“A secondary opening mechanism. But again, it is too high to reach.”
“Ephedrismos, my dear Watson.”
“Excuse me?”
“The game we saw Hannah playing with the other girl, Polly Speedwell, at the gymnasium, whereby the one perched upon the other’s shoulders.”
“Ah. Yes.”
“In our case you, with your stout rugby player’s physique, are best suited to be the carrier. I – being the lighter of us and, at the risk of sounding immodest, possessed of a greater gripping strength – should be the carried.”
“Say no more.” I bent down, ready to have Holmes straddle me.
Then came a rattling, rumbling sound above our heads, and a deep churning gurgle, and all of a sudden water began pouring from the six holes in the ceiling. It sluiced down fast as though from a fire-engine hose and spattered hard onto the floor. Within seconds our boots and trouser-legs were soaked.
“That is it,” Holmes said, as though the deluging water confirmed his suspicions. “Poseidon, god of the oceans. Drowner of men. That is how Dr Pentecost did it. He knew of Sophia Tompkins’s crippling dread of water. He knew how she believed she was destined to die by drowning, as her parents had. He knew she could not swim. He could have forewarned her about this trap, giving her a chance to decline to take part in graduation, but he chose not to. He could also have forewarned Buchanan, who might then have re-thought his decision to select Miss Tompkins and excused her from entering the labyrinth. Instead Dr Pentecost deliberately, by omission, left her to face a test that he knew full well would reduce her to a gibbering, terrified wreck. He must have realised the odds were overwhelmingly against her surviving it.”
“She would have had a partner with her at the time,” I said. “Elysians always face the labyrinth in pairs. Did that other person survive, or drown too?”
“That other person was, I believe, Tobias Nithercott, the Chelsea solicitor who subsequently shot himself. The timing suggests it, for his ‘sabbatical’ came to an end, as did his life, not long after his and Sophia’s graduation.”
“He saved himself but not Sophia.”
“And could not live with the guilt. But that is something we can establish with more certitude at a later date. I believe that our own survival is a far more pressing concern.”
The water was already up to our ankles. It was shockingly cold – as cold as ice.
“Now brace yourself,” my friend said. “Hup!”
I stood erect, with Holmes hoisted upon my shoulders. I parted my legs somewhat to alleviate the strain and be better balanced. Holmes grasped the rim of the wheel, which lay just within arm’s length. I felt his thighs tighten around my neck as he hauled upon the wheel.
“Well?” I said.
“It is stiff. Very stiff.” He grunted as he spoke, still grappling with the wheel. “I cannot seem to budge it at all.”
“Keep trying.”
“Sound advice. Whatever would I do without you?”
The water was about my shins and continuing to cascade from above without let-up.
“It is imperative,” Holmes said, still giving it his all with the wheel, “that the door be opened before the water level gets too high. Once the water reaches the door, it will begin to exert pressure against it and the door will resist opening, the more so the higher the water rises. By the time the door is submerged completely, it will be impossible to open. Although…”
“Although…?”
“I am beginning to suspect that this locking wheel is not going to turn at all. It has been disabled.”
“By Dr Pentecost?”
“Who else? He controls the locking wheel on the outside of the door. Logically, he must control this one too. It has been fastened so that no human force can move it. Let me down, would you?”
I crouched down and Holmes climbed off. His face was twisted with chagrin.
“Dr Pentecost has seen to it that we cannot solve the trap as anyone else might,” said he. “He has deprived us of all possibility of escape.”
“Dear Lord!”
“Or so he believes.” Holmes scanned the chamber from end to end. The water level, meanwhile, crept remorselessly upward, heading now for our hips. The iciness of it was both painful and numbing. I had lost almost all sensation below the knees, and the upper portions of my legs were going the same way.
