The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by William Seil

  I too had fallen flat on my back and a sharp pain was penetrating my shoulder and arm. Fortunately, my legs felt fine and I was able to get to my feet. I was surprised to see that Futrelle had not moved. He was still in the hatchway, apparently under Brandon’s watchful eye. Brandon was not even calling to his companion. He apparently felt that Swede could handle any difficulties.

  Brandon’s judgement proved to be correct. Swede, still on the floor, grabbed my leg just as I got to my feet. I heard the sound of metal sliding briefly along the deck and a moment later Swede was on top of me. I felt a stinging blow to the back of my head, and then drifted off into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE AFTERNOON OF SATURDAY 13 APRIL 1912

  I followed the roar of the rushing water. The pathway was wet and my feet slipped as I ran. Sweat poured from my brow, yet the cold, damp air penetrated my clothing. I paused to button my coat to the collar but this was only for a moment. I continued even faster, mindful of the danger that awaited my friend.

  After a time, the trail turned sharply towards the sound of the water. The path was level here and it was easier to keep my footing. I trudged along the wet ground until I reached a wooden bridge. It was there, in the mist, that I saw my friend, Sherlock Holmes, fighting hand to hand with a man dressed in a black cloak.

  I stepped forward to join Holmes in the struggle but my foot broke through the planks as if they were paper. I saved myself from plunging into the falls below by grabbing the rail.

  Ahead, Holmes and the cloaked figure continued their battle. For them, despite their chaotic movements, the planks held firm.

  The cloaked figure raised his hand, which held a sturdy walking stick. As his arm moved back to strike a blow, his cloak fell away, uncovering the military uniform he wore underneath.

  The stick swept downwards, but Holmes moved to the side and avoided what would have been a crushing blow to his head. His opponent, attempting to regain his balance, twisted around. Through the mist, I saw the face of Colonel James Moriarty. He was laughing at me, as his arms surrounded Holmes in a tight grasp.

  Just then, the deck of the bridge fell through. I looked in horror as I saw my friend and the colonel, still in combat, plummet towards the raging water.

  I stood there, looking down and listening to the steady roar of the falls. But then I heard another sound directly behind me — an animal. It was a deep, penetrating growl that developed a gurgling resonance as saliva filled the beast’s mouth.

  I continued to look towards the falls, terrified that the slightest movement would invite an attack. Slowly, I turned my head, while grasping the end of the bridge railing. There, crouched on top of a boulder, was a beast of enormous proportions. Its black, moist coat shimmered in the faint rays of light that penetrated the mist. The hound’s eyes blazed with a yellow glow. Its huge white teeth were fully exposed behind its dripping jowls.

  I tried to move, but I found that my arms and legs were frozen in place. I sensed that the creature knew this, and was waiting there, taking its time to strike. The wait was not long. With a sudden wail, it sprang forward, propelling its huge mass on to me. We crashed into the bridge rail, and then down, down towards the dark, rushing water.

  I continued to fall, powerless to save myself. Suddenly, I heard someone calling my name. It was a calm voice, but not a friendly one. It repeated my name over and over again.

  ‘Doctor Watson, Doctor Watson... Good, I see you are coming round. I would never have forgiven myself if Swede had damaged you permanently.’

  Brandon stood in front of me, holding a lamp beside his face. Swede was seated on a crate, fingering his open flask. Futrelle, sitting up and alert, was bound hand and foot. I tried to raise my arm to rub my throbbing head but discovered that I was bound as well.

  We were in the ship’s hold, in an area used for storage of various odds and ends. Judging by the V shape of the room, we were in the forward-most area of the deck. I could hear a roaring sound through the heavy steel hull, as the ship cut its way through the water. Futrelle and I had been thrown on a pile of empty sacks, which were slightly moist. There was a chill in the air, and I longed for the warmth and comfort of my cabin.

  ‘How are you, Doctor? Is there anything I can do for you?’

