by Cavan Scott
But when you eliminate the impossible…
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HERE BE DRAGONS
Holmes found me standing outside Scotland Yard, gulping air like a fish out of water. He did me the courtesy of not enquiring about my health and instead called a cab. We sat in silence all the way back to Chelsea, and exchanged few words until we were safely installed in my drawing room, supping a restorative brandy.
“Mr Agares affected you deeply,” Holmes said.
“Deduced that, did you?”
“Come now, this is no time for sarcasm.”
“What time is it then, exactly? Time for throwing years of medical and rational belief out of the window? You have spent the best part of our lives astounding me, Holmes, but never like this. That you, of all people, should believe that… man’s story.”
“I never said I believed it, only that he does. Unfortunately, at present, I have no other theory to offer, not one that fits the facts anyway.”
“There has to be something. I cannot believe—”
“That human life, no matter how grotesque, can be manufactured on an operating table?”
I let out a deep sigh. “Yes.”
“Neither can I, Watson, but what if I am wrong? Our forebears believed that the world was flat, that the sun circled the earth. They were wrong. They believed that odours and not germs transmitted diseases; that blood could not be transplanted from one body to another. They were wrong. No, that is unfair. They were mistaken. They did not have all the facts at their disposal. Discoveries were yet to be made.
“Today we heard that new life has been born out of necrotic flesh. We have seen evidence with our own eyes that perhaps such beings exist. We don’t know how. We do not have all the facts at our disposal. But, if that creature in the cell had told us that Elsbeth Honegger was conjuring spirits from hell, I would not have believed him. If he told us that London was crawling with the nosferatu, I would have laughed in his face. What he suggested was that through scientific endeavour, such a feat has been made possible. No magic. No superstition.”
“But science?”
“But science… There is so much we don’t yet understand, Watson. It could be that, no matter how ghoulish it may sound, such a miracle is possible. Perhaps scientists of the next century will look back at us and laugh; those primitives, who didn’t believe that bodies could be recycled. How backward. How stunted. No different from those who thought you could fall off the edge of the world if you sailed far enough.”
“Here be dragons?”
Holmes nodded. “None of this sits easy with you, does it, old boy?”
“Not one bit.”
“Nor does it with me, to be truthful, but Mr Agares is safely under lock and key and Inspector Tovey will see that he remains that way. He will provide the answers I seek, one way or another. I shall understand, Watson. I shall get to the bottom of it.”
I went to speak, but stopped myself.
“What is it?” Holmes asked.
“I keep thinking about John, or Daniel, or whatever we are meant to call him. Could he really have been created by Elsbeth Honegger?”
“Mother knows best?” Holmes asked.
My stomach clenched. “Oh good Lord. You don’t mean—”
“Maybe he wasn’t talking about his mother sending him off to war. Maybe he was talking of a woman on the battlefield, bringing him life. Do you remember Elsbeth’s brooch, Watson, the one that belonged to the Frankensteins?”
My mouth was dry. “The crow.”
“Caw, caw, caw,” croaked Holmes.
I shivered, despite myself. Could it all be true? I had thought that John was calling for the birds outside the window, but if he was remembering the clasp on his mother’s collar… No, it was madness, but I knew one thing. While I struggled to believe Agares’s wild story, I believed in Sherlock Holmes. If any man alive could make sense of all this, it was my friend, and I would stand by his side every step of the way.
Little was I to know that in doing so, I would nearly lose Holmes in the process. But we had been set on a path, one that beckoned us further just a few minutes later when the telephone rang.
“Oh, thank God,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Mrs Sellman?”
“I’ve been calling all afternoon, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What’s happened? Is it Frederick?”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s my sister.”
“Elsbeth? What about her?”
“She wrote to us, Doctor. She’s alive.”
* * *
The following morning we were back in Hampstead, being welcomed by Mr and Mrs Sellman. Frederick was up in his room, but the item which had prompted our summons awaited us in the drawing room.
“It arrived yesterday morning,” Mrs Sellman informed us, showing us to the drawing-room table. “We were both out, so Miss Wilkins took delivery. Here.”
At the centre of the table was a toy lion, roughly fifteen inches from nose to tail and standing beside a deep emerald cardboard box. The creature was covered in flocked material, with a bushy mane made from what looked like real fur.
“Another automaton?” Holmes enquired.
Mr Sellman nodded. “It was all I could do to prise it out of Freddie’s hands this morning. He thinks it’s simply marvellous.”
“And for good reason,” said Holmes, bending to examine the toy. “Such craftsmanship. Look, Watson, those eyes are positively lifelike, and as for the teeth!” He reached out and touched one of the sharp incisors that lined the toy’s jaws. “Made of ivory no less. May we see it in operation?”
Mr Sellman produced a small bronze key. “Of course.”
Our host inserted the key into a hole in the beast’s side and began to wind. When he removed his hand, the key started to turn of its own accord, driven by the clockwork mechanism inside. Springing to life, the miniature lion nodded its head, the jaws opening and closing. After repeating the motion four or five times, the automaton sat back on its haunches, emitting a throaty mechanical roar. I found myself chuckling, but then started as the clockwork beast leapt once more to its feet.
