by Cavan Scott
“There’s something on there. Rope, is it?”
“Possibly. It is peculiar, though.”
We watched the men continue to haul crates onto the deck.
“Surely they’re not thinking of taking her out in this?” I said.
The rain had increased, fierce winds rolling in from the sea. On the dockside, Miss Honegger was holding onto her hat, struggling to remain upright in the gale. The crates being winched onto the ship swayed alarmingly, and even behind the pile of containers that we were using to conceal ourselves, rain stung our faces.
The discussion had become an argument, although the voices dropped to silence as a stern man in a sharp suit descended the gangplank. He approached Miss Honegger, standing just a little too close for comfort, clearly trying to intimidate the woman, although she held her ground. We were too far away to hear what was being said, the heated conversation muffled by the rain, but both of us were shocked when the gentleman in question seized her arm and marched her up the ramp and into the ship, a burly sailor stepping out of the way to let them gain entrance.
“Holmes—” I started, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me from breaking cover.
“We’ll be no good to her in there, especially as most of those men are armed.”
He was right. Peering through the downpour, I could just make out a gun in its holster on every docker’s belt.
“You would have us do nothing? If they are leaving…”
“I’ve not come all this way just to lose the lady again,” Holmes said. “We’re going aboard that ship.”
“And how are we going to do that? Is The Times about to publish an award-winning piece on German maritime affairs?”
“Shipshape and Bremer fashion? I doubt those fellows are as gullible as Herr Foerstner.”
“What then?”
He glanced at the open warehouse. I followed his gaze and saw more crates lined up, ready to be loaded. A couple were open, their lids loose across them.
“Those crates look big enough to hide a fellow or two, don’t you think?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I assure you I am.”
“But how are we supposed to climb inside them without being noticed?”
Holmes nodded towards the ship. “An Englishman always keeps his eye upon the weather.”
I followed his gaze, seeing the crate on the winch rock precariously in the wind. All at once, it slipped from its bonds and tumbled to the ground, splitting open. Men came running, the foreman shouting orders. This was our chance. Complaining under my breath, I followed Holmes into the now deserted warehouse. He pulled aside one of the lids to reveal coils of cables and wires.
“What is all this for?”
“Now is not the time to ask questions,” said Holmes, glancing up at the chaos on the dockside. “Now is the time to get in the box. There should be just enough room for you.”
“How small do you think I am, and what about you? There isn’t room for both of us.”
“There’s more than one crate. Get in.”
Still grumbling, I clambered in, lying on my bed of cables. “You saw that crate fall, didn’t you?”
“I did, yes,” Holmes hissed, grabbing the lid.
“And you’re not worried that lightning will strike twice?”
“Worse things happen at sea. Besides, these crates are smaller. They will probably be carried up the ramp.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Bon voyage, Watson!”
He lowered the lid, closing me in. Panic hit me almost immediately. It was like being shut inside a coffin. Outside I could hear scuffling, and imagined Holmes entombing himself in one of the crates. Then all was silence, save for my own breathing, before voices approached. What if they lifted the lid? Worst of all, what if they hammered the crates shut for good and all? Then where would we be?
It was all I could do not to cry out as I felt the crate lift off the floor. The dockworkers swore, calling over to their mates for help.
“What has she got in here?” one of them asked, and I prayed they wouldn’t check. Instead, I was carried forward, the patter of rain on the lid telling me we had left the warehouse. There was more grunting, more swearing, and then I slid on the cables as the box tipped to the left. I imagined myself sprawling across the dock as the crate overturned, guns pointing in my face – but instead we continued, the dockhands lugging my dead weight up the ramp. The drumming of the rain stopped. I was on the ship.
I closed my eyes, willing the indignity to be over. It seemed that I swayed back and forth for ever, before, with a thud that jarred my entire body, the crate dropped to the floor. Elsbeth Honegger wouldn’t be happy about that. I can’t say I was either.
There were more boots outside now, and another thud, this time on the lid of the crate. To my horror, I realised what had happened. The idiots had piled another container on top of mine. How would I get out?
I froze, waiting for the sound of the boots to fade. Then, when I was sure I was alone, I pushed against the lid. It wouldn’t budge, the weight of the box on top too great. I was trapped. I banged my clenched fist against the side of the crate, not caring if the noise was heard. If I were discovered, I would be let out. I would also probably be shot, but that was a risk I was willing to take.
The side of the box refused to give way, and soon my hands were raw from pummelling the rough wood.
With a scrape and a clatter, something dropped to the floor outside. I froze again, my eyes searching the darkness. More boots scraped and then there was a crash, deafening within the confines of the crate.
I went to push up against the lid one last time, when it was raised, and the face of Sherlock Holmes looked down at me.
“Watson,” he snarled, “get out of there and help me.”
“What the devil happened?” I asked.
“Not now,” he said, giving me his hand. “They’re on their way back. Quickly.”