“Below us,” Holmes said, “lies a drain. It is blocked now, stoppered like the plug-hole in a bath. Only Dr Pentecost can unblock it, presumably by pulling a lever that opens a sluice. There is, however, that second drain near the ceiling. It must act as an overflow, and as a safety precaution. Thanks to it, the chamber can never be entirely filled. There will always remain a gap at the top, a few inches of air, so that even if one fails the test one may nonetheless stay afloat, treading water, with one’s face above the surface, for such time as is necessary. Sir Philip, in short, has built in a margin for error. Let us say that the two Elysians in the chamber have not managed to open the door. After a predetermined period has elapsed, the decision is made to activate the drain. The water starts to run out. The Elysians need only keep swimming until their feet touch the floor again. Then they need only wait until the water has emptied out altogether and the door is opened for them remotely. That is what happens in the normal course of events. Sir Philip has no wish for anyone to die in here, not if it can be prevented.”
“Although Sophia did.”
“Hence the crisis of conscience Sir Philip exhibited during his conversation with Fairbrother. Her death preyed heavily upon his conscience, albeit less so upon Fairbrother’s.”
“It preyed, too, upon the conscience of Tobias Nithercott.”
“Quite. One assumes Nithercott was in the invidious position either of treading water and watching helplessly as Sophia drowned, or doing his best to save her but failing.”
“That was the secret he took to his grave. Sophia’s death.”
Holmes nodded. “Dr Pentecost, of course, has no intention of obliging us by draining the chamber. The water will continue to come in, and we will be left to swim for as long as we are able to until exhaustion gets the better of us.”
“Hypothermia will play its part as well,” I said. My teeth had started to chatter. Holmes and I were now immersed up to the navel. “Well before our limbs tire, the sheer frigidity of this water will render us enfeebled and drowsy. I would estimate we have ten minutes at most before we pass out.”
“Then we must not stand idle but use the time profitably. There is a reason why the water is so cold, and why the supply of it seems inexhaustible.”
“And that is…?”
“It can only be drawn from the underground aquifer, the existence of which Hannah informed us about. These pipes overhead are fed directly from that source. Would you not say, then, that both drains must likewise feed back into it?”
“I do not know, Holmes. They might.”
“They could, by that reckoning, provide us with an impromptu way out. Or at any rate, the overflow could, since unlike its counterpart in the floor it will not have the facility to be blocked.”
He waded over to the drain in question and peered up at it.
“The mesh grille is held in place by eight screws. I do not have a screwdriver on me, and neither do you, so removing them the conventional way is not an option.”
“Please, Holmes,” I said. “Can we hurry this up?” I could feel the chill of the water increasing its insidious hold. I was shivering and my breathing had become rapid. Holmes was not immune to its effects either. He was shivering too, and his complexion had taken on a greyish pallor that I knew was reflected in mine.
“Even with a pocket-knife,” Holmes continued, “which I do have, turning the screws will not be easy. Certainly I could not undo them all in the time available, and anyway my dexterity will be compromised because at some point I will be swimming as well as unscrewing, in addition to my swollen thumb. There is, however, the alternative of brute forc
e.”
“You mean tug the grille off? Kick it out?”
“I have something more impressive, more explosive, in mind. Would I be right in thinking that you have a box of cartridges on your person? A rhetorical question. No need to answer. I noticed the bulk of it earlier, making your jacket pocket bulge. The shape is distinctive. It could not be anything else.”
“By Jove, yes, I do.” I retrieved the Eley’s box and held it out to Holmes. The cardboard was sodden but still maintained integrity, for now.
“These, in conjunction with the Tilley lamp, may well do the trick.”
I recalled how Hannah and I, while in the antechamber to the labyrinth, had come up with an escape plan involving the lamp and the cartridges, although we had not been given the opportunity to put it into action.
“What are you proposing?” I asked. “If it entails decanting the gunpowder from the cartridges, then I should have you know it is no easy procedure.”
“Who said anything about decanting the gunpowder? We have neither the time nor the means, even if plain gunpowder were capable of generating the potency of explosion we require to dislodge the grille. No, what I wish to do is altogether more basic.” Holmes outlined his idea. “There is only one drawback that I can see,” he concluded.
“What is it?”
