Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone

by G. S. Denning

  He didn’t. Shortly after reaching the park, he was accosted by a squirrel. It ran up his trouser leg and snatched a crust of toast from his hand. Holmes seemed quite content to chase the little blighter up and down the path, sometimes cajoling, sometimes threatening, always emanating the especial joy of one who has made himself a grand new friend. For my part, I was happy to let Holmes go. It left me free to think of Lady Eva and sigh.

  And sigh.

  * * *

  As midnight neared, Holmes became ever more anxious. He paced the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, casting his eyes this way and that, but nowhere found relief. Time and again, his gaze was drawn to the clock on the mantelpiece, though I could not tell if he was impatient for the midnight hour to arrive or afeared of it.

  “Warlock, sit down, won’t you? You are making me nervous.”

  “You ought to be nervous,” he replied. “Our guest is a dangerous man.”

  “And you are sure he will come?”

  “He will come.”

  “But his note said to expect him at seven in the evening,” I reminded Holmes, waving the return letter we had received from Milverton. It was written on lavender stationery and scented with a perfume that reminded one of musk ox and honey.

  “I told you: that note is a lie. He’s playing with me. He shall come at midnight. He always does.” Holmes ceased his pacing, turned to me and muttered, “You really ought to go, Watson.”

  “I told you, Holmes: I am not going anywhere. Our client has engaged our services to save her from ruin and I will not meekly fall by the wayside and allow myself to fail her.”

  “What you mean is that you do not trust me to conduct this negotiation.”

  There was more than a little truth to that, but it was not my only motivation. In fact, I was worried for Holmes.

  “Well… you know, Warlock… we’ve met a number of dangerous characters, but this is the first time I have seen you so unsettled. I can’t help but wonder why you’re so frightened of the man.”

  I could tell I had wounded him, but after a moment’s reflection he said, “I suppose I am frightened. You know me, Watson. You’ve seen what I like to do with poisons and so you know I am a gentleman who is somewhat difficult to harm. Milverton, though… Milverton could hurt me.”

  “How do you mean, Holmes?”

  Yet, he did not answer. He would not answer. He resumed his pacing.

  “How do you know him?” I asked, attempting to start again on a different tack. “His victims are highly placed in the London aristocracy, yet I have never heard of the man.”

  “Oh, our paths have crossed before, Watson,” Holmes said, then paused as if considering how much he ought to tell me. He must have deemed me worthy of further trust, for he added, “Milverton was often a pawn of Moriarty’s.”

  “Moriarty!”

  “Yes, my great enemy.”

  I thought a moment, worrying over one or two points until finally deciding that the only way to know was to ask. I said, “And yet you display more fear of this supposed pawn than you ever did of Sebastian Moran, whom you claim was Moriarty’s trusted lieutenant.”

  “It is not his rank within Moriarty’s gang that I fear,” said Holmes. “It is his ability. Yes, Moran is a nasty fellow, but he has no leverage upon me. Milverton does.”

  I was going to ask what that leverage might be, but was interrupted by the chiming of our clock. Even before the first bell had faded, it was drowned out by a rapping on our sitting-room door. Warlock wilted. I rose to admit our guest.

  If I had been hoping to find a looming specter clothed all in smoke—and I will confess, I rather was—I was disappointed. Milverton was one of those men who took every care that his dress and appearance shouted “businessman” yet every other aspect of his body, face and bearing declared “wheezy little bastard.” He was in his early fifties, yet doing his utmost to appear in his late twenties. He wore a gray suit, tailored better than almost any other I had encountered. His teeth were straight and shining white. His skin, which I at first assumed to be deeply tanned, was revealed to be orange as he stepped into the light. The color was so unnatural that I wondered, for an instant, if he might be a demon. The thought was quickly chased away by the realization that it was more likely he’d been tempted by the tubes of orange skin-tinting goo one may purchase for tuppence at any of the less reputable pharmacies.