  I blinked, attempting to clear my vision. ‘You can call a steward. Ask him to send two aspirin and someone to untie these ropes.’

  ‘We will attend to the aspirin, but I am afraid I cannot help you with the other. By the way, Swede apologizes for hitting you with his gun but you should not have tried to escape.’

  I turned to face my fellow prisoner. ‘How are you, Futrelle?’

  ‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances. I was just trying to get Brandon here to explain what this is all about. So far, no luck.’

  Brandon smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll be happy to explain, although I am a bit surprised that the two of you have not been able to deduce it for yourselves.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Brandon put down the lamp and sat on a nearby crate. ‘Just that here, I have two of the most famous mystery writers of our time. Doctor Watson, you record the cases of Sherlock Holmes. And Mr Futrelle, you have your fictional detective, Professor Van Dusen, whom you call The Thinking Machine. Yet, neither of you have the slightest notion of what I have planned... But then, you have been investigating and asking a lot of questions. Perhaps you know more than you will admit to.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, doing my best to outbluff this old poker player. ‘But, for the sake of the details, pray start from the beginning.’

  ‘I would be glad to, Doctor. Well then, I suppose if you want me to give you the complete story, I should tell you about a boy growing up in London.

  ‘I had a comfortable upbringing, good parents, a fine education. I also had a great love of games — anything competitive. At the university, I excelled at football and cricket, but most of all I loved evening card games with the members of my teams. If someone outstripped me on the playing field, I knew it would not be long before I would be collecting their weekly allowance at the poker table.’

  Truly, Brandon had a captive audience but I still had the freedom of protest. ‘This is all very fascinating, Brandon, but I do not see...’

  ‘Background, Doctor. I want you to understand today’s events in the light of what I have discovered in life. It is only then that you can understand, and perhaps accept, what is about to happen.’

  ‘Then please continue.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. Well, life was good and I felt quite content with my studies and sport. Still, my existence appeared to lack meaning. I had no direction that would allow me to make my mark on the world. Ironically, it was a game of poker that helped me to find that direction.

  ‘I was playing with some of the older students and losing rather badly to a fellow named McKee. The rest of us looked on McKee as an odd sort, because he belonged to some peculiar political groups, and his bookshelves were filled with Marx, Engels and other socialist thinkers. But in his favour, he was a good card player and a congenial fellow, so we invited him into our games.

  ‘We were about to conclude for the night, with McKee holding most of the chips, when he offered a most interesting wager. He said he would bet all his winnings on one hand of poker. If he lost, we would recover our losses. But if he won, we would agree to accompany him to a meeting of the Marching Together League, a student socialist society. At first I refused, thinking that my evening’s losses were hardly worth diminishing my reputation, especially if my parents ever found out. But McKee assured me that my attendance would remain secret, and if anyone did find out, he would support my story that I was there to repay a poker debt. I did end up accepting his wager, as did the two other players at the table, who had lost even more than me.

  ‘Well, McKee’s luck held out, and on the following Thursday night we found ourselves at a smoky Oxford bar, listening to fiery rhetoric from some highly intelligent
speakers. Except for one well-known history teacher, I did not recognize any of them. Yet, within their own circle, they were well regarded and respected. I began to consider my own values and soon concluded that money — while a worthy goal in games of chance — should not be used by the powerful to oppress the weak. Within a fortnight I had decided to join the Marching Together League.

  ‘After coming down from Oxford I told my father I wanted to take some time to see a bit of the world before entering the bottom rungs of his brokerage business. He seemed disappointed, but agreed to fund my trip as a graduation present. I said I would return in no more than six months, after touring Europe and visiting friends of my father along the way. He wanted this to be a business education, as well as a cultural experience. I felt guilty but deep in my heart I did not consider my acceptance to be an out-and-out lie. After all, I did plan to visit his friends and might, ultimately, decide to return to my father’s business. But, in the meantime, my travels would complete another type of education that began with the Marching Together League. I would make contact with socialist organizations throughout Europe, and look for opportunities to build a stronger alliance.

