by George Mann
Even so, my limbs were beginning to grow weary with the cold. It was a damp, miserable night, and the thick autumnal mist dulled even the glow of the street lamps. It seemed to wreath everything in its embrace, clinging to the trees and the buildings, curling its tendrils across the choppy surface of the Thames. There were but a few people abroad that night, passing along the embankment with their heads stooped low against the inclement weather. They appeared to me like ghostly shapes emerging from the mist, passing from one realm into another as they drifted along beside the river.
We must have waited there for hours without passing a word between us. I checked my timepiece at around eleven o’clock, stamping my feet in an attempt to warm my weary, frozen limbs. I was just about to hail Newbury in order to call it a night when I received my first indication that something was afoot.
I became aware of a low, mechanical sound coming from the river, not unlike the clanking of heavy iron chains being dragged through a winching mechanism. At first I imagined it to be a ship drawing anchor, but I could see no masts on the water. I glanced at Newbury and Miss Hobbes, who had evidentially both heard the same noise and had abandoned their posts to approach the embankment. I started after them, wondering if at last we were about to reap some reward from our long vigil.
My hopes were confirmed a moment later when I saw Miss Hobbes start and fall back to the cover of the trees. I ran to her side in time to see two thick probosces, each about the girth of a man’s torso and covered in scores of tiny suckers like those of an octopus, come probing over the stone lip of the embankment. They squirmed and shifted as if feeling for the best possible hold, and then appeared to latch on to the uneven surface, providing purchase for the beast to haul itself out of the water.
It was difficult to ascertain much in the way of detail, due to the gloom and the pervasive mist, but I had already seen enough to set a cold lump of dread in the pit of my stomach. The sheer size of the thing to which such tentacles belonged... I could only stand there beside Miss Hobbes, looking on in abject fear as the beast slowly dragged itself onto land before us.
Newbury had continued to approach the water’s edge but was now keeping himself at a safe distance, obviously keen not to find himself caught by one of the thrashing tendrils as the creature heaved itself further and further out of the Thames. The screeching noise continued, and I now realised that what I’d at first considered to be a mechanical noise must in fact have been the sound of the creature itself. I shuddered at the thought of such an infernal beast.
Another tentacle whipped over the side of the embankment, followed closely by a fourth. I had a sense, then, of the immensity of the thing, and as its body finally hove into view I had to fight the urge to run. Brownlow had been correct in his description of the creature and at that point I understood what had so disturbed him about his encounter with the creature the previous night. It was a thing to inspire madness. Simply to look upon it was to question one’s own sanity.
As I watched, the monster slipped its bulk over the top of the embankment wall and raised itself up to its full height—at least twenty feet tall—twisting and turning as if trying to decide which direction it should now take. I could see very little of it, other than the silhouette of its mass and the gleam of its wet carapace, catching and reflecting what thin shafts of moonlight fell on it from above.
It appeared to settle on a course a moment later, shuffling off in the direction of the nearest side street. It had a curious ambulatory technique, part way between a crawl and a slither, and I couldn’t help thinking, despite everything, that the beast was far more suited to water than to land. Nevertheless, it moved with a not inconsiderable momentum, dragging itself along with all the noise of Hades, screeching and grinding as its multiple limbs struck again and again upon the flagstones.
“After it!” bellowed Newbury, his words rousing me from my temporary stupor. I did as he said, charging after it as fast as my numb, tired legs would carry me.
The beast had dragged itself into a narrow opening between two rows of houses, leading to a dark, cobbled alleyway beyond. Now its limbs were splayed around it, grasping at the sides of the buildings, pulling chunks out of the brickwork as it swiftly propelled itself along.
“Stand aside!” called Newbury, coming up behind me at a run. I dived quickly to one side as Miss Hobbes ducked to the other, and Newbury lurched to a stop, hurling something high into the air in the direction of the creature.
There was a sudden explosion of bright, white light as the flare—for that was what Newbury had thrown—hissed to life, rendering the entire scene in a series of brilliant, stuttering flashes as it spun wildly through the air.
I fell back, awestruck, as I caught my first proper glimpse of the creature, and realised with shock that it wasn’t in fact a creature at all. What had at first appeared as some kind of gargantuan, primitive animal was, in the harsh brilliance of the flare, shown to be nothing more than a huge mechanical construct. Its metallic limbs, now clearly a series of cleverly segmented iron coils, glinted with reflected light as they writhed and twisted, scrabbling at the walls. Its carapace was dull and black, still dripping with river water, and to my surprise I saw the startled face of a man inside, peering out through the thick glass of a riveted porthole. I realised it was some sort of amphibious vehicle, and that the man inside was most likely the pilot. Judging by the appearance of it, I guessed it was a submersible—but a remarkable submersible of the like I had never seen, with the ability to clamber out of the water and scale sheer walls. I wondered at who might have even conceived of such a thing.
The flare struck the back of the machine’s carapace and rebounded, tumbling over and over until it struck the cobbles a few feet away and continued to fizz and sputter in the gutter.
