Who Killed Sherlock Holmes?

by Paul Cornell

  She nearly slipped, despite the spikes on her boots, at a sharp curve of the path. The air was getting very cold, and damp. You could tell you were in a cave. The path opened out, after a little while, into a wider gallery, and the path now had an edge to it, a slope of scree, which led down into a plunge the depths of which her torch couldn’t penetrate. On the wall now were desperate warnings, big letters: watch your step.

  There were also stalactites and stalagmites, but the colours, she saw as she washed the torch beam over them, weren’t the pale hues she associated with caving. Here were rust reds and bright yellows, and sick-looking greens. These, she realized, were stalactites of industry, chemicals from human work that had managed to seep deep underground. She wondered how long that process had taken. Lost in thought, it took her a moment to recognize what the latest shape her torch had caught actually was.

  A face! She stepped back for a moment, hearing the echo of her gasp, and then she realized what she was seeing, the torch beam having held firm: a skull, atop a skeleton that had been propped up against a wall and had now been moulded into it, its bones covered by the process that had formed the stalactites. The chest of the skeleton had been caved in, as if from some sort of impact. It looked like something an animal might do. Or had people fought on their way down? Just beyond the skeleton was a plummet into nothingness, as if the slope had eroded under him. A sign on the wall beside her had a big red arrow pointing to him. According to it, his name was Boney.

  She had, of course, no idea what she’d come down here to find. All she knew was that for her to follow the map was what the key wanted above all. She had gambled everything she loved on something impossible.

  Quill had walked a long way in the dark, pleased at how the act of walking allowed him to bring his theories back to mind again, to make sure every detail was correct, this tremendous bedrock he could rely on. He’d memorized them, like songs, rhythms to walk to. Some of those songs would just wander into his head and he’d be their instrument for a while, and that was, well, he didn’t know if that was great or distressing. He was quite glad nobody was asking him how he felt.

  He’d come to what seemed to be an empty suburb, a modern group of houses, nestling in the Victorian wonderland that had grown up all around. This was a new development in Hell, avenues and closes with pristine two-bedroomed semis, new builds, with tended lawns, but no cars outside, nobody living there.

  He walked past a security office with a light on, and a sign that had said something about the houses being on sale, but the sign looked like it had been there a long time. He walked into the middle of an island of grass in the midst of a circle of houses, a sapling at its centre, and turned, seeking even one light in all these would-be homes.

  This place was blank to the Sight too, a nowhere where nothing was remembered. Why was nobody living here? He realized that he’d heard about this place, or somewhere else like it. The developers thought it better to keep the houses empty than to drop their prices. A bunch of squatters had been removed from somewhere like this. So could he live here, then, while he pursued his enquiries, or while they pursued him? Why not, old son? He had enough stuff in his bag now to begin a proper diagram of his operational theories. He tried a couple of back doors. He found one open.

  He walked carefully into the house, then forgot the idea of walking carefully and marched into the kitchen, shouting that he was moving carefully, that he was an armed police officer. He laughed that he wasn’t. He could hear the sound, he realized, of a television.

  He wondered if he’d returned home, if Sarah and Jessica were going to be in the lounge. There was the light of a telly under the door. He eased the door open, finding enormous pain inside him at the idea of the joy of seeing Jessica again, enormous difficulty at the idea of seeing Sarah, of what that would mean he had to face.

  They weren’t in here. There was an armchair and there was a television, tuned to static, and nothing else in the room. In the armchair sat the Smiling Man. He was beaming at the fuzz on the screen. He turned to look at Quill.

  Quill wasn’t afraid. Or he wasn’t much more now than he was all the time these days. This was to be expected if he was in Hell. If there was going to be punishment, he wished they’d get on with it.

  He had all sorts of questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to check his theories.

  The Smiling Man held up a remote control, a signal not to talk, and pointed it at the screen. The image changed to a picture of Laura, in her pyjamas, entering what Quill recognized as Jessica’s room. She was in London. She was about to sleep in London. To live in London, to stay several days, if that was what that meant, and it must be, mustn’t it, or why was he being shown it? She was about to qualify for Hell. Jessica would be in bed with her mum: this is what they always did when they had visitors. This should have been OK, because they were all already in Hell, but it wasn’t, it wasn’t.

  Quill realized this might be a lie. He had a way, though, to check if it was true. Fumbling, he got out his phone, switched it on and hit the app that showed the image on Jessica’s baby monitor. It was the same as what was on the telly. He switched it off again. The Smiling Man kept looking at him, asking him a silent question. He was asking Quill to accept, to agree, to find peace.

  Quill didn’t know what his answer was. He left the question hanging, turned and walked away. He would need to come up with an answer. He walked out into the ghost estate of ghost houses and saw the dark figure standing there, in the shadow of the Victorian buildings of Hell that hung over them. It was almost a pleasure to see him. He wasn’t the Smiling Man. He was Quill’s Moriarty. Quill nodded to him.

  After a moment of hesitation, the figure nodded back.

