanderings through the East End.”

  “Yes, him in that damn-fool disguise of his. It wasn’t even as if he was interested in Wade and Fanthorpe any longer. That was a blind alley as far as he was concerned. He was trying to ferret out a fresh story, something he successfully could turn into news. Still, I feared the Fanthorpes might send someone after him – someone ready, perhaps, to use Uthuli lukaDeveli again, this time on a nosey journalist.”

&n
bsp; “Not wishing to be indelicate,” I said, “but if you had been keeping watch over Wade, how did he come to be killed? I don’t for one moment denigrate your abilities. I am simply surprised that Wade’s killer managed to get past you.”

  “As am I, Doctor,” Quatermain said with feeling. “Yet it is not so surprising when you consider that I was conducting a lone vigil. Nobody can stay at his post indefinitely. One must eat, sleep, answer the call of nature…”

  “Could you not have recruited Umslopogaas to stand in for you during your absences?”

  “I thought about it, but a black man may not linger in any London neighbourhood for long without arousing suspicion amongst the locals and perhaps, too, the police, whereas I would easily be able to blend in. The long and the short of it was that I was not present when Wade’s killer struck, or if I was, somehow he slipped past me.”

  “If he was some sort of sorcerer,” said Holmes, “as is implied by the likelihood that the Devil’s Dust was used on Wade, then it is possible the fellow turned himself invisible, or flew, or perhaps transformed himself into an animal.”

  “You are being facetious, Holmes,” Quatermain said gruffly, “but there may yet be a grain of truth in what you say.”

  By now we had crossed West Carriage Drive and were in Kensington Gardens, just to the north of the Albert Memorial. Tall trees surrounded us, gently divesting themselves of what remained of their golden foliage. Today this area of parkland was less frequented than its counterpart on the other side of the road.

  “Witchcraft should never be underestimated,” Quatermain continued. “Its practitioners are amongst the cleverest and most cunning of men. They are capable of feats of— Down!”

  He shouted the last word, at the same time seizing Holmes and me roughly by the necks and pushing us flat to the grass.

  Just beside us, there was the crisp snapping sound of a small object colliding with a tree trunk at high velocity. Bark splinters showered us, while the crack of a gun report rolled forth from not far distant.

  We had been shot at, and, if not for Quatermain’s extraordinary, almost prescient reflexes, the bullet might have found a home in one of our heads.

  And there were more where it had come from.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  UNDER FIRE

  I had been under sniper fire before, not least at Maiwand where I received my bullet wound. I knew well the strange blank incredulity that comes over one in such a predicament, with its accompanying undertones of panic and helplessness. A fellow man wishes to kill you and is prepared to do so from afar, at one remove. To him, as he squints down his gunsight, you are not a human being, just a target, a bullseye. He does not hate you. He simply needs you eliminated and is going about the task in a clinical, dispassionate manner, for if he allowed himself to feel any sense of affinity with you he would never be able to pull the trigger.

  I had no doubt that our unseen sniper in Kensington Gardens regarded the three of us with no less indifference than had the Ghazi who fired his Jezail at me. As if it needed confirming, a second bullet struck the turf a few inches in front of us, kicking up a small plume of dirt.

  “Move!” Quatermain urged. “He is finding his range, and we are doomed if we just lie here.”

  We scrambled for cover on hands and knees as a third bullet whined over our heads. A fourth pierced a low-hanging branch of the tree, a stately fat oak, behind which we took refuge.

  By then I had my Webley out, thanking the Lord that I had seen fit to bring the revolver with me. This was not the result of foresight on my part. I had not anticipated any attack. However, after recent events, from Quatermain’s nocturnal shenanigans to Starkey to the pigeons, it seemed sensible to go about armed.

  Although unsure precisely where the shots were coming from, I leaned round the side of the tree. The coast was clear, no innocent bystanders in sight. I returned fire in what I was almost certain was the right direction, emptying the Webley’s cylinder.

  “Don’t waste your ammunition, Watson,” said Quatermain. “He is too far away for your pistol. Can you not tell by the interval of time between bullet impact and gun report? He is shooting from at least a hundred yards’ distance.”

  “Well, he now knows we are capable of retaliating,” I retorted. “It may make him think twice.”

  A cessation in the shooting appeared to bear out my hypothesis. I dared to poke my nose out – and almost had it blown off. The round struck the tree a hand’s-breadth from my face.

  “Then again, perhaps not,” I said, a little breathlessly.

  “Quatermain,” said Holmes, “gunplay is more your province than mine. What do you propose?”

  “If our assailant is operating solo, as seems to be the case, then one option is to sit tight. The oak is broad enough to shield us. He may decide he has been thwarted in his objective and retreat.”