I was still standing in awe of the machine when one of the tentacles whipped out and struck Newbury full in the chest, lifting him clean off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground with a dull thud. It occurred to me later that the pilot had probably assumed he was under attack, and that the flare had been some sort of weapon or explosive device. At the time, however, I was quite unprepared for what happened next.
Miss Hobbes emitted a shrill cry of alarm, but rather than rush to Newbury’s aid, she grabbed for a large stone from a nearby rockery and pitched it straight at the strange vehicle. It boomed as it struck the metal hull, causing the pilot’s pod to rock back and forth upon the writhing cradle of its legs. In response, the machine reared up, twisting around and releasing its hold on the two buildings. One of its tentacles flicked out and caught Miss Hobbes around the waist, snaking around her and hoisting her high into the air. She looked like a fragile doll in its grip as it swung her around and thrust her, hard, against the nearest wall. She howled pain and frustration, clutching furiously at the iron tentacle in an attempt to prise herself free.
Incensed, I reached for my service revolver, which I’d secreted in the pocket of my overcoat before setting out from home. It felt cold but reassuring in my fist as I raised my arms, searching for a clear shot in the mist-ridden gloom.
Miss Hobbes gave a sharp cry of pain as she was slammed once more against the wall, lolling in the machine’s terrible iron grip. Behind me, Newbury was silent and still where he lay on the pavement, unconscious or dead.
I cocked the hammer and took my aim, hoping beyond hope that my bullet would not ricochet and further injure Miss Hobbes. I could think of no other course of action, however; to get entangled in the machine’s writhing limbs would mean certain death for us all. I was doubtful my bullets would puncture the vehicle’s thick armour plating, but if I could create a distraction I thought I might be able to lure it away from Miss Hobbes.
By this time I was convinced that the people in the neighbouring houses must have raised the alarm, and I expected the police to appear on the scene at any moment. I hoped for it, concerned that what little I might be able to do would still not be enough.
I squeezed the trig
ger and braced myself as the weapon discharged. The report was like a thunderclap that echoed off the nearby buildings. I heard the bullet ping as it struck the belly of the mechanical beast, and I ducked involuntarily in case it rebounded in my direction.
Just as I’d hoped, the shot seemed to startle the pilot enough to draw his attention. I squeezed off another bullet, then a third in quick succession. I was pleased to hear the satisfying splinter of glass, suggesting I’d managed to unwittingly strike one of the portholes.
The machine twisted around, releasing its stranglehold on Miss Hobbes and allowing her to slump heavily to the ground. With a terrible scraping of metal against stone, the vehicle lurched out of the mouth of the alleyway towards me. I stumbled back, trying desperately to keep myself out of reach of the probing limbs that thrashed across the cobbles before it. I stumbled then, catching my heel on a loose paving stone and tumbling backwards, jarring my elbow and sending my revolver skittering across the street.
Panicked, I tried to roll out of the way of the oncoming machine, but in my heart I knew it was over. The mechanical beast would crush me utterly beneath its massive bulk.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and felt a moment of strange, lucid calm as I waited for it to strike. At least I’d managed to save Miss Hobbes.
But the blow never came. To my amazement the vehicle veered away at the last moment, lurching back the way it had come, towards the river. I leapt to my feet, reclaiming my revolver and staggering after it, but within moments it had slithered over the edge of the embankment, dropping into the water with an almighty splash. I ran to the edge but could see nothing but a frothy ring of bubbles upon the surface.
I rushed back to where Miss Hobbes was struggling to pull herself upright in the mouth of the alley. “Are you hurt?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries.
She shook her head, gasping for breath. “No, not seriously. Please... Maurice.” She pointed to the prone form of Newbury. He hadn’t moved since he’d been thrown across the street by the beast. I went to his side.
He was still breathing. I checked him hurriedly for broken limbs. Miraculously, he appeared to be mostly unhurt. He’d have a few aches and bruises when he came round, perhaps even a mild concussion, but he’d sustained no serious injuries.
I realised Miss Hobbes was standing beside me and stood back to allow her room. She knelt on the ground beside him and cupped his face in her hands. “Maurice?” And then more firmly, “Maurice?”
Newbury stirred, groaning. His eyes flickered open, and he looked up at us, confused. “Has it gone?”
“Yes, it’s gone,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “Although we’re lucky to be alive. I fear it was a rather abortive encounter.”
Newbury grinned as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, dusting himself down. “On the contrary, Dr Watson. Now we know what it is. Tomorrow we’ll be able to catch it.”
I frowned. “Forgive me, Sir Maurice, but how exactly do you propose to capture a mechanical beast of that size?”
Newbury laughed and took Miss Hobbes’s proffered hand in order to pull himself to his feet. “With an equally big net,” he replied, clapping me boldly on the shoulder. He glanced at Miss Hobbes. “You look shaken, Miss Hobbes. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she replied, dabbing with a handkerchief at a minor cut on her temple. Her hair had shaken loose and she was flushed. I recall thinking at the time, however, that it was not so much the encounter with the submersible that had shaken her, but her fear for Newbury. “Yes, I’m quite well.”