“Enchanting,” cheered Holmes, applauding the device. “Most ingenious. I can see why your son is so enamoured.”
“But how do you know it is from Miss Honegger,” I asked, “other than by her fascination with automata?”
With a shaking hand, Mrs Sellman passed me an envelope. “This was in the box.”
The envelope was plain, but inside was a note written on light cream paper. In neat, crisp handwriting it read:
Darling Freddie,
Sorry that I had to go away so suddenly. Here is a friend to keep you company until I return.
Your loving aunt,
E.
Tears had formed in Camille Sellman’s eyes by the time I passed the note to Holmes. It was easy to see that many tears had been shed over the last twenty-four hours.
Holmes sniffed the paper before reading. “Your sister doesn’t care for perfume.”
“She never wears it,” Mrs Sellman confirmed.
“And is not fond of crowds either.”
Mr Sellman looked confused. “She is a solitary soul, but how can you tell?”
Holmes reviewed the handwriting again. “She leaves considerable room between words, a sure sign that the writer enjoys freedom and doesn’t like to be encroached, with a tendency to become overwhelmed at large gatherings.” He looked up from the paper and smiled. “Graphology is such an intriguing subject.”
“The analysis of a person’s handwriting,” I explained. “Holmes believes that an individual’s personality spills over into his – or her – script.”
“Each one of Elsbeth’s letters is tiny,” he continued, “indicating a meticulous, even obsessive person, while the slight slant to the right, no more than five degrees, indicates that Miss Honegger is ruled by her head, rather than her heart, repressing emotion wherever poss
ible.”
“Not when it comes to Frederick,” bristled Mrs Sellman.
Holmes favoured the comment with a smile, before asking how the package was delivered.
“In the post.”
“Excellent. May I see the postmark on the wrapping paper?”
Mr Sellman’s face darkened. “I’m afraid not. Miss Wilkins, with her usual efficiency, threw it away before we returned home.”
Holmes nodded twice. “I see, but all is not lost.” He held the paper up to the light to inspect the watermark. “Your sister is in Germany, Mrs Sellman.”
“Germany?”
“This is a product of the Gaertner-Melnhof Paper Mill, a stock sold only to their domestic market.”
“Has she been to Germany before?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” admitted Mrs Sellman.
“You did say she has travelled a good deal?”
“For her research, but she is a very private person. She wouldn’t always tell us where she had been.”
“Thankfully, our friendly lion is less reticent,” said Holmes, reaching for the clockwork toy. “May I?”
“Of course,” Mrs Sellman replied.
With great care, Holmes turned the toy over in his hands, running his thumb against the seam of its belly and, placing the beast back on all four feet, removing the key from its side.
“Yes, I thought so. May I also see the box? Thank you.”
Holmes removed the lid and turned it over to reveal a crest and a company name printed on the reverse.
“Foerstner Automaten GmbH,” Holmes read. “The abbreviation stands for Gesellschaft mit beschränkter Haftung, German for a limited company.”
“Yes,” said Mr Sellman, “I’m aware of what it means, but where are they based?”
“I’m afraid I do not recognise the crest above the name, although it is undoubtedly a coat of arms,” Holmes admitted, turning the lid to face me. “Watson?”
I took a closer look, but was none the wiser. Beneath a typically Germanic cross lay a solitary key with a diamond-shaped head and square teeth. “I’m afraid I have no idea,” I admitted, “although the presence of a key suggests a financial connection. A centre of commerce, or some such?”
Holmes nodded. “A fair assumption.” He replaced the lid neatly on the box. “Either way, a visit to your attic will reveal its identity, I am sure.”
“The doctor’s attic?” Mrs Sellman said, looking from Holmes to me.
“It’s a long story,” I told her, not relishing the thought of facing Holmes’s vast collections of books once more.
“And one that will soon be at a close,” Holmes added. “Once we have identified the coat of arms, finding your sister will be simplicity itself.”
“George will pay your travel expenses, of course,” Mrs Sellman insisted.
I was unsure who looked more shocked, Mr Sellman or myself.
“We’re going to Germany?” I asked.
Holmes gave me a knowing smile. “Reisen bildet und erweitert den eigenen Horizont, Herr Doktor.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ALL ABOARD
Whether or not travel expands one’s horizons, the coat of arms had indeed borne fruit. Two days later, we were thundering through the countryside of north-western Germany, heading for Bremerhaven, a port at the mouth of the river Weser.
Holmes had found the crest within a minute of flicking through one of his gazetteers. That it took him the best part of the morning, crashing through the attic, to find the book itself need never be mentioned again.
Disembarking at Bremen railway station, we checked into our hotel and asked the concierge for help locating Foerstner Automaten. The shop, a charming establishment whose window display was packed with all manner of clockwork toys, was near the town hall, not a ten-minute walk from the hotel.
We entered, a tinkling bell alerting the proprietor of our arrival. He appeared from a door behind the counter, a man in his fifties with a neat grey beard and two pairs of half-moon reading glasses, one perched on his nose and the other resting on the top of a hairless head.
