“Yes sir,” said another voice. This one had a tinge of North Country in his inflection.
“Careful with that,” said Paxton, “let’s not spill any.”
“It’s heavy, sir,” said another voice, this one distinctly Cockney.
“No back talk,” said Paxton sternly.
Then Holmes and I saw the three men emerge from another tunnel and stand on the ledge, not more than a few feet away from us. We pulled back to avoid being seen.
Besides Paxton, I recognized the other man as his servant (though he was now wearing a workman’s shirt and a pair of soiled trousers). Along with them was the man we’d seen on the ladder feeding the fish.
What followed next will haunt me till the end of my life. One of the men pulled up a bucket of fish and emptied its contents over the ledge into the water below. The other man took a second bucket and did the same.
For a moment there was silence, and then I heard splashing in the water. Then something rose out of the water the likes of which I’ve never seen before. It was a massive tentacle, of the sort one might see on an octopus, except that this was at least fifty feet high with the circumference of a large Roman column. It was covered with suction cups of various sizes.
A second tentacle of equal size appeared along its side, thrashed around in the water for a few minutes, and then they both vanished into the depths from which they had come. Before I could catch my breath from beholding such a sight, Paxton turned to his men and said, “Bring me the main course.”
At this, one of his henchmen disappeared from view, returning immediately with a portly man, whose arms were bound behind him with rope and whose mouth was gagged with a handkerchief.
Holmes took out his revolver, then gestured to me to step forward and reveal ourselves. We moved quickly into the open with our revolvers aimed at the trio.
“Good evening, Dr Paxton,” said Holmes.
Paxton and his men turned abruptly, as did their prisoner.
“You’re trespassing, Mr Holmes,” said Paxton.
“A small transgression compared to what you are engaged in,” replied Holmes.
“What do you know?” asked Paxton.
“I’m afraid I know everything, Paxton. Dr Watson and I just now witnessed your little pet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Paxton.
“And now,” said Holmes, “I must ask you to unhand that man and step aside.”
“On the contrary, Mr Holmes, “said Paxton, holding on to the bound man, “if you or Dr Watson, advance even one step, I shall push this man over the precipice to his reward.”
“Then we are at a stalemate,” replied Holmes.
“Not quite,” said Paxton, “if you do not drop your weapons, I will make good on my threat regardless.”
“And if we obey, you will send this man to his doom nonetheless.”
“It’s a sad day when a man of science like myself is not trusted.”
“If you throw this man to your creature, I will subsequently shoot you, and then you shall join him.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Holmes,” said Paxton, “your reputation is that of a man of intellect, not violence.”
“And yours is of a genius gone wrong.”
“Your barb stings me,” said Paxton. “It sounds like something I’d expect from those narrow pinheads at the Zoological Gardens, or the Marine Biological Association.”
“To be fair, Paxton, “said Holmes, “I actually admire your theories.”
“Your insincere flattery is pathetic. You don’t even know my work.”
“I refer to your monograph on the mating calls of blue whales, your monograph on inter-species communication of sea mammals, your monograph on instinctual memory in dolphins, your monograph detailing—”
“I am most impressed, Mr Holmes, I see I have misjudged you.”
“It’s not your theories I quarrel with, doctor, it’s your methods.”
“Sadly, they are necessary to further my work.”
“The animal …” said Holmes.
“The animal, as you call her,” said Paxton, “is my affair, and one I choose not to discuss with outsiders.”
“Then allow me,” said Holmes, “this creature, whom Watson and I just witnessed, is a giant squid. It was long thought to be a legend, one that dates back to antiquity. For millennia, routinely dismissed as being the disturbed visions of intoxicated sailors. All that changed seven years ago, in 1888, when the carcass of just such a giant squid, washed up on a beach in New Zealand. Needless to say, it was quite celebrated news, not only in the scientific world, but internationally. However, a live one has never even been photographed, let alone captured. It is nothing less than a discovery of monumental and historic proportions.”
“You are correct,” said Paxton.
“You’ve had him for only two months,” said Holmes.
“How on earth did you know that?” asked Paxton.
“The local fishermen,” replied Holmes, “where you only recently increased your demand for their services. The amounts of fish you’ve been purchasing is not commensurate with the seals, dolphins, and others in your sea menagerie.”
“Yes,” said Paxton, “by my estimation, she eats at least five hundred pounds of fish a day.”
“Perhaps you should amend that statement. As of late, the creature has been dining on a more varied diet of beef, by way of the livestock you’ve been clandestinely abducting from the local farmers. Then there’s the matter of the occasional human being, as well, such as Mr Harris and now this man, a recluse from the nearby hills, no doubt.”
“You claim to know my work,” said Paxton, “yet you fail to understand what a true pioneer and visionary must endure. What I have done will alter the course of modern marine biology. But before I reveal her to the world, she must be studied, tested—”
“And fed human sacrifices.” said Holmes.
“What is the loss of a few peasants in the name of science? Future generations will revere my name as the man who brought the feared Leviathan of the bible to humanity. Now then, Holmes, I suggest that you and your friend relinquish your firearms.”
