“Did they die of the plague? Mock me if you will, but I ask as a fellow medical man.”
“Then you will surely appreciate the importance of my researches,” said Knox with a satisfied smile. “To answer your question, yes, they did succumb to the black death. A particularly virulent strain I discovered here, in this very house.”
“Here?” I was appalled. We had walked through the house, innocent of the knowledge that an agonizing death lurked just inside. Were Holmes, McMahon, and I somehow infected?
“Indeed.” Knox’s expression grew animated. “When I was a young medical student, I was intrigued by the idea of a plague house, where contagion filled the air before the house and its occupants were sealed off from the outside world. When I discovered that Great Uncle lived beside one, I increased the frequency of my visits. One day I noticed a loose shutter on a rear window and made my way inside. As I explored the deserted chambers, I discovered a jar of calves-foot jelly that contained a culture of plague bacteria.”
“Good God,” I breathed. “Surely you did not keep it?”
“But of course.” Knox gestured to the machinery surrounding us. “With the financial assistance of … well, that is neither here nor there. Suffice it to say I created this laboratory to avoid outside interference with my work. Over time I cultivated the bacteria, increasing its virulence a hundredfold. You saw the results in the parlour.”
“You infected those poor wretches upstairs?”
He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “They were from the dregs of society. A thief. A beggar. A prostitute. I used them as I would use cattle, for the advancement of the human race.”
Bully Joe laughed. “They died squirming an’ screamin’, their last breaths bubblin’ in their throats. I left ’em there to scare off nosy-parkers.”
“But what of your Hippocratic oath?” I asked.
“What of it?” He spat the words. “The slums of Britain are teeming with the degenerate, barely intelligent enough to exist, fit for only the most menial of employment. I propose to rid the country of that burden. I have recently developed a pneumonic strain of the bacterium—”
“Dear Lord, no!” I could not believe my ears. “Such a strain could kill millions!”
“Transmission via the air,” Holmes said, unable to conceal his horror at the thought. “What we originally assumed were bagpipes playing is in fact part of a pneumatic air pumping system. The joints of the glass chamber are sealed with rubber gaskets, as is the door.” He gestured at the belts and gears covering the walls. “Through your machinery, you can lower the air pressure within your experimental chamber, thereby protecting you from contamination by the air-borne bacteria.”
My gaze met Holmes’s, and he slowly patted his coat pocket. I grasped his meaning instantly—deep within the corresponding pocket of my own coat lay my revolver. I slipped my hand into my pocket and curled my fingers around the cold metal.
“Very clever, Mr Holmes.” Knox selected a vial from a rack on the table. “You are quite correct: the machinery controls the air pressure within the glass chamber, allowing me a place to safely expose an experimental subject to the plague. It is powered by rushing water deep beneath us. The apparatus is particularly noisy, but very effective at preventing contamination. After all, I do not wish to die, nor does my associate.” He held the vial up to the light, studying it intently. “The resemblance to the sound of a bagpipe drone was particularly fortuitous, and with the judicious spread of rumours of the Devil’s Piper, I was able to frighten off the inhabitants of the neighbouring tenements.” His gaze shifted from the vial to McMahon. “Save for my interfering cousin and his two companions, who will now pay for their temerity by becoming my first human experimental subjects for the pneumonic plague.”
He gestured to Bully Joe, who grinned unpleasantly.
“Right. Through there,” Bully Joe said, pointing to the iron door, propped open and ringed with a rubber gasket, which led into the glass chamber. On the floor of the chamber, the bloated bodies of a dog and several cats provided evidence of the deadliness of Knox’s bacteria.
“Forgive me if I decline to participate in your experiment,” said Holmes and leapt toward a lever nearby. “Now, Watson!”
Holmes grasped the lever and depressed it. I now understood the reason for his careful study of the mechanism. He had chosen correctly, for gears turned and belts groaned as they began to move.
“No!” cried Knox. He stepped back from the table, still clutching the vial of death.