“Herr Foerstner?” Holmes enquired, in perfect German.
The proprietor smiled warmly. “The same. How may I be of assistance, gentlemen?”
Holmes held out his hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My colleague and I have travelled from London to meet you.”
Foerstner took the proffered hand, but looked at us in concern. “London? Why would you come all this way for me?”
Holmes threw out his arms to take in the contents of the small shop. “For the sake of all this,” he offered in explanation.
Surrounding us were dolls and animals and carousels and castles. It was a veritable Aladdin’s cave that would send any child into rapture, although I found the experience of having hundreds of glass eyes staring in my direction somewhat unsettling. I was unable to shake the feeling that they would all come alive at any moment.
“We are reporters from The Times,” Holmes continued, smiling broadly. I fought the urge to peer at my friend in order to discover his personal sign of deceit. “We are writing an article on automata, and recently had the pleasure of witnessing one of your exquisite creations. You, sir, are a true artisan.”
The flattery worked. Foerstner positively preened, his eyes sparkling. “It is kind of you to say so, but if I may enquire, which piece did you see? I do not send many of my toys overseas.”
“Which is why we had to visit,” Holmes insisted. “Yours is a rare talent that our readers will want to experience for themselves. I dare say that you’ll receive a good many orders from English enthusiasts, keen to add a Foerstner original to their collection.”
“You are very kind, but the piece?”
“Ah, yes,” said Holmes, feigning absent-mindedness. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and flicked through to a page covered in shorthand. “A lion that, once wound—”
“Sits back and jumps,” Foerstner interrupted. “Yes, yes, I was particularly proud of that one. The growl was quite difficult to perfect.”
“And yet perfect it you did. Can you talk me through the creation of the masterpiece?”
We listened as the craftsman explained his methods in minute detail, learning more about clockwork than I thought possible, or indeed wanted to know. All the time, Holmes nodded and jotted down notes. Finally, when I thought that I might be able to build one of the wretched contraptions myself, Holmes consulted another page of his notebook.
“The lion was purchased by a Miss Elsbeth Honegger.” He leant in surreptitiously. “A present for her nephew, who simply adores the beast.”
Again, Holmes’s flummery did the trick.
“Ah, a delightful woman,” Foerstner gushed. “So interested in the work. She was a pleasure to talk to.”
“I’m glad to hear it, as we should very much like a word with the good lady ourselves. Could you pass us her telephone number, or perhaps an address?”
Foerstner’s expression faltered. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“You don’t have them?”
“No, it’s not that. I would feel uncomfortable handing out a customer’s private details. It just isn’t done, you know?”
“I understand, but all we would require from her is a short statement about the quality of your work; what attracted her to your shop, how she was impressed by your service and so on. Everyone wants to read about a happy customer, don’t they? Especially before making a purchase themselves. You know, I have even heard that His Majesty the King collects automata for his children. Just imagine if he read the article?”
Foerstner hesitated before relenting, reaching beneath his desk for a ledger. “I’m sure she won’t mind,” he said, “if you explain why you are calling.”
His finger stopped on the relevant entry. “I’m afraid I don’t have a telephone number, but I can give you gentlemen her address.”
“That would be ideal,” Holmes said with a smile.
According to Foerstner, Elsbeth Honegger had taken lodgings at 28 Löningstraße, near the port. We made our way to the address, but as we approached the three-storey building, we spotted the lady herself pulling the front door closed behind her. Holmes clasped my arm, guiding me behind a nearby market stall.
“What are we doing?”
“Observing,” came the reply.
There was no mistaking Miss Honegger. She wore her hair in the pompadour style we had seen in the photograph owned by Mrs Sellman, and bore a startling resemblance to her sister in person, even down to her purposeful walk.
“Should we not simply approach her?” I asked.
“I would rather see where she’s heading,” said Holmes, “especially in such a hurry.”
“You would think she’d take a cab in such weather,” I said, turning up my collar. It had been raining steadily from the moment we arrived and looked to be getting worse, a storm brewing in the air. Holmes waited for the lady to continue halfway down Löningstraße before stepping out from our hiding place. We set off in gentle pursuit, Holmes refusing to open his umbrella in case it drew her attention. Pneumonia it was then!
What was that my wife had said about Holmes being the death of me?
Miss Honegger went straight to the port, breezing past the dockworkers as if she owned the place. Finally, she approached a large steam ship that was moored alongside the dock. The port was a hive of activity, dockhands loading cargo from a nearby warehouse onto the ship. She stopped to talk to them. At first, I thought she was asking for directions, but it soon became clear that she was taking them to task over their heavy-handed treatment of the cargo. Her cargo.
Holmes read the name of the freighter. “Das Rabe. Notice something odd about it, Watson?”
“I’m hardly what you would call an expert,” I admitted.
“Neither am I, but look at the main mast.”
I did as he asked. There was something odd about it.
“Looks too tall,” I said.
“As if it has been extended, and where are the sails? The secondary masts have them, but there’s no rigging on the central pole.”