  He swept off his gray silk top hat and threw his pale gloves within. He hung this on a hook and deposited his silver cane in our elephant’s foot umbrella stand. His dark hair was slicked with some form of thick, pungent grease into long strands, which failed to cover his balding dome, despite the expert care with which they had been combed over it. Not deigning even to look at us, he cooed, “Soooooo sorry, chaps. I know I’m behind my hour, I know I am. And yet, what is a fellow to do, eh? London, don’t you know. Traffic, don’t you know. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long. Oh, I do hope not.”

  He turned to me, fixed me with a false smile and said, “You must be the estimable Dr. Watson, unless I am much mistaken. Oh yes, Doctor, I know quite a few unnatural fellows who would like to know more about you. Yes I do. Quite a few, indeed. They always get nervous if this one…” here he inclined his head in Warlock’s direction, “… spends more than three weeks in any one man’s company.”

  Behind Milverton, the wall discolored. Silently, it began to bleed. The spots joined together to form the word WRETCH.

  “And Warlock Holmes!” Milverton continued. “How long has it been? A very long time, I think. Such a pleasant surprise to get your note. I must say I was a bit put out, for I had warned Lady Eva not to seek any outside aid. A man might be tempted to increase his fee in the face of such events, but seeing as it is you, Warlock—seeing as it is you—I think I can overlook this one indiscretion on her part. Only this one, though. No, since she has brought me back into contact with my old friend, her balance remains unchanged at seven thousand pounds. I trust you have it?”

  “I don’t have it, Milverton,” Holmes growled. “She doesn’t have it. You know that is why I wrote to you.”

  “Oh. Oh dear. Well, I only assumed she might have reconsidered by now.”

  “It is not a question of her consideration. She does not have the money.”

  Milverton shook his head and tutted. “Well she really ought to find it, you know. Such a judicious investment on her part. Why, her beau makes that in less than a year and a half! Can you imagine? Losing her love? Losing her position in society? Losing all that money for all of those years over the concern of less than a year and a half’s income? She’s cleverer than that. I know she is.”

  Above him, the word BETRAYER added itself to the wall.

  “She hasn’t got it, I say,” Holmes repeated. “Take two thousand, Milverton, and do no mischief.”

  “Oh my. Oh, dear me. Now, you see, I told her not to bargain. I told her the price was not subject to debate. Now that is two indiscretions on her part. I cannot let that pass, Holmes, I really can’t. I regret to inform you that Lady Eva’s account now stands at eight thousand pounds.”

  Holmes’s anger and frustration burst forth in visual style. His eyes lit up. Milverton, bathed in their terrible green glare, took a step backwards. Holmes took two towards our unwelcome guest; a grim smile spread across his features. But before Holmes could work any mischief, Milverton held up one hand to beg a moment’s pardon and affected a terrific yawn.

  “I say, such an hour… I think a cup of coffee is in order, don’t you, gentlemen? Yes. Coffee, don’t you think?”

  Holmes stood staring at Milverton, with his fingers opening and closing slowly, as if he wished to grab something, wished to squeeze. Milverton stood his ground, but seemed to find a sudden interest in our furnishings. He regarded our bookcase for a moment, then stared at the picture of General Lee. He seemed content to examine almost anything, as long as it was not Holmes’s burning glare.

  I smiled.

  Much has been
said of mutual benefit as the ideal foundation for bargaining. Good mention is also made of charity, civility and moral concerns, but to the student of history, these are laughable. He who has read of the Mongol hordes, of the South Sea pirates, or the might of Rome knows the ideal bargaining tool.

  Fear.

  I stepped in, saying, “Yes, coffee sounds splendid. I’ll just make a pot, shall I? Holmes, why don’t you take a seat on the sofa? Leave your armchair for Mr. Milverton, won’t you? He is our guest, after all, and the night is cold. He will appreciate being close to the fire.”

  I moved to our small pantry to get the coffee grounds. Milverton took Holmes’s armchair, though he seemed ill at ease in it. Holmes cocked his head to one side, until his ear was nearly upon his shoulder, and sat down on the sofa, smiling at Milverton hungrily, with his eyes still alight. I took my time fetching the coffee, sure that each passing moment strengthened our bargaining position, rather than weakened it.

  As I returned and set some water to warm above the fire, I said, “So, what exactly is it you do, Mr. Milverton? Holmes described you as a Soulbinder.”