  ‘I looked up one of my father’s friends in Paris, but abandoned my business pursuits after this one stop. Instead, I devoted my time to the mission given to me by the league. The money given to me by my father was a more than ample stake to begin a successful career as a card player... Sadly, I never saw or contacted my parents again. I understand that my father died last year. You must understand, gentlemen, I loved my parents. I bear a great burden of guilt. Yet, I could not return to them and explain why I did what I did. They would never have understood.’

  ‘That’s a fine biographical account,’ said Futrelle, ‘but it does not explain why we are here, bound from hand to foot.’

  Brandon, who had come to look somewhat melancholy, quickly regained his earlier enthusiasm. ‘Yes, gentlemen, to the point. As you know, the launching of this ship was greeted with a good deal of trumpeting. In fact, the Titanic is seen as a symbol of the infallibility of the British Empire and the capitalist system. If this ship sinks on its maiden voyage, the loss of confidence by capitalist countries will be immeasurable.’

  ‘You mean to sink the Titanic!’ I shouted. ‘Hundreds of innocent people would die! You cannot be serious!’

  ‘Oh, I am very serious. And as for those who will die, well, my burden of guilt will grow immensely. But remember, thousands, even millions die in wars. This one incident will bring us a giant step closer to world socialism.’

  ‘Brandon, stop this insanity!’ said Futrelle. ‘This ship does not have enough lifeboats. Only a fraction, if any, will be saved. And do not forget, you and your men will die too.’

  ‘No, no, not if we follow our plan.’ Brandon was pacing back and forth, like a professor before a blackboard. ‘A ship will be waiting for us a mile off the starboard side at around midnight. It has instructions to signal to us, to guide our approach. At 1 am two nitroglycerine charges will be set off by timers. One, in fact, is right here in this hold. Another is elsewhere in the ship.’

  I looked around the hold but did not see any signs of a bomb. ‘Give it up, Brandon. Sinking a ship will not further your cause. If anything, the authorities of the world will band together to destroy you and your organization.’

  ‘And who will tell them that we did it? The two of you will be the first to die. And as to the cause, we have every hope that it will be seen as an accident — an exploding boiler or a collision with an iceberg. We will have to wait and see.’

  ‘Brandon, I beg of you, give this up now,’ I pleaded. ‘Kill us if you like. There will not be any witnesses. But do not continue with your terrible plan.’

  ‘Well, Doctor, I am a sporting man. I could kill you both right now. But if the two of you are clever enough, there is a small chance that you could concoct some means of escaping and of warning the captain. As I recall, Mr Futrelle’s Professor Van Dusen was somewhat of an escape artist.’ He pulled a watch from his pocket. ‘It is now just past 4 pm. The charges have been planted and my friends and I must make preparations for our departure. Remember, both charges go off at 1 am... But no more clues. Goodbye, and good luck.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE EVENING OF SATURDAY 13 APRIL 1912

  Escape is an art that is distinct from the science of deductive reasoning.

  Deductive reasoning involves examining factual evidence and, through analysis, reconstructing past events. It is rather like locating the pieces of a puzzle, and then putting them together.

  Escape, on the other hand, requires one other thing — an overpowering will to survive. You must truly believe there is a way out, if only you can find it.

  Futrelle and I clearly understood the importance of our challenge. The survival of everyone on board the ship depended on our ability to free ourselves and warn the captain. But despite this awesome responsibility, we found ourselves completely perplexed.

  Brandon and Swede had taken the lantern with them, leaving us in total darkness. While other holds on the ship had electric lights, I had seen no evidence of a switch or light fixtures in this small chamber. I sat there, attempting to remember everything I had observed during our conversation with Brandon.