I scrambled out of the crate and took in my surroundings; we were clearly in the hold of the ship. Holmes turned and threw cables back into the overturned crate that lay on its side next to my own. He eased it back onto its base and continued refilling it. I helped as well as I could, and when everything was back where it should be, he told me to replace the lid on my crate. I did so, and we piled the other box on top.
“Were you in that one?” I whispered.
He gave no answer, but yanked me to the back of the hold, into a small curtained vestibule. I fell quiet and we listened as the men returned, slapping more crates into place.
“That’s the lot,” one of them growled in German.
“And not before time. The captain’s casting off. Come on.”
Holmes waited for them to leave before peeking out from behind the curtain. The hold was empty, save for the crates – and a pair of stowaways.
“I can’t believe you made me do that,” I hissed.
“Neither can I. You must be going soft in your old age,” replied Holmes. “You used to put up much more of a fight.”
“Don’t tempt me. So, now what?”
Holmes put his finger to his lips and slipped past the curtain, checking that the coast was clear. When he was sure, he beckoned me out.
“Now, we find Miss Honegger.”
“Where?”
“If I knew that, we would have no need to search. The ship is not a large one.”
“It’s not a small one either. What if we are spotted?”
“You have your revolver?”
I nodded, patting my coat pocket.
“And I have mine. Let us pray we don’t have cause to use them.”
There was a low resounding clang deep beneath us, and the sudden roar of engines. The entire ship reverberated, the deck vibrating beneath our feet.
“We’re on the move,” Holmes commented, throwing out an arm to steady himself.
“And already being tossed from fore to stern.”
“A storm is coming.”
“And if we need to abandon ship?”
“I’m sure there are lifeboats, Watson.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE EYE OF THE STORM
In only a short time the ship was rolling. Usually, I have my sea legs, but even I was struggling as we bounced down a corridor. Luckily, the poor conditions seemed to be keeping the crew busy, so there was little chance of our discovery. Only once did we almost come face to face with a couple of sailors, but I pulled Holmes back into an open doorway where we hid until the men staggered past.
“This is hopeless,” I whispered. “We can’t blunder around below deck, hoping to find her.”
A voice sounded from up ahead, shouting to be heard over the groans of the ship’s superstructure.
“Take these to the Fräulein. The storm is coming in faster than expected.”
Again we sank into the shadows, waiting for the deckhand to pass. I saw that he was carrying a small crate, piled high with cables.
We waited a few moments and then slipped out into the corridor, following his footsteps. Pausing at a bulkhead, we heard him knock on a door, a faint female voice sounding in response. There was a creak and he entered.
“Place it over there,” the female voice said in faultless German, while we scurried past the door and reached the next section. There we waited for the sailor to exit, hoping that he would return the way he had come. For a moment, it looked as though he was about to walk straight towards us, when shouts from above caused him to double back and head towards the foredeck.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I followed Holmes to the door and exchanged a look, before he turned the handle and stepped over the raised partition into the room beyond.
“What now?” said Elsbeth Honegger, her back towards us. “I’ve told you that I cannot do this unless—”
She turned and stopped, not expecting to see two grey-haired Englishmen staring back at her. I, for one, shared her amazement. The room was built into one of the holds of the ship, but thankfully it was enclosed against the elements. Instead, the rain hammered down on a glass ceiling that stretched the length of the compartment, save for multiple heavy industrial cables that snaked down through a hatch from the central mast. Those cables, not ropes, were what we had seen on the sail-less mast.
I followed the cables down from the hatch’s rubber seal to the most bizarre of contraptions. There, on a raised dais, sat something that resembled a bronze beer kettle, the kind used to ferment ale in breweries the world over – but never had one such as this been constructed. Its lid was suspended on chains above the base, weighted down so it would not swing with the roll of the ship. However, every time the deck bucked beneath our feet, a strange yellow liquid slopped over the edge of the base to splatter on the floor. It was thick, and gave off such a chemical reek that it was all I could do not to gag.
“Who are you?” she said in German. “What are you doing here?”
Holmes took a step forward, replying in our native tongue. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
Her eyes widened.
“This has to be some kind of joke.”
“I’m afraid not. I am here on behalf of your sister.”
“Cammy?”
“She is most concerned for your safety, and, after seeing the way you were treated on the harbourside, so were we.”
The lady came towards us, unconsciously wiping her hands on her white medical coat, leaving behind stains from the viscous yellow liquid. “You cannot be here. How did you get on board?”
“That is unimportant,” Holmes said, his eyes flickering over the equipment behind her. “Although I have some questions of my own.”
She broke to the left, racing towards a communication tube. Holmes sprang after her, grabbing her arm before she could reach the voicepipe.
“Release me at once!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Holmes,” I cautioned, worried that my friend would hurt her.
“Look in the kettle,” he commanded, even as she squirmed in his grip.
“Let me go, I say!”
“Do it, Watson!”