  “Did he?” asked Milverton. “Well, that is a misfortune. I have asked him not to, you see? I have asked him never to use that title and yet he disregards my wishes. Well, I am sorry to say that Lady Eva’s account now stands at nine thousand.”

  “You are not a Soulbinder, then?”

  “Is there such a thing as a soul, Doctor?” he scoffed. “You have been through and through the human body, have you not? Have you ever encountered one? Have you ever slipped with your scalpel and nicked somebody’s soul? I should think not. Is there a part of us that lives on after we are gone? Why should we assume so? No, I do not deal with such speculative fictions. My art lies in more tangible concerns. We each of us have a destiny, Dr. Watson. As we grow and interact, these human destinies intertwine with one another. I am one who sees these threads. I am one who can knot them closer together. Or, if I wish, I am one who can pull them apart. If Lady Eva is such a fool as to doubt my art, she may find her fiancé’s destiny takes a very separate path from her own. She would not be the first, I fear.”

  I had decided I could make more progress with friendship than with threat. Let Milverton fear Holmes; in me he would find a helpful voice. “I have never heard of such a thing,” I said. “It must be a rare gift, indeed. Can you change your own destiny, I wonder?”

  “Every man can, Dr. Watson.”

  “How very droll. Can no one resist your tampering, Mr. Milverton? Even a fellow such as Holmes: could you work upon him?”

  “Ha! Let me tell you something about your friend, Dr. Watson: the man is a mess. His destiny—his soul as you would call it—is one big knot. He has tangled himself with countless others in loops more intricate and more intimate than ever he should have. He is bound and bound again and has no power to unwind himself from some of his less welcome company, no matter how he might struggle. Oh yes, I can work upon Holmes’s destiny, Dr. Watson. I may be the only man who can. Holmes himself is quite helpless to disentangle himself as I could do!”

  He said it with a zeal so severe that I knew him to be attempting to comfort himself with it. I decided to hurry even less with the coffee and let him endure Holmes’s green gaze a little longer. Yet this was not to be, for suddenly a deep, terrible voice burst from Holmes, shouting, “Rache!”

  I nearly dropped the coffee pot in the fire. I could hear Milverton cry out in surprise. I spun round towards Holmes, to hear what Moriarty would say.

  “Rache! He that holds a hammer and will not strike away my chains—he is as good as my jailer! Charles’s August has been long. He sows and sows, yet never reaps. Now, his harvest is nearing. That which he has grown shall be brought in to him at last. The crop is bitter; he will not taste it long. Rache!”

  Holmes fell silent and slumped to one side. For a moment I thought Milverton was going to fall over as well, in a dead faint. His lips moved ineffectually at first, then he gasped, “That… that’s him, isn’t it?”

  “Him?” I said, feigning innocence. “Oh! Moriarty? Yes, that’s him. I had quite forgotten you knew him. Yes, now I recall: Holmes said you used to be one of his minions, I think.”

  “Never!” Milverton cried. “No! Eleven thousand! For saying such a thing, Lady Eva’s account stands at eleven thousand!”

  “You didn’t work for Moriarty?” I asked. “Well then, how do you know him?”

  “I worked for him. I mean, I performed some work for him. But he came to me and hired me, you know, I was never one of his dogs. Let it be remembered: He came to me because I could do what he could not—even he, the great Moriarty—and he gave me gold in recognition of my skills.”

  “Well, that is high praise,” I said. “The Moriarty I know never seems to give anything but ill news.”

  “Yes, he is greatly changed from when I knew him,” Milverton said, then broke out in a nervous laugh. “But then, I suppose it’s what he was known for. Step before Moriarty and you never knew exactly what sort of creature you’d be facing. As one body wore out, he’d find another. Change was his hallmark; the only constants were intelligence and malevolence.”

  Milverton had grown visibly pale, even through his orange skin treatment. I took the opportunity to say, “Of course you must know that my sympathy lies with Holmes and Lady Eva, so you will no doubt take my advice with a grain of salt. Still, I must say, these seem to be deep and dangerous waters, do they not? Might it be wiser to close Lady Eva’s account and leave this matter behind you?”