  Saturday morning. Ross felt way awkward to be in the car with Costain, driving down to the maze of roads around Heathrow, her using the map on her phone to finally find a long, straight run of hotels. She’d checked in with how the main investigation was going and found they’d already done a house-to-house in Brook Street, compiled a list of medical practitioners and asked everyone to be on their guard. No former Sherlocks had been found, but with their quarry’s seeming ability to now control someone’s actions, that had ceased to be a factor.

  There was nothing more she could do right now, but her duty, she knew, was still to the ops board, to the working over of data that might lead her to some new insight. Instead of which, she and Costain were going off piste again, perhaps about to risk everything for her selfish desire to be whole again. Even if they were successful, what would he want in return? Still, she supposed they might also find something that could be useful for the op, or to find Quill.

  Costain was looking like he hadn’t slept, but his driving, his calm control, gave no sign of that.

  They walked into the rather eccentric lobby of the Radisson Edwardian Hotel together. The decor made it feel a bit like entering a jewel box. In front of them was an eccentric double staircase in what looked like marble. The Sight was saying things about ancient memories of fighting and fucking and drunken extremity and most of all deep, deep nostalgia, which made the shine of the stone and the tiles all the more baroque. There was also a smell in the air that Ross had never encountered before, a polish unique to this hotel. In the lobby were gathered people that suited these surroundings, in an odd sort of way, in that they had the right eccentricity, but were also a contrast, in that they wore the tatters and affected poverty of the London occult underworld. There were, however, occasional details with this lot, Ross noted, a nice belt buckle or a very new pair of bronze goggles, which bore witness to the money that had entered that community. There were now haves alongside the have-nots.

  Ross and Costain had agreed to dress down for the occasion, but what they’d brought for that was still in their suitcases. They went to reception and checked in, and then went over to a table in the foyer with two ladies in medieval peasant gear behind it. Ross deflected their enquiry gestures with her blanket, and they took that, with a smile, t
o be a sign that here were two of their own. Costain just gave them his best poker face and didn’t bother with the blanket, like he hadn’t at the auction. They looked away, found something to do. This lot were still a little awkward around people of colour. Costain was the only such person in the room. Whatever they’d learned, they didn’t see fit to comment.

  Perhaps this changing culture was starting to accept the idea of police among them. Ross handed over their tickets. They got in exchange a stamp on the back of the left hand. The green ink mark was something like a postmark, a circle with some sort of unreadable lettering. The mark felt Sighted, a slight weight on her skin. ‘I’ll bet,’ she said, as they headed for the elevators, ‘this doesn’t come off with soap.’

  Costain was looking at a programme he’d picked up at the table. ‘The theme of this year’s event,’ he said, ‘is finding something to rely on.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Ross. ‘Here’s hoping.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  When he got back to Joe’s place on Friday evening, Sefton, as he always did, checked in to see if anyone had sighted Quill. He was kind of surprised that nobody had. Jimmy must be actively hiding, or one of the services would have found him by now. He also couldn’t be making use of medical facilities or hostel accommodation. Or . . . No, Sefton didn’t want to consider that yet. He didn’t like to think what losing Jimmy twice would do to Sarah. He resolved that this weekend he would do at least two things to possibly help both the investigation and the search for Quill.

  Sefton had said to Costain that he’d leave searching the locations on Ballard’s list to him, but what the hell, he could make a start. He spent Saturday morning checking out a few of the closer hidden locations. He was disappointed to find that none of the three he visited still held their treasure. Even if whoever had searched the apartment hadn’t found that list, they must have had some other way to discover the dealer’s stashes. He got back to Joe’s to find him still in his bathrobe, listening to Danny Baker on the radio. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘do you want to try something with me?’

  Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were knackered.’

  ‘I mean . . . my sort of stuff. Something that might get the investigation moving again.’

  ‘How can I help with that?’

  ‘I have something in mind.’ He got a big pile of purple art paper out of his holdall and started putting sheets of it down on the carpet to make a square. ‘I’ve been reading up on this. A simple summoning.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of who.’ Sefton took a stick of ordinary chalk – well, ordinary with a bit of London about it, coming from the South Downs – and, having found the relevant book he’d been studying and propped open the relevant page, started copying the symbol, much larger. ‘An important witness who’s gone astray: Dr Watson.’

  ‘What are you drawing?’

  ‘This is the symbol of the Worshipful Company of Parish Clerks, who are, for all intents and purposes, one of the ancient Livery Companies of London, the trade organizations that trained and represented the people in their professions. Except this lot don’t have a livery, a sort of official insignia, of their own, and don’t have a place in the order of precedence, all of those guilds knowing exactly which one is more important than whichever other one, because of some sort of dispute in the sixteenth century.’ He’d now finished copying the symbol and stood up.

  ‘Interesting.’ Joe being Joe, he meant it. ‘So if they don’t have an insignia . . .’