The unexpected movement and noise provided the distraction Holmes had no doubt intended. Holmes snatched the lantern from the floor and flung it onto the table. The lantern glass shattered, releasing burning oil to spread across the table top and drip onto the stone floor.
Around us, the mechanism continued unchecked as more gears engaged. The house shook and our heads throbbed as we were assailed by that appalling noise.
Sharp, stabbing pain radiated from my ears. The door to the glass chamber was open, and the air pressure in the entire room was being reduced by the pneumatic pump. I gulped air and winced as the air pressure within my ears and without became equal.
Apparently stunned by the rapidity of Holmes’s actions, Bully Joe only roused himself when Holmes moved toward the stair. He raised his revolver and aimed at Holmes. Without hesitation, I drew my weapon and fired. My bullet struck Bully Joe in the forearm, and he dropped his gun with an oath. He was not completely unarmed, however, for he still wielded the truncheon.
McMahon, quickly comprehending our purpose, rushed Bully Joe before he could bring the truncheon to bear on Holmes.
Leaving McMahon to take on Bully Joe, I turned to Knox, who was frozen in place as if petrified, the vial still held high above the stone floor. The fire from the lantern was spreading rapidly, reaching greedy fingers toward the ceiling.
Somewhere in that infernal clockwork mechanism a gear slipped, jerking the belts, and with a terrible grinding sound the entire building shuddered. The crack in the wall widened and other cracks appeared in the ceiling as plaster dust rained down upon us. Suddenly a large piece of plaster fell, striking Knox on the shoulder, sending the vial flying.
“No!” he screamed, frantically reaching for the container.
“Watson!” Holmes cried.
I turned. Bully Joe was sprawled on the floor, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. McMahon stared down at him, his hands clenched tightly at his side.
Holmes caught McMahon’s sleeve and propelled him through the door in the stone wall. Holmes held out his hand, gesturing anxiously.
“Quickly, man!”
I dashed to his side through the smoke and falling plaster. We passed through the portal together, then turned and closed the door after us. It was then I witnessed a sight that will forever be imprinted upon my memory: James Knox, surrounded by hellish flames, staring down at the broken vial before him.
We were indeed in the dank and fetid labyrinth of underground passages beneath the city. We stumbled through those dark tunnels for what seemed hours, until at last we emerged from the stone warren into the confines of the Castle itself, nearly sending the guards into an apoplectic fit. After exhausting explanations, we were permitted to leave, and in the early morning’s watery light, made our way back to Hangman’s Lane.
There we were greeted by the fire brigade, who were preparing to depart after battling a blaze that, in the words of one participant, “Looked as if ol’ Horney hissel’ decided to destroy the house.”
Of the Hurley house, only a smouldering pile of stones remained. The structural deficiencies we had noted contributed to the cataclysmic collapse, and the fire that followed completed the work.
Fortunately, McMahon’s house was relatively undamaged. The adjoining wall would require some repair, but the foundation of the house remained sound. After receiving McMahon’s heartfelt thanks, Holmes and I retrieved our valises and retired to the Royal, where we breakfasted lavishly in a private parlour.
&n
bsp; “What an appalling night,” I said, tucking into my kippers with relish.
“Indeed, my dear fellow.” Holmes leaned back in his chair and drew upon his cigarette. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. “Dr Knox’s proposal was quite Draconian. If he had released the pneumonic plague upon the population, there was no guarantee it would only infect those he deemed worthless.”
“Exactly!” I waved a bit of buttered toast. “He might have released a contagion that would wipe humanity from the face of the earth.”
We sat quickly for a moment, contemplating the horrific possibility.
“Still,” I ventured, “he is dead, and that should be an end to the entire matter.”
Holmes paused. “Is it?”
Unsettled, I looked at him. “What on earth do you mean?”
“There were one or two moments,” he replied slowly, “when I glimpsed a malevolent force behind Knox’s actions. A presence I thought was checked.”
“I do not understand, Holmes.”
He gave me a smile, almost kindly, and poured another cup of tea. “Do not ‘fash yerself,’ as the Scots say. No doubt I am fretting over spectres.”