  We were encased on all sides, above and below, by solid steel. Futrelle, who had been conscious throughout our ordeal, identified our prison as the forward-most cargo hold on the orlop deck, just in front of the hold where the automobiles were stored.

  After Brandon and Swede left, we had heard the sound of chains being looped through the handle of the steel door to the adjoining hold. They had not gagged us, since shouting would do us no good. After the shooting, the captain had forbidden entry to the scene of the crime. Only senior officers were allowed in. Brandon cleverly saw this as an opportunity to conceal his activities.

  The forward wall also had a covered opening. It was labelled ‘chain locker’. That offered some hope, since the ship’s huge anchor chain was far too large to occupy only one deck. If we could enter the locker, we might be able to climb to a higher level and escape through an unlocked door. Even if we were unable to leave through the opening, we might be able to attract the attention of people on the other side.

  The crates lining the walls around us were not labelled. We had no clue as to their contents, though the lack of refrigeration indicated that they were not perishable.

  The floor and ceiling both had large hatchways, through which crates and other cargo could be lowered. Unfortunately, both were covered by huge metal plates. The bottom hatch cover was piled high with crates. I suspected that the cover on the upper hatch might be weighted in a similar manner.

  I sat shivering on the stack of burlap sacks, struggling to loosen the ropes that bound my hands and feet. Though I could not see Futrelle in the darkness, I could hear rustling and grunting sounds, as he strained his muscles in a tireless effort to regain his freedom.

  ‘Futrelle, do you think you might be able to free your arms or legs?’

  ‘Not a chance. If anything, the ropes seem to be getting tighter. Perhaps it is the dampness. How about you?’

  ‘No, I have the same problem.’

  ‘Watson, do you think he is really serious about sinking the ship? I did not see any bomb in here.’

  ‘It could be in one of the crates, or behind one. For the sake of the people on this ship, I think we must assume that he is telling the truth. We must find a way to alert the captain.’

  We sat in silence, considering the alternatives. In addition to being bound, we could not move along the floor. Our captors had looped a rope through a hole at the base of a metal stanchion that ran from the floor to the ceiling. The ends of the rope were tied to our wrists. We had only a few feet of slack.

  ‘Futrelle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As I recall, did not your story, The Problem of Cell 13, involve Professor Van Dusen escaping from a prison cell? I cannot remember the det
ails. How did he get out?’

  ‘Well, he bet some men that he could escape from a prison cell within a week.’

  ‘I fear that we do not have that long, but please continue.’

  ‘Let us see... He went into a cell with only the clothes on his back, some toothpaste and twenty-five dollars in cash. He was not allowed any contact with the outside world, and only his captors knew that he was there.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘To cut a long story short, he unravelled a long thread from his socks and tied one end to a rat he had captured in his cell. He sent the rat through an old drainpipe to a playground just outside the prison wall. The rat carried a ten-dollar bill, and a note asking whatever child found it to give the note to a particular newspaper reporter. When the reporter returned with the boy, he found the drainpipe and attached some stronger string to the thread. Van Dusen then pulled the end of the string into his cell, creating a means for sending small objects through the pipe.’

  ‘Amazing! What happened then?’

  ‘He used nitric acid, which he had received through the drainpipe, to cut through the bars of his window. Then he cut through a cable outside the window, placing that side of the prison in perfect darkness. That allowed him to leave through the window.’

  ‘What about the prison gate?’

  ‘He walked through, disguised as an electrician.’

  I sat for a moment, considering Futrelle’s extraordinary narrative.

  ‘I regret, Futrelle, that I do not think there is anything in that story that can help us in this particular situation.’

  There was silence, then my fellow prisoner spoke in a subdued voice. ‘No, I suppose not... Did you and Mr Holmes ever plan an escape?’

  ‘We were seldom in such a situation, although a few of our clients had narrow escapes.’

  ‘Such as...’

  ‘Well, I recall one case where a young engineer was locked inside a hydraulic press and the ceiling began to come down slowly upon him.’