I seesawed across the lurching room, grabbing hold of the handrail around the platform. Pulling myself up, I peered down into the glutinous pool within the kettle. There, submerged on a metal frame, lay a naked body, strapped by thick lengths of leather around its chest, waist and legs. Its head was held in place with a brace, its eyes closed. Even through the liquid I could make out the marbled effect on its skin and the tight stitching that had now become so familiar.
“Good Lord,” I murmured. “It’s all true. Every word of it.”
“Don’t touch him,” Elsbeth Honegger shrieked, breaking free of Holmes’s grip and racing towards me. The ship hit a wave and was tossed to port, sending her diving across the deck. I fell back against the copper, my hand splashing into the creature’s – what, amniotic fluid?
Behind me, I heard Miss Honegger approach. Pulling out my revolver, I spun around, bringing the weapon up to bear.
She froze, staring down the barrel of my gun.
“My friend asked you a question,” I said, the revulsion in my voice plain for all to hear. “What are you doing here?”
Now it was Holmes’s turn to give counsel.
“Watson, steady.”
“I dared not believe it was possible,” said I, glowering at the woman. “But here it is.”
“Please,” she begged me. “Lower the weapon. It is almost time.”
“Almost time for what?” Holmes asked.
“Her infernal experiment,” I snapped, answering for her. “This abhorrence. Why a ship?”
“What?”
“Why not do this on land?”
“I would think it is the storm,” Holmes said calmly. “Power for the… resurrection.”
She glanced at him. “You seem to know a great deal of my business.”
“Your business?” I spat. “Grave-robbing? Blasphemy?”
She pointed at me now, ignoring the gun. “He volunteered his body for the benefit of medical science, and that, not blasphemy, is exactly what is being carried out here.”
“Body or bodies?” Holmes enquired. “We have seen your handiwork, Miss Honegger. Or at least what we have been told is your handiwork. On the Western Front, experimenting on the dead. On Daniel Blake?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“You don’t even know their names?” I asked, incredulous.
“I never ask,” she said. “I do not concern myself about what they are, only what they will be.”
“Your creatures,” Holmes said.
“They don’t belong to me.”
“Really? What about the man you slaughtered? In Abberton Hospital? Did Adam deserve to die?”
She at least had the decency to look surprised. “You have indeed been following me. I took no pleasure in that, I can assure you.”
“I should think not!” I exclaimed.
“I was offered a way out, but Adam declined to take it.”
“A way out from what?”
She turned to face Holmes. “How much do you know?”
“That you sought to carry on Victor Frankenstein’s work—”
“To play God,” I interrupted.
Holmes ignored me. “But you were arrested, yes? For desecration. And yet, when the authorities discovered what you were attempting, what science you had at your fingertips…”
“Who told you all this?”
“I think you know.”
“He lies, without hesitation.”
“And yet the lies are compelling. Offered a chance to continue your experimentation, a supply of fresh meat, no questions asked – until the war ended, until they realised that if anyone found out what they had allowed you to do, what they had sanctioned – the British Empire, experimenting on its own dead… No wonder you ran.”
“I had nowhere else to go.”
“Nowhere except home. The lure was too great. A loving famil
y, a favourite nephew; but official secrets rarely stay secret for long. Germany may have lost the war, but she still has spies. They discovered what you had achieved, and offered you a way out. Oh, this is a private vessel, but the markings on the cargo, they are military, as are most of the sailors on board, I would think. The money that all this would cost, you were unable to find it yourself, otherwise you would hardly have been operating out of a derelict hospital on the banks of the Thames. Although I must congratulate you on the generator. I always appreciate the ability to extemporise in the face of adversity.”
“Do you expect me to thank you?”
“As you thanked Adam?”
“He refused to come. The thought of turning to the enemy he had been created to fight was a step too far.”
“So you took what you had given, killing him in the hospital, dismembering him piece by piece so that his body would never be found. Well, not all of it, unfortunately.”
When he paused, she asked but one simple question, her face without expression.
“So, it is I whom you consider the monster, not they.”
“You’re a scientist, a brilliant one if the stories are true, but you are also a murderer. We were brought in by Scotland Yard to find a killer, and we have found one.”
“I thought you said you were sent by my sister?”
“The two cases have dovetailed.”
Above us lightning flashed in the broiling clouds, thunder crashing through the heavens a second later. We were nearing the eye of the storm.
The ship pitched, buffeted by a wave, and I fell forward, stumbling from the dais. My gun skittered across the deck, but the lady had already made good her escape. Before Holmes could stop her, she had raced to the door, flinging it open and calling for help.
At least, that was what she tried to do. Her cry was cut off halfway through and she stopped short, before backing into the room again. Looking up from where I had fallen, I saw two men follow her in, guns raised. Two men I recognised all too well.
“Dr Watson,” the first of them said. “I didn’t think we’d be running into you again.” The tweed suit and bow tie had gone, but it was the same sneer he had worn when he and his companion walked into my surgery. Burns and Hartley. “At least, I hoped we wouldn’t.”