I buttered another slice of toast. “If you say so.”
“I suppose I do.” Holmes flicked his cigarette into the flames. “After all, fire is a great purifier.”
* * * *
Editorial Note: Carla Coupe’s story is very loosely based on the radio program “The Adventure of the Haunted Bagpipes,” scripted by Anthony Boucher and Denis Greene, originally broadcast on February 17, 1947.
SUN CHING FOO’S LAST TRICK, by Adam Beau McFarlane
An unseasonably hot June brought a feverish outbreak of criminal activity, leaving Scotland Yard busy and Holmes cataloguing newspaper articles into albums with paste and scissors. Countless visitors had presented their problems at 221B Baker Street. But that summer, without any client asking him to, Holmes solved a man’s killing after we witnessed it with our very own eyes.
The sun lasted late on Whitmonday and Mary was visiting family, so I asked Holmes to join me at a variety show featuring Sun Ching Foo, the conjurer. I’d hoped that a magic show of impossible acts would entertain a man whose trade was explaining mysteries. With his straw hat and walking stick, he joined me for an evening’s entertainment.
The hall’s benches were crowded with people from all walks of life. The stage was ornately decorated and rigged with curtains. We sat through singers, dancers, and jugglers, and we ate our way through a series of roasted peanuts, Chelsea buns, and peppermint water. Sun Ching Foo was saved for the big finish—though little did we know how big it would be.
Wearing an electric blue robe embroidered with golden stars and moons, Sun levitated his assistant and plucked white hares from his wizard’s cap. His assistant, Lai Way, wore a black gown and long sable hair. Her Oriental face was yellow with dark eyes.
The grand finale was the famous bullet-catching trick. Lai Way asked for a volunteer who was a soldier or a former soldier. I raised my hand. She stepped down and waded into the crowd, picking a man and asking him to go to the stage.
While the soldier made his way forward, she asked for another volunteer. She was not near me, but I raised my hand again. Sherlock looked at me with a slight smile of amusement.
Again, I was not picked. The new volunteer marked a bullet. Lai Way thanked him, dropped the bullet into a pail, then walked the pail to the stage.
When Lai Way reached the volunteering soldier who was now on stage, he introduced himself as Alastair Franklin.
She picked the bullet from the pail. “Is this reel bullet, Alastair?” she asked in halting English. He agreed. Then Way asked, “You see how it marked with skrachis?” He agreed again.
Excitement bubbled inside me. I’d seen the trick before: the volunteer would load a gun and shoot it at Sun Ching Foo. But Sun would catch the bullet in his hand and show it to the soldier, who would recognize it by the scratches made by the other volunteer in the crowd. I thought, let Holmes try and explain this!
Alastair Franklin and Lai Way stood at the left end of the stage. Sun stood on the right end. The assistant handed Franklin a rifle. It resembled the Jezail that ended my career in the Army, except this one was white, inlaid with bone or ivory and studded with jewels.
She produced black powder and a ramrod. Angling the gun upright on the stage, Franklin poured black powder down the muzzle into the barrel. He pushed in the bullet.
Way handed him the ramrod, then he moved the bullet and powder down the barrel.
Once the ramrod was shoved from end to end of the barrel, she motioned for the ramrod. Franklin gave it back, and she stepped away, fading into the shadows in the back of the stage.
He cocked the gun and loaded a percussion cap under the hammer. As Franklin raised the gun, the band begun to play. A drum roll reeled through the air. “Ready!” Sun Ching Foo called out. “Aim!” The soldier settled the gun against his shoulder and peered down the length of the barrel. The wizard shouted, “Fire!”
The shot exploded off the walls as Sun Ching Foo dropped to his knees and cried out, “Thomasina!”
I looked at Holmes, who had a look of uncertainty on his face, then I grabbed his arm and the curtain began to descend.
“Watson, what are you doing?”
“That was not supposed to happen—he really was shot.”
When we reached the stage, Sun lay face-up on the boards with blood coating his costume. “I’m a doctor!” I exclaimed. Tearing the silk, I pulled brass buttons apart from their loops. The bullet had passed through him, leaving a wound hole in his abdomen through to his back.