  “I do not think it likely, and you sound as though you do not either.”

  “No. Were I he, I would even now be edging round to get a better angle. The fellow is a hunter, after all, and it is what a hunter would do.”

  “How can you know he is a hunter?” I asked.

  “That’s a Mauser rifle he is firing,” said Quatermain, “one which has been adapted to take .50-calibre rounds. The report is quite distinctive – a shortened barrel makes its own particularly resonant boom – and bullets of that size inflict the level of devastation one can see from the gouge in the bark just by your head. Such a Mauser is favoured by safari sportsmen who are after big game.”

  “And game does not come much bigger than human beings,” Holmes observed dryly. “Our best tactic, then, is to flee before he repositions himself.”

  “Indeed,” said Quatermain. “We should scatter, too, rather than run bunched together in a group, each of us thus lessening his chances of being hit. It is what antelope herds do. But unlike antelope, we will not merely be bolting. We will circle round. You go clockwise, Holmes, you anticlockwise, Doctor. That way the both of you may close in on the fellow from two sides.”

  “Agreed,” said Holmes.

  “What about you, Quatermain?” I said. “Which way shall you go?”

  “Up.”

  So saying, Quatermain sprang to the nearest bough of the oak, hauling himself up until he was squatting upon it. He then climbed nimbly into the middle reaches of the tree and sidestepped outward along a branch just sturdy enough to support his weight. A leap, and he was clinging to an outstretched branch of the tree adjacent. He swung monkey-like around the trunk, making for the next tree along. In short order I lost sight of him.

  “Ah,” said Holmes. “So we shall be flanking our foe in three dimensions, not just two. Ready, Watson?”

  My pistol was reloaded. I nodded. “Ready.”

  Off he and I went on the divergent courses prescribed by Quatermain. I hunched low as I scurried from place of cover to place of cover. At every moment I expected the singeing impact of hot lead, the feeling of being thrown helplessly to the ground, the giddy disorientation of shock – all sensations I could recall only too well from my misadventure in Afghanistan.

  Soon I was passing the Round Pond and doubling back towards the southern edge of the park. At the first sign of the sniper, I knew I would have to shoot on sight. Were the roles reversed, he would not extend me the courtesy of hesitating, so I could not either.

  The exchange of gunfire had shattered the park’s tranquillity. Here and there, panicked folk scurried, some of them yelling in their alarm. There was the shrill peeping of whistles, too, as policemen began to converge on the area from the adjacent streets. Given the number of attempts there had been on our queen’s life, it was hardly surprising that gun reports not far from Buckingham Palace would bring members of Her Majesty’s Constabulary out in force.

  However, the policemen seemed unable to pinpoint precisely where the shots had been fired. The one pair of constables I saw were, indeed, running away from rather than to the relevant spot. I nearly waved at
them to attract their attention, until I realised that they might mistake me, with my revolver, for the sniper. Masking my gun hand beneath the flap of my coat, I carried on.

  Then I spied him. Or at any rate I spied a figure skulking in a patch of shrubbery. He was engaged in some furtive practice, rustling around amidst the dappled shadows. I tiptoed nearer, pistol raised. Was it the sniper?

  Now within fifteen feet of the fellow, I silently thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. I still could not get an unimpeded view of him, but who would be lurking in shrubbery when everyone else was fleeing for their lives? Who but the cause of the hue and cry himself?

  I determined that, as soon as I saw his rifle and my suspicions were confirmed, I would loose off a round at the blackguard. I would not give him any kind of verbal warning. He, after all, had been quite content to assassinate us without the least advertisement.

  I was within ten feet of him, and poised to fire, when something heavy descended on me from above.

  No, not something. Someone. Allan Quatermain. He plummeted from overhead, batting my gun arm down and bringing me to my knees with the force of his landing.

  “Are you insane, man?” he thundered. “Look!”

  He gesticulated in the direction of the shrubbery. The man within, alerted by Quatermain’s bellowing, had emerged from his place of concealment.

  It was Sherlock Holmes.

  “My God!” I ejaculated, my face growing hot with shame. “Holmes, I very nearly… It was that close… Had Quatermain not…”

  “It is quite all right, old man,” Holmes said. “The fault lies partly with me. I should have heard you creeping up. I was completely absorbed in other matters. Yonder” – he pointed to the shrubbery – “lies the place our sniper was employing as his hide. Here is the proof.” He held out a shell casing. “For a .50-calibre round, is that not so, Quatermain?”

  Hunter Quatermain inspected the hollow brass cylinder and nodded. He sniffed the open end. “Recently fired.”