Before Holmes could respond, a voice behind us said, “I have a gun trained at your backs. Do not turn around. Obey the doctor.”
Holmes let the revolver fall from his hand, as I did the same with mine.
“Gentlemen,” said Paxton, “may I introduce my man, Gregory. When running an operation of this size and complexity, I cannot stress the importance of having enough good help. Now then, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, will there be any further questions?”
“I have one,” I said, “How did you, in fact, capture this creature?”
“Sarah, for that is her name,” said Paxton, with an expression on his face I’ve seen on men extolling the virtues of their wives or mistresses, “came to me entirely by chance. This grotto has an opening that leads to the ocean.”
“Originally used to escape from invading Norsemen, then later used by smugglers,” said Holmes.
“Is there anything that you don’t know?” asked Paxton.
“Now it is you who flatter me, Doctor,” said Holmes.
“To continue,” said Paxton, “I have modified the cave opening with a door that opens and closes, remarkably quickly, I might add, using a mechanism of springs and pulleys. I open it slightly, once a day, to allow seawater to cleanse the grotto. In any case, I had baited a trap with fish, hoping to ensnare dolphins and seals—which I eventually did. But then I had the idea to set my sights on a whale.
“Instead, one night, to my extreme surprise and elation, I found this marvellous behemoth instead.” Paxton looked at Holmes and myself, and smiled. “Story time is over, gentlemen, and dinner time commences.”
I saw Holmes turn, duck, and pounce upon the assailant behind us. He subdued the man with a roundhouse punch to the jaw, knocking him cold. I grabbed our revolvers. Then Holmes and I faced our opponents once more.
“It seems that we�
��re at that impasse again,” said Paxton, “rather like a tedious game of badminton.”
Just then I heard footsteps. Paxton and his two men turned as I leapt and pulled the bound man toward us.
Lestrade and Dunbar appeared, with pistols drawn.
“It’s about time, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “how much did you hear?”
“Enough to be satisfied that Edmund Collier is innocent of the murder of Alvar Harris,” replied Lestrade. He turned to Paxton and his men. “Hands up, please. You will be so kind as to accompany us.”
“But what will become of Sarah?” asked Paxton.
“The monster will be turned over to the Regent Aquarium, no doubt,” said Lestrade.
“No, I cannot allow that!” Paxton roared. “That pack of imbeciles will not get my Sarah.” With that he took a step.
“Don’t move,” said Lestrade, brandishing his gun.
Paxton looked away, then abruptly ran past Lestrade. As he did, Lestrade discharged his revolver, hitting Paxton in the leg. Paxton stopped, clutched his wound, then reached out to the cave wall, on which were a series of levers. He pulled one down and we heard loud echoing noises throughout the cavern.
“He’s opened the door!” exclaimed Holmes.
“No one shall have my Sarah,” declared Paxton, looking as if he were in a trance.
“Come along now,” said Lestrade, “the hangman’s noose awaits you.”
“I shall not be punished for my genius,” said Paxton, who then ran to the precipice and leapt off it.
I watched in horror as he plunged into the water, then saw a gargantuan yellow eye—twice the size of an archer’s target—peer out from the muck. A mouth from a nightmare opened and issued a roar like thunder as a tentacle wrapped itself around Paxton, and dragged him under the churning depths. More tentacles appeared and flailed about, splashing and crashing, then slid under the water.
All was quiet. Holmes, Lestrade, Dunbar, and Paxton’s men stood silently transfixed. After a few moments, we turned, went into the tunnel, and quietly made our way through it. When we emerged in the forest, there was a police wagon waiting, accompanied by a few sturdy looking men.
“What will you tell the Yard, Lestrade?” asked Holmes.
“Oh,” said Lestrade, still apparently quite shaken, “I…I’ll tell them about the gang of cattle thieves, of course. But what I don’t understand, Holmes, is how you knew that Paxton—?”
“You supplied the photographs, Lestrade, of the tattooed arm. Between the dark circles, which I immediately surmised were the marks of the creature’s suction cups, and the odd angle of the cut…”
“The cut?”
“How the arm had been severed. There were no signs indicating that a saw or similar instrument had been used, nor were there any teeth marks that would suggest an animal, either a land or an aquatic one. That ruled out all the obvious possibilities, however, it occurred to me that the damage to the arm resembled nothing so much as the effect of the plates in a bird’s beak, its rhamphotheca.
“Birds tear or crush their food. Yet, of course, no bird of that size is known to exist. But a squid processes a beak, which has been duly compared to that of a bird. Then I thought of the find in New Zealand seven years ago. When Paxton looked at the photographs of the severed arm and denied any knowledge of it, I knew we had our man. The impressions of the creature’s suction cups alone should have elicited comment. The arm itself was released unknowingly through the grotto’s door, upon one of Paxton’s admitted daily cleansings.”
“Amazing,” said Lestrade.
Lestrade and Dunbar got into the wagon, as did Holmes and I, and we started off, back to the village.
* * * *
The next morning, we checked out of the inn, and were met at the train station by Katherine Collier. She thanked us profusely for clearing her father of the murder charges. Then Holmes and I climbed aboard the train, and it pulled out of the Harbourton station.