  “No! I cannot be seen to falter. I cannot let it be known that my net was ever escaped or my future clients will know there is hope.”

  “Yet what do you gain by hurting her? If nothing else, take the two thousand and let her go. Two thousand pounds in exchange for doing nothing? They are high wages, don’t you think?”

  “It’s worth two thousand to me to see her fall. Let everybody see it. The more that is known of her fate, the more my next client will fear me.”

  “What a thing to say, Mr. Milverton! She has done nothing to deserve such treatment, has she?”

  “She has! She has made bold to walk in circles high above her station. She was fool enough to hire a maid who sold me a lock of her hair for a mere five pounds. Ha! She who aims so high should have more caution, don’t you think? Twelve thousand pounds, now! Twelve, for her folly!”

  “Really, Mr. Milverton! If you go on like this for much longer, the queen herself would be unable to raise your fee.”

  “And yet we know Holmes, don’t we?” Milverton asked. “We know he has ways of making money.”

  At this, Milverton stood up and fished around in his pocket for a moment. He withdrew a bar of lead, cast it upon our side table and muttered, “He knows my mind. I’ve plenty more of these when he’s ready. If Holmes wants to free his pretty little debutante, he can call on me whenever he’s willing to be reasonable. Now good night, sir.”

  “Are you not staying for coffee?” I asked. “I made it just for you.”

  “I won’t! I am leaving!”

  I tutted at him. Any man who does business in London knows there are certain crimes that are unforgivable. Amongst them is asking for a refreshment and leaving before it is ready. Milverton turned back to me, saying, “Take a hundred, then, for your undrunk coffee. That’s something, eh? Eleven thousand, nine hundred and Lady Eva can thank you however she will for selling a cup of coffee so dear.”

  He slammed our door, scurried down the stairs and was gone. Holmes lay half-conscious on the sofa and resisted my attempts to move him. As the hour was late, I simply threw a blanket over him and went to bed myself.

  * * *

  I awoke just after seven the next morning to the sound of Holmes puttering about the fireplace.

  “Good morning,” I said, walking into our sitting room.

  “Hmm,” said he and went back to organizing his toast racks. A few minutes later he muttered, “I’m not very clear on th
e events of last night.”

  I barely heard him—he said it as if reflecting to himself, but I realized he was awaiting an answer.

  “Well, Moriarty had a few thoughts to add to the debate and after that you were somewhat insensible.”

  “That explains it. Was Milverton as glad to see his old master as Moran was?”

  “Rather not!” I laughed. “He practically fled the place. I tell you, Holmes, I cannot fathom why you are so afraid of Milverton. I don’t know if you realize it, but he is perfectly terrified of you.”

  “It makes sense.” Holmes shrugged. “I nearly killed him, once. He knows I could end him in an instant. I know he has taken precautions. That’s why we’re so afraid of one another. The little bugger has bound his soul to me! Can you imagine, Watson? I have every reason to believe that when Milverton’s soul flees—or his destiny comes to an end, as he would say—it will tug on some aspects of my own, ere it flies. I shall lose some very important connections and it wouldn’t surprise me if I gain a few unsavory ones as well. Even if he should die of old age, I will suffer for it. Oh, I fear the day he walks into the street without looking both ways. But, enough of such concerns—what is the state of our negotiation, Watson? Did you manage to out-think him?”

  “I fear not. In fact, Miss Blackwell’s account now stands at eleven thousand, nine hundred pounds.”

  “Eh? What happened?”

  “He was once defied, once affrighted, twice offended and then purchased an overpriced coffee. I am sure we must treat with him again before the matter is brought to a conclusion. If we achieved anything last night, it was only to weaken his resolve and introduce greater elements of fear and doubt into his thinking.”

  “Ugh,” Holmes grunted. “I would rather be done with the man.”

  He went back to his toast racks and I to find the morning paper, but a sudden remembrance from the night before caused me to tarry.

  “You know, there was one small thing…”

  “What was that?”

  “I found out how he gained his influence over Eva Blackwell.”