  ‘Not officially. This is what they use in secret, if my reading is right. I suspect that off the books they’re the guild that handles our side of the street. I really need to find a parish clerk to ask about this stuff, but you know: busy. Anyway, this sign is what you’re meant to draw when you’re a Londoner trying to summon something up from the collective memory. Not that that’s the sort of language the book uses. It’s from the eighteenth century, and so it’s all about there being thirty-eight different classes of ghosts and revenants and other tormented souls being kept out of the afterlife. OK. We stand in the middle’ – he indicated for Joe to come and join him – ‘and we need to, sort of, power it up . . .’

  ‘How do we do that?’

  Sefton kissed him and slid his hand down his stomach, and after a moment of surprise, Joe got the idea and got into it. ‘How far do we have to . . . ?’

  ‘All the way, but hold your horses.’

  ‘Is this what your book says?’

  ‘No, it talks about blood sacrifice, but there were also lines in Latin about gentlemen knowing of alternatives to blood. They also indicate the ladies of Covent Garden would understand enough to be employed in helping. It took a while for me to work out what that was all about.’

  ‘Still holding my horses. The history lesson is helping.’

  ‘We need to sacrifice you to the four points of the compass, places in London, to something called Leeging Beech Gutter in the north . . .’

  ‘Charming. Should have been Cockfosters.’

  ‘To the Adam and Eve on the Uxbridge Road, which I assume is a pub.’

  ‘I think being sacrificed is kind of horny. Am I sick?’

  ‘To Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Chaldon . . .’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. You’re going to need to hurry.’

  ‘And the Liberty of Havering, which you’ll be pleased to hear is now . . .’

  Joe gasped, trying as hard as he could to hold back.

  ‘. . . Hornchurch.’

  Joe came, and Sefton quickly moved him round in an anticlockwise circle, keeping him coming for the whole turn. ‘I like your world,’ he said, as they kissed again.

  ‘You can go back to watching now. I’ve got my sacrifice.’

  ‘Why aren’t they all like that?’ Joe had found some tissues and was heading back to the sofa.

  ‘Because almost everything else takes a lot more . . . energy, or whatever it is . . . than just wanting to make a ghost appear.’

  ‘You could get a lot of blokes to jerk off together.’

  ‘I don’t think the Met would approve. Now shut up – I’ve got to concentrate.’ Joe gave him an expression saying he felt used, and settled down to watch. Sefton found the shape of the air in the room was ready now, somehow, and made the gestures he’d learned from several different lines of research. ‘I’m thinking of Watson,’ he said, visualizing the various actors who’d played him as he said it, ‘Watson, Watson, Doctor Watson, elementary, my dear . . .’ He grabbed the weight of what was around him and pulled it, shaped it. He found that one part of it suddenly led off out of the room, and he heaved on that part. He realized as he did so that the line didn’t feel right. It felt like it was vibrating to some different . . . feeling that he didn’t associate with London, like Watson was off the London grid completely, somewhere else. But it still felt within reach. Sefton kept speaking his mantra aloud, concentrating on the images, kept his hands dancing, miming pulling on a rope, adding his own arousal and strength to what was already in the—

  Suddenly, the line pulled back.

  Sefton found himself flying across the room.

  He just had time to throw his hands up and instinctively grab the atmosphere of the room into some sort of cushion—

  He hit the wall.

  He hit the carpet a moment later, yelling at the pain in his arms and chest. He’d managed to get something in the way. He tried to step outside of the pain, but there was nothing left in the room to help him do that now. He realized he was having trouble breathing. After a few moments of panic, he found that he could take shallow ones. He wasn’t going to die.

  Joe was crouched beside him, shouting. Sefton grabbed his hand and finally found he could speak. ‘OK,’ he said. After a few moments, with Joe’s help, he managed to stand. Nothing was broken. Sheer luck. That attack had been deliberate. Something hadn’t wanted him to find Watson.

  So finding Watson must be very important.

  ‘He’s a bit of
a rough diamond.’ Ross had fallen into conversation with an old lady at the cheap tea stall that had been set up in the hotel’s extraordinary atrium, on the first floor, where a slim white bridge crossed a lighted expanse of glass that reminded Ross of a fish pond without actually being one. She had wondered for a moment if you could pay for your tea with a small sacrifice, but it seemed practicality ruled at least some aspects of Sighted life. Still, the cost of a cup of tea was only six pence, the result, she suspected, of the price once having been a sixpence coin. The presence of the ancient urn and wheeled stall on this level of such a modern hotel was the sort of visual clash she’d come to associate with this lot, which she found kind of charming. It had been easy to find an excuse to talk about Tock. From what she gathered from this woman, this particular subset of their culture revolved around him.

  ‘Normally when someone’s called that,’ Ross said, ‘it means they’re a complete bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he is sometimes, to some people, but to others he’s golden. A bit gruff, doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Mostly, I think he just believes in the rules. And thank God. Where would our lot be without rules?’

  Costain wandered over. She’d watched him putting his undercover skills aside and just walking up to people and asking questions, in the way UCs weren’t supposed to. It was working this time, though, because these nervous people seemed glad to see newcomers among them. That wasn’t the impression she’d got from any previous gathering of this lot. ‘Opening ceremony’s in five minutes,’ he said, which she took to be a request to talk privately beforehand. She made her excuses and left the lady to her tea.