We were well on our way back to London, when I turned to Holmes and said, “So, Paxton’s men had been ordered to find cows to feed the creature?”
“Yes, and poor Mr Harris happened to stumble upon them one night as they were engaged in the act of stealing a couple of his Guernseys and paid the ultimate price. Since he had been their first human casualty, they weren’t sure what to do with him, and decided to bring him back to their master.
“Paxton then, it seems, had the idea that fat men might, shall we say, round out the creature’s diet. My examination of the suspect’s wagon wheels proved that his vehicle hadn’t been employed in the crime. The wheel tracks were not deep enough to account for the additional weight of Harris, Paxton’s men, and the cows.”
“The cows?”
“That’s correct. Paxton had his men inject them with a tranquilliser in order to take them clandestinely. That’s why none of the local farmers or anyone else ever saw or heard any of them being abducted. They were unconscious and lying flat in a wagon.
“For the same reasons, I knew that Edmund Collier couldn’t have done it either. His wagon was too small, and the ground showed no signs of being employed in such a venture. However, on the way to the siege tunnel, Watson, you lost your footing in the deep impressions of Paxton’s wagon tracks. And we’ve previously discussed the absurdity of Collier lifting Harris.”
“What a vile and horrible evil lived within Paxton,” I said.
“Odd how evil can sometimes cohabit very amiably with genius.”
“And Paxton’s house?” I asked, “You knew it as if you’d lived there.”
“You can thank my brother Mycroft for that. After I left you yesterday morning, I sent him a telegram with instructions to contact one of his highly placed Masonic associates. The house dates back five hundred years, and as a result, I suspected it would have a siege tunnel. Mycroft received the architectural plans immediately, then dispatched them by courier, whom I met at the train station.”
“This was quite a singular adventure, to say the least.”
“Perhaps, you’d do well not to relay this one to the public, Watson. I wouldn’t want your readers to think that you’d taken to flights of fancy like those of the French novelist, Jules Verne.”
“You have a good point,” I said as I watched Holmes light his pipe and stare out the window at the passing countryside.
I looked through the opposite window while I pondered the fate of Dr Paxton. With his death, what great discoveries would the world be deprived of? Then I thought of the creature and its return to the primordial waters from which it had come. Would humanity ever see its like again? Or was it destined to remain an elusive phantom for all eternity?
I was reminded of something that Sherlock Holmes had once said to me upon the completion of another case. “With even the most satisfying answers, there are always more questions.”
THE INCIDENT OF THE IMPECUNIOUS CHEVALIER, by Richard A. Lupoff
The Chevalier C. Auguste Dupin
“It is simple enough as you explain it,” I said, smiling. “You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe’s Dupin. I had no idea that such individuals did exist outside of stories.”
Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. “No doubt you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin,” he observed. “Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friends’ thoughts with an apropos remark after a quarter of an hour’s silence is really very showy and superficial. He had some analytical genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenon as Poe appeared to imagine.”
—A Study in Scarlet
It was not by choice but by necessity that I continued to read by oil lamp rather than arranging for the installation of the new gas lighting. In my wanderings throughout the metropolis, I had been present at demonstrations of M. Lebon’s wondrous invention and especially of the improved thorium and cerium mantle devised by Herr von Welsbach, and thought at length of the pleasure of this brilliant mode of illumination,
but the undernourished condition of my purse forbad me to pursue such an alteration in the condition of my lodgings.
Even so, I took comfort of an evening in crouching beside the hearth in my lodgings, a small flame of dried driftwood flickering on the stones, a lamp at my elbow, and a volume in my lap. The pleasures of old age are few and small, nor did I anticipate to experience them for many more months before departing this planet and its life of travail.
What fate my Maker might plan for me, once my eyes should close for the last time, I could only wonder and await. The priests might assert that a Day of Judgment awaited. The Theosophists might maintain that the doctrine of Karma would apply to all beings. As for me, the Parisian metropolis and its varied denizens were world enough indeed.
My attention had drifted from the printed page before me and my mind had wandered in the byways of philosophical musings to such an extent that the loud rapping upon my door induced a violent start within my nervous system. My fingers relaxed their grasp upon the book which they held, my eyes opened widely and a loud moan escaped my lips.
With an effort I rose to my feet and made my way through my chill and darkened apartment to answer the summons at the door. I placed myself beside the portal, pulling at the draperies that I kept drawn by day against the inquiring gaze of strangers and by night against the moist chill of the Parisian winter. Outside my door I perceived an urchin, cap set at an uncouth angle upon his unshorn head, an object or scrap of material clutched in the hand which he was not using to set up his racket on my door.
Lifting an iron bar which I kept beside the door in case of need to defend myself from the invasion of ruffians and setting the latch chain to prevent the door from opening more than a hand’s width, I turned the latch and drew the door open far enough to peer out.
The boy who stood upon my stoop could not have been more than ten years of age, ragged of clothing and filthy of visage. The meager light of the passage outside my apartment reflected from his eye, giving an impression of wary suspicion.
We studied each other through the narrow opening for long seconds before either spoke. At length I demanded to know his reason for disturbing my musings. He ignored my question, responding to it by speaking my name.
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 14