“It is as apt to kill us as save us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
A POTENTIALLY LETHAL LIFELINE
The chamber would kill us, come what may.
What Holmes was proposing was potentially lethal, but it still offered a lifeline. Given that caveat, we both agreed that the risk was acceptable. Better a slim, hazardous chance of survival than none at all.
The deluging water had reached our necks, and we allowed natural buoyancy to take effect. Floating, arms and legs pumping, we trod water. In order to put Holmes’s idea into practice we would have to wait until the Tilley lamp was readily accessible to us. Holmes estimated that would be in a little over two minutes, if the rate at which the chamber was filling remained consistent. Our main concern in the interim was keeping the cartridges as dry as possible, to which end Holmes was supporting the box out of the water with one hand. If the gunpowder became saturated, it would not fire and all would be for naught.
“Now, Watson,” Holmes said. “Fetch down the lamp.”
I swam over and unhooked it.
“Keep it aloft, at all costs,” he urged, “and avoid the gouts of water. The flame must not go out. We have no way of reigniting it.”
Executing an ungainly, one-armed doggy-paddle I made it to the other end of the chamber with the lamp. I bent the top of the wire handle over, creating a makeshift hook, which I fed into the mesh of the grille. Thus the lamp hung directly in front of the overflow.
Holmes uncapped the lamp and opened the lid of the Eley’s box.
“When I pour the cartridges in,” he said, “the heat from the burner will cause them to detonate. There is no telling how quickly it will occur. Our only recourse is to be as far away as possible when it does, as the bullets will fire wildly in all directions.”
I was already making for the door end of the chamber as Holmes tipped several cartridges into the globe of the lamp. He hastened across to join me even as the ammunition’s damp casings sizzled in the lamp’s flame.
“What lies beyond the overflow?” I asked. The words came out slurred and clumsy. I was finding it hard to move my lips.
“Salvation,” said Holmes. “Or a cold, miserable demise,” he added grimly. “It all depends.”
“On…?”
Before he could reply, one of the cartridges detonated with an ear-splitting crack. The bullet whined as it ricocheted around the chamber.
Holmes yelled, “Under, Watson!”
We both dived below the water.
At the same instant all the other cartridges went off. The crackle of their reports, though muffled by the water, was loud.
The lamplight went out.
Holmes tapped me on the back and we re-surfaced. All was darkness and pouring water.
We swam towards the overflow, groping along the chamber wall to maintain direction.
Holmes, by touch alone, found the grille.
“A hole,” he said. “The bullets have caused damage, enough that I have something to grip on. Now all I have to do is pull.”
I heard him gasping with effort. There was a metallic grating sound, a shrill wrenching. I pictured the sheet of wire mesh being pried loose from its mounting, Holmes hauling with all his might, leaning back with feet braced against the wall.
At last there was a dramatic, conclusive screech.
“That’s it. That’s it! The grille has come free. Now, Watson, I shall go in first. I can just about fit through the gap, as can you. Stay right behind me.”
I was starting to feel disorientated, numb in mind as well as body. Hypothermia was well and truly setting in. My movements were becoming uncoordinated, my thoughts sluggish, even as my breathing rate increased to the point where I was in danger of hyperventilating. I could not tell if Holmes had entered the overflow aperture yet. All I knew was the pitch-blackness around me and the cataracts of water plummeting relentlessly from the pipes. Together these formed an unending, nightmarish continuum, an infinity of roaring void. I was blind and deafened at once. Would it not be a blessed relief simply to sink beneath the water and succumb to its gelid embrace? The overflow did not promise anything, certainly not release, whereas death did.
In the midst of these despairing thoughts, all at once I beheld an image of Hannah. It was as though she were summoning me, a lighthouse in a storm. I knew I must not give up.
I seized the sides of the overflow and pulled myself in. Next thing I knew, I was sliding head-first down a narrow chute. Then I had plunged underwater and was being whisked along at speed through some kind of subterranean channel.
CHAPTER FORTY
COMING BACK TO LIFE
I was tumbled, twirled, tossed about and thrown around. I lost all sense of which way was up, which down. Time after time I collided with something hard – it felt like rock – and rebounded. Water was all around me, and spun me mercilessly in all directions, like a cat toying with a mouse. I could see nothing; I could hear nothing save a thunderous liquid burble in my ears. I was human flotsam, a twig caught in a raging current, being dragged helplessly along.
I needed air. I had had no opportunity to fill my lungs before entering the torrent. The breathing reflex was building within me and I could feel spasms at the back of my throat, urgent precursors to inhalation. The whole of my chest cavity seemed afire. I knew that a breaking point would come soon.
All at once a clawing hand seized me by the collar. I was yanked upward. My head emerged from the water and I sucked in air with desperate gratitude.
Sherlock Holmes’s voice came down from above.
“I cannot hold you for long, old friend. The current is pulling you from my grasp. You must climb out of the water.”
“I – I don’t seem to…” I stammered, “d-don’t s-seem to have mastery of… m-my limbs.”
“Hush now. Just climb out. I know you can do it.”
His sureness instilled me with confidence. I reached up with hands that I could scarcely feel, like two chunks of marble on the ends of my arms. My fingers slithered across cold, wet rock. I groped until I found a couple of projections that could serve as handholds. With Holmes assisting by hauling upon my collar, I pulled myself clear of the torrent.
“Use your legs,” Holmes advised. “We are in a narrow vertical shaft. Wedge yourself athwart, as I have. There we go. Not so hard, eh?”
“I just… need a moment… to catch my breath.”
“I would suggest that you do not. Holding this position takes effort. Our best tactic is to keep moving, utilising what strength remains to us while we still have it. Upward is the way to go.”
I could not see a thing. Utter blackness engulfed us. However, I was aware of Holmes above
me, exerting himself. He was shuffling up the shaft, his soles scraping on the rock.
I did the same. Keeping my back braced against one side of the shaft, I used my feet and hands to propel me upward, like some sort of bizarre tortoise. It was a slow, painstaking process, a series of vertical shunts each of which gained me just a few inches of ground. The industry it required did at least get my circulation going again and generate some warmth in my body to stave off the lingering effects of the hypothermia. Indeed, it wasn’t long before I started sweating.
“How much further?” I asked Holmes.
“Not much,” came the reply.
“Good. I am not sure I can keep this up for long.”
My muscles had begun trembling. Then my foot slipped, and for one dreadful moment I thought I was going to slide back down the shaft all the way to the aquifer. If I re-entered that flood of water I would be swept away, and this time there was precious little likelihood of rescue.
I managed to maintain my grip, and as I pushed myself upward another few inches, my head bumped against Holmes’s leg.
“You have stopped.”
“We are at the top. I am presently working on… Ah yes. One last manipulation. That should do it.”
There was a sudden loud creak above me, and I perceived a lozenge of faint light that widened until it was a square.
A doorway!
Holmes eased himself into it, and I followed. To complete that climb and squirm through the doorway drained the last dregs of my stamina. I flopped onto the floor on the other side in a panting, rubbery-limbed heap.
“I take it you know where we are,” said Holmes. The dimmest of illumination limned his features. He was a paler shadow amongst shadows. Around us I glimpsed walls adorned with painted images, barely definable.
My mind was too disordered to formulate a response, and Holmes answered his own question.
“Tartarus, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, thinking he was joking. “Myself, I was rather hoping I would end up in the other place, but clearly I did not lead a virtuous enough life.”
“No, Watson,” Holmes said pedantically. “Charfrome’s Tartarus. I calculated that this was where the aquifer would lead to. Recalling the existence of the shaft that Hannah uncovered, I reckoned we could avail ourselves of it to escape the water. As the aquifer bore me along, I endeavoured to keep one hand in contact with the roof of the tunnel at all times. Thus when a gap appeared I knew I had reached the foot of the shaft, and I seized hold of one edge of it and arrested my progress. I sprang up out, lodged myself in the shaft and dangled an arm back into the water like a trawlerman’s line so that I might catch you coming past.”
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