Newbury nodded, but it was clear he was not entirely satisfied with her answer. “Now, I’m sure we could all do with a stiff brandy. Let’s repair to Cleveland Avenue where we can rest, tend our wounds, and discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”
I found myself nodding and falling into step. I was keen to put some distance between our little band and the scene of the disturbance, and to find somewhere warm to rest my weary bones. I also must admit that, despite the danger, I had found myself quite swept up in the adventure and mystery of it all. There were questions to be answered. Who had that man been inside the strange submersible, staring out at me with such a pale, haunted expression? What was the purpose of the vehicle, and why had the pilot spared my life at the last moment?
I knew I’d be unable to rest until I had the answers to those questions. And besides, I was anxious to know more of these remarkable people with whom I had found myself working. Both Newbury and Miss Hobbes had shown remarkable courage in the face of terrible danger. Not only that, but they had remained entirely unperturbed by the appearance of the bizarre machine, as if they’d seen its like a hundred times before. I was intrigued to know how they planned to tackle the machine the following day, and I knew that whatever scheme was outlined to me that night, I would be unable to resist playing a role.
* * *
The following day I woke to a spasming muscle in my left calf. I felt tired and drained, and my body ached as it hadn’t done for years. Nevertheless, I also felt somewhat invigorated by the recollection of my adventure the prior evening. It seemed to me as if I’d stumbled upon something momentous, and I was anxious to get to the bottom of the matter.
I washed and dressed and worked the muscle in my leg until the cramping eased. I was badly bruised from where I’d fallen, and my elbow was painful to move. I knew it wouldn’t stop me, however. I might have been an old soldier, but I was a soldier still, and I knew how to pick myself up and carry on.
I took a stout breakfast of porridge and fruit, and then set out to call on Brownlow. A short trip on the Underground took me across town, and the brisk walk at the other end did much to clear my head. It was a cold, damp day, and the sky above was an oppressive canopy of grey, brooding and pregnant.
Upon my arrival, Brownlow’s wife—a willowy woman in her late thirties, who wore a permanently startled expression—informed me that her husband was out, and so I trudged the quarter mile to his surgery, where I found him enjoying a momentary respite from his patients. He ushered me into his office and asked the clerk to organise a pot of tea.
It was clear almost immediately that I’d been correct in my assumption that Brownlow would have thrown himself into his work in an effort to dispel his anxiety over the events of two nights previous. He acted as if the encounter had never even occurred, and when I raised the subject he waved me down with a severe frown, indicating that he no longer wished to discuss it. Still, I persisted, and when I began to relate the story of my own encounter with the mechanical beast, he listened quietly, absorbing every detail.
“So I am not, after all, bound for Bedlam,” he said when I’d finished. He did so with a jovial smile, but the relief was plain to see on his face. “Thank you, John.”
“You were never bound for Bedlam, Peter. But I do believe you are guilty of overworking yourself. You should consider allowing yourself a holiday with that pretty wife of yours.”
He smiled at this and poured the tea. “I think, my dear friend, that I should find such a holiday even more stress-inducing than a late-night encounter with a mechanical beast. I cannot abandon my patients.”
I sighed and reached for my teacup.
* * *
It was approaching midday when I left Brownlow to his patients, feeling as if, for once, I’d been able to lift a weight from his shoulders. Newbury had said he’d need time to prepare for the evening’s activities—that he needed to speak with a man named Aldous Renwick—and so, left to my own devices, I decided to head to Baker Street in order to take luncheon with Holmes. I was still rankled with him for his dismissive attitude the previous day, but felt it would not do to let things fester between us. He had, after all, no other friends upon which to prevail if he found himself in need. He was not a man that responded well to prolonged solitude; despite his protestations to the opposite, Holmes needed an audience.
I found him hunched over a leather-bound tome, poring over page after page of arcane diagrams, each of whi
ch appeared to depict complex chemical formulas. He was still wearing his ratty old dressing gown and his unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth. Dark rings had developed beneath his hooded eyes, and he appeared gaunt. I guessed he had not been to bed since I had last seen him, let alone the thought that he might have taken a bath or gone for a stroll.
He didn’t look up when Mrs Hudson showed me into the room, but waved for me to take a seat. I shifted a heap of newspapers to the floor in order to do so.
“Well, Holmes!” I said, clutching the arms of the chair and leaning forward, hoping to draw his attention from the manual upon his lap. “Last night’s activities by the river were quite invigorating.”
“Hmmm,” issued Holmes dismissively, still steadfastly refusing to look up from his book.
“I saw it for myself,” I continued, determined that he’d hear me out. “The beast, that is. Turns out it’s a ruddy great machine of some sort, a submersible with legs, containing a pilot. Things looked a bit hairy for a while, on account of the aforementioned pilot attacking Sir Maurice, his associate Miss Hobbes, and me. Had to chase him off with my revolver in the end. You should have seen it, Holmes. Quite remarkable.”
At this, Holmes suddenly slammed his book shut and looked up, turning his familiar hawk-like