The stage curtain was a scrim. On the far side of it, we could see the orchestra, the rows of chairs, and the exit doors in the back. The musicians struck up “God Save the Queen” and then the audience stood up to sing.
Sun gasped for air, choking. He coughed and splashed blood from his mouth, then he was dead. His head dropped against the floor, knocking his hat off. His queue severed from his head as a black cloth band slipped from its concealment under against his hairline. Looking at his face, I saw that his complexion and Oriental features were a careful artifice of cosmetics.
I closed his eyelids and looked up. Peering over me, Inspector Lanners stood beside Holmes. “I was in the audience,” he said.
The stage was a grim scene as we huddled around the corpse. People filed out of the theatre. While the body of Sun Ching Foo lay still, couples were holding hands and mothers towed away their entertained children.
Holmes searched the stage. He took out his pocket lens and hovered around the wall. “Lanners,” he said, “the bullet has lodged itself,” he said, pointing. Holmes pried it from the lincrusta wallpaper and turned it around under the magnifying glass. The weapon that pierced Sun Ching Foo had been rendered into a shapeless lump of metal.
“Could it have been from another gun? Someone in the audience or secreted near the stage?” Lanners asked.
Holmes shook his head. “We would have heard a separate shot fired. Sun Ching Foo must have been killed by his own gun; otherwise, the report from another fire-arm would have revealed itself. No marksman could have timed his gun to have fired simultaneously.”
“Would you be willing to join us at Scotland Yard?” Lanners asked.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Holmes responded.
* * * *
The constabulary took the soldier and Sun Ching Foo’s stagehand to Scotland Yard while we followed in a cab. The new Metropolitan Police building was two levels of grey granite sporting red and white stripes of bricks. Windows in gables and dormers looked out from an additional five floors. Lamps along the Victoria Embankment glowed in the settling dusk.
After we arrived, Lanners allowed us to meet with Alastair Franklin. The large man had side whiskers linked to his moustache. White hairs sprouted from his blond hair and his skin had a tanned complexion.
Holmes asked, “Did you know Sun Ching Foo? A
ny business or relationship with him?”
“No, inspector.”
Holmes held up his hand. “Just Mister Holmes. Had you seen him before?”
“I’m in the Navy, just returned from Alexandria the day before last. My wife and our son were at the show—they’ll be wondering what happened to me, I expect.” Despite his sturdy build, his hands trembled anxiously. “I don’t know what happened upon the stage; all I did was as I was told.”
“Did you know that you would be selected from the crowd?”
He shrugged his shoulders, lifting his palms up, while shaking his head. “Now how would I know that?”
Holmes turned to Lanners and asked, “Where is the gun?”
After locking the sailor into an interrogation room, the inspector led us to an office where the muzzleloader lay across a desk. The rifle butt was pentagonal with an upward curve. The whole stock was painted white and fastened with shiny buttons that looked like jewels.
“These extra screws hold an exceptionally pronounced ramrod holder substituted for the original one.” Holmes pointed to a slender tube beneath the barrel, running from breech to muzzle.
Lanners opened the door and ushered in the conjurer’s assistant. She remained wearing a black cossack. Lai Way sat, then removed her wig. Her red-gold titian hair contrasted with the cascade of her brunette wig.
“You are not Chinese, either?” I said.
Lai Way agreed. “We have been Hindoos, Muhammedans, and Injuns. Sun Ching Foo was my husband. His real name is Cecil Windham.”
“You must be Thomasina, the name he called out,” Holmes said.
She nodded as she rubbed her face. The make-up that darkened her complexion and drew out her eyes smeared away.
“How did you meet him?” Holmes said.
“I was a showgirl in America when Cecil hired me as his assistant. When he came to London, he became Sun Ching Foo.”
“How does the bullet-catching trick work?” Holmes asked.
“I don’t know. Cecil never explained the trick to me,” she said.
“What was supposed to happen?” he said.
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 29