Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  “When have you known me to be spiritual?” Holmes asked dryly. “And that was twenty years ago. I have moderated my opinion somewhat since, in particular with regard to my own longevity.

  “You see, Watson,” he said, turning toward me earnestly, “I believe the world will have need of me, of my mental powers.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking my friend had always had a monstrous ego. “But you have been refusing to stir from your retirement here these past twenty years. You have been content to let the world manage entirely without you ever since the Great War. Why the change of heart now?”

  “I believe we are on the verge of another war,” he said.

  “Surely not!”

  “Yes, war, Watson. And war with such an evil and diabolical mind behind it that the world has not seen since the death of Professor Moriarty at the Falls of Reichenbach. I will be needed, Watson.”

  “And the bee stings, Holmes?”

  “Some years ago, on a day when my rheumatism was particularly troubling me, I went out to tend my hives. I am so used to the bees that I rarely bother with netting. But the stiffness in my joints that day made me clumsy, and the bees were disturbed and stung me. Later, I noticed that, while the stings themselves were sore and red, the rheumatic pain was gone.

  “Since then, I have encouraged the bees to sting me daily, and I am as you see me.” He held out his hand for my inspection. The long fingers were straight and even, with no sign of the redness, swelling and twisting that characterizes rheumatism.

  “This is wonderful, Holmes!” I said. “But why have you summoned me? You know I have not practiced medicine for ten years.”

  “I want your assistance with an experiment, Watson. Having to be within daily reach of the bees keeps me home-bound. It extracts a great toll of bees, since their bellies are ripped away with the stinger and they die. And it is not unpainful. I have developed a method of extracting the bee venom without harming the bees. It is a long and complicated process; allowing them to sting is much simpler. So far I have tried injecting myself with a month’s worth of venom, and found it as effective as thirty days of daily stings, although there were some side effects.

  “I have now prepared two years’ worth of venom that I intend to inject over the course of two days. I wanted a medical man I could trust and whose powers of observation were known to me to be here to record the effects.” As he spoke, he reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a case containing two hypodermic syringes.

  “My dear Holmes,” I remonstrated, “surely such experimentation is dangerous.”

  “I am determined, Watson, and will do this whether you are here or not. Will you help me?”

  I could only acquiesce.

  He began rolling up his cuff. “You may find me somewhat feverish and perhaps a little delirious. Do not be alarmed. I would be grateful if you would record all my reactions in that notebook on the table there. Give me the second injection in the morning,” he said, handing me one of the syringes.

  He took the other and adjusted the delicate needle, thrust the point into the flesh of his left arm, and pressed down the tiny piston. I turned and gathered up the indicated notebook. When I turned back, Holmes was looking flushed.

  “The fever is starting. Perhaps I will lie down.”

  I accompanied him to his room. I set the second syringe down on the dresser and pulled an armchair over by the bed, thinking I was rather old to be conducting this sort of all-night vigil once again. When Holmes removed his dressing gown, I saw that his left arm was puffed and ruddy, swelling almost visibly as I watched. Bright spots appeared on either cheek and his skin glistened with sweat. He began to gasp for breath.

  ‘The window, Watson, open the window!” Holmes cried. I hurried to comply.

  “I must be at the fight,” Holmes said. “No one else can stop him. You won’t fail me Watson. You never did fail me. Protect the hive. It’s unfortunate, but the queen must die.”

  “The queen died in 1901,” said I.

  ‘The new queens die, all but one. And then the swarm. Protect the hive! Protect the hive! Fly! Fly!” He began to thrash around until I feared he would fall out of the bed, and I looked about for something to use as a restraint. But finally, after more such ravings, he quieted and slept, breathing harshly.

  I recorded all that had happened in this notebook, noting that it also contained notes of Holmes’s previous experiments with the bee venom. I was reading through these when I fear I fell asleep in the chair.

  I awoke, stiff and sore, to the sound of cocks crowing. I was again a bit disoriented. It took me some moments to recall where I was and why I had been sleeping in the chair. I looked over to my patient and recoiled in horror. My skin went cold and my hair bristled.

  “My God!” I whispered as I beheld the dreadful spectacle on the bed where last I had seen Holmes’s supine form. From head to foot the cot was a writhing mass of black and yellow, a buzzing, seething aggregation of thousands upon thousands of small, striped bees.

  I stared, terrified, unable to move. The buzzing grew louder. The bees began to swarm, rising in a single movement, twisting and shifting until they formed a long and slender silhouette, hanging in the air over the bed. My heart grew cold as I saw that the mattress was empty.

  The buzzing rose in volume until I thought I should go mad. And then I perceived in the writhing swarm of bees a familiar, sharp-featured profile. The hum of the bees took on the character of a well-known voice:

  “Za game izz afoot. Come, Watzzon, come,” it said.

  And the bees flew out of the window.

  I stood a long moment looking after them. Then, slowly, I reached for the syringe upon the dresser.

  THE HOLMES TEAM ADVANTAGE by Gary Alan Ruse

  “The devil, you say!” I exclaimed. “Someone stole your prize pit terrier, and then two hours later, surreptitiously brought him back?”

  My friend, Sherlock Holmes, fixed me with his reproachful gaze, but otherwise ignored my unfortunate outburst. “Now, then, Lord Farthington,” said he to his prospective client, “if you would be so good as to provide us with the particulars of this case.”

  Lord Desmond Farthington shifted his stout form uncomfortably upon his chair in our London flat, an aristocratic pout setting his lips. “Very well, then. As I said, it was yesterday that this occurred. I had returned home unexpectedly early from Parliament, which had recessed due to an unfortunate incident of food poisoning at the Carlton Club. Dreadful mess, that was! At any rate, when I went out to the kennels behind my home to see Apollo, I discovered him missing.”

  “And you are quite sure the animal had not merely wandered off?” inquired Holmes.

  “Yes, quite sure. The kennel gate was still secured, as was the gate to the yard itself.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “And you questioned the servants?” “Yes, straight away,” replied Farthington. “But they swore they knew nothing of the dog’s disappearance.”

  I jotted these facts down carefully, and could not refrain from asking, “And you believe your servants?”

  Lord Farthington nodded resolutely. “Yes, Dr. Watson, I do. At least insofar as this matter is concerned. I decided that I should notify the police, but as I was feeling a bit ill myself, I chose to lie down briefly until I could regain my strength. When I arose some two hours later, I happened quite by accident to look down from my bedroom window on the second floor. I have a good view of the kennel from there, better than on the ground floor, actually, due to the shrubbery. And what did I see but Apollo, being taken back to his kennel by two criminal types. They placed him back inside and secured the latch, then stole silently away.”

  “My word!” I exclaimed. “Did you not cry out to them ... challenge them in some way?”

  “Believe me, Dr. Watson, I started to. I wanted to. But something in their look and manner caused the words to freeze in my throat.”

  “But,” Sherlock Holmes interjected, “you did eventually re
port what you saw to the police?”

  “Oh, my, yes, Mr. Holmes,” snapped Lord Farthington. “But they looked at me as if I was quite daft. After all, what proof had I of any crime? All that I had witnessed, assuming it was not merely some dyspeptic hallucination, was my dog being returned, not being stolen. Yet I am as sure as I can be that some nefarious deed has been done.”

  Holmes nodded in agreement and steepled his fingers together before his brooding features. “If hallucination it were, then there would seem to be a plague of such illusions. I have this very morning read two newspaper accounts of similar ‘thefts’ where the stolen items were promptly and mysteriously returned.”

  “My word, Holmes,” said I. “What can it mean?” Holmes snapped to his feet and made for the door, pausing to gather up his cloak and cap. “It means, my good fellow, that we must accompany Lord Farthington to his home at once. There is villainous work afoot, and there may be answers to be found at the scene of the crime ...!”

  Lord Farthington’s private carriage was more than large enough to accommodate the three of us as we crossed town to his residence in the West End. The afternoon light was jaundiced, but bright enough to see by.

  Farthington himself led us on a brief tour of the house and grounds, allowing Holmes a chance to see with his own eyes the view from the upper bedroom. Holmes, however, was clearly more interested in a closer inspection of the kennel itself, and hurried us along to that end. Once there, he carefully examined the kennel gate, the locks, the walkways, the high fences surrounding the property, his eaglelike gaze scouring everything and anything for clues.

  All the while, Lord Farthington’s prize pit terrier, Apollo, growled and barked menacingly, watching every move. Holmes’s gaze fell upon the dog now, a sharp and curious look.

  ‘Tell me, Lord Farthington,” said he, “is this the animal’s usual behavior around strangers?”

  “Oh, yes. Even the servants have to be careful. I usually feed him myself.”

  “Yet he allowed these two criminal types to take him away and bring him back with scarcely a whimper?” Farthington stroked his chins. “Oh my, yes. I see your point! How strange! He actually seemed quite docile when they returned him.”

  “Are you suggesting,” said I to Holmes, “that the dog was taken by someone he knew?”

  “That is certainly one possibility,” Sherlock Holmes replied. “But it is equally likely they merely threw a small chunk of sedative-laced meat into the kennel to calm him. Lord Farthington—who has been out here since yesterday?” “Why, only myself. I expressly forbade the servants to muck about out here, lest they disturb anything.”

  “A wise man,” Holmes commended him. “Now, there has been no rain since yesterday morning, and I see by the size and appearance of your own boots that you have stayed with the stone path in your comings and goings. Therefore these two other sets of footprints that have strayed across the dirt near the kennel must belong to the men you saw.”

  “Then I wasn’t imagining things,” said Lord Farthington. “I hardly think so,” said Holmes, who now was stooping closer to examine one of the sets of prints. His normally stoic features suddenly burned with curiosity and barely contained excitement. “Watson—have a look at this!” Kneeling beside him, I did indeed look, but failed to see anything remarkable. My quizzical expression seemed to amuse him.

  Dropping his voice to a whisper, he explained, “Poor Watson, I could not expect you to know this, but only two days ago, Inspector Lestrade was bragging to me about a case he had solved by matching an unusual bootprint to a man. He was quite proud of his detective work, and felt certain the man will be convicted of the crime.”

  “I fear I am still in the dark, Holmes,” said I.

  “Perhaps little more than I,” he replied cryptically. “See here—this print of the right boot—the unusual cut across the sole, and this U-shaped gash here. And there, on the left boot’s sole, see how the comer of the heel has been broken away and a small nail protrudes. I daresay there is not another pair of boots in England that could match this.”

  “You mean to say they will be easy to find ...?”

  “Quite so, for I have already seen them! They are the very boots the good Inspector Lestrade so immodestly showed me two days ago. Boots that are at this very moment secured in the evidence locker at Scotland Yard, where they have been for the past week!”

  “But, Holmes—” I protested “—surely that’s impossible!” “At last, a worthy challenge,” muttered Holmes. “Well, Hullo, what’s this?”

  Holmes pulled out a pencil and used the point to pry loose a tiny object buried within the dirt of a bootprint. He held it up and I could see that it was a matchstick, broken in two places so that it looked something like the letter “Z”. “Ah, Watson, this will help. There is a petty criminal I have observed who breaks his matches in just this way. His name is Eddie Mangles, and I believe I know where we may find him.”

  “What is it?” Lord Farthington blustered. “Have you found something—?”

  “Indeed we have, sir,” Holmes assured him. “And I fear there is much more to this matter than either of us suspected. But I promise you we shall get to the bottom of it, and soon!”

  Not wishing to involve Lord Farthington or his driver in what could become a dangerous, or at the very least, tedious, situation, Holmes and I took leave of the residence by means of a hired cab. Night had nearly fallen as we reached our destination, a three-story structure on Broad Street whose signboard proclaimed it to be the Preening Peacock Inn.

  “I’ve heard stories about this place, Holmes,” said I. “I fear it is not an entirely reputable establishment.”

  “Your fears are well-founded,” Sherlock Holmes replied. ‘The tavern on the ground floor has become a gathering spot for quite a number of London’s better-class criminals and confidence men, and the women maintaining rooms on the upper floors play hostess to frequent and diverse guests, some of whom are gentlemen who should know better.” ‘Tsk, tsk. And you think Eddie Mangles frequents this place?”

  Holmes was stepping down from the cab behind me and reaching for coins to pay the cabbie. “Indeed he does, and I feel certain he is implicated in this mystery. Wait, Watson, look! I believe that is he there—!”

  Holmes’s tone was imperative even though his voice was low, and I immediately glanced in the direction he indicated. Someone was indeed emerging from a side entrance of the Preening Peacock, stepping into the alley which ran alongside the building. Though the light was poor, I could distinctly see three men, two of whom were supporting a stretcher between them. Some burdensome object upon that stretcher lay covered with a sheet.

  “My word, Holmes!” I whispered. “Is that a body?”

  “If not, it bears a strong resemblance to one.”

  Holmes held up his hand for the cabbie’s patience, his intent gaze still fixed upon the three men and their burden. We watched as the stretcher was swiftly loaded into the back of some sort of trademan’s wagon parked in the alley. Two of the men got inside, while the third took the wagon’s seat and reins and promptly drove off.

  Holmes held open the door of our own conveyance. “Quickly, Watson—we must follow them. Driver—keep that wagon in sight!”

  The cabbie did his job well, and we soon found ourselves on a street near the East End docks, facing what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Holmes had the cabbie let us out at the end of the block, then paid the man and sent him on his way, lest the presence of the cab attract attention.

  Ahead of us, we could see the tradesman’s wagon, and the men carrying the stretcher into the warehouse. A flickering light from within ebbed out, then disappeared as the door closed once more. We took a vantage point behind a stack of crates in the alley across from the building and began to watch, and wait. And wait, and watch. I swear, this aspect of Holmes’s profession has never appealed to me greatly.

  Nearly an hour passed, and even Holmes was beginning to twitch with impatience. “W
atson, I say let’s chance it. If we can find a window open—”

  Scarcely were the words past his lips, when suddenly the warehouse door flew open and out came the two men with the stretcher, which they swiftly loaded back in the tradesman’s wagon once more. Then, unexpectedly, the third man, aided by a new confederate, emerged from the warehouse carrying a second stretcher, which also gave every indication of supporting a human body beneath its sheetlike covering. This stretcher was hastily put aboard an enclosed carriage, and then both vehicles drove off at a brisk pace, going in opposite directions!

  “Which one do we follow, Holmes?”

  “Neither, Watson. Both would be lost from sight long before we could find a cab. Besides, I think the answers we seek may be found within that building.”

  We crossed the street warily, approaching the warehouse door. Holmes and I tried to peer in through several windows, but they appeared to have been painted over on the inside with thick black paint. There was nothing left to do but to go inside.

  Thankfully, the hinges were quiet as we opened the door and slipped inside. Again, we could see the flickering light we had observed before, though we could not see the source of it. It seemed to emanate around several partitions that were part of the structure.

  The outermost portion of the warehouse was exactly what one would expect for an abandoned building. A few dust laden crates and other odds and ends were scattered about the place. I am quite sure my friend Sherlock Holmes could perceive much more than I about the place, but to me it looked quite ordinary. Except, of course, for that eerie light that came from beyond the partitions, beckoning us on, like moths to the flame. I could only hope the results would not be as deadly.

  Holmes led the way, cautious as he should be, and yet impelled by a weird eagerness and curiosity. As we rounded the comer of the first partition, we heard a growling sound that was at first familiar yet it became strange as we realized that it was not a single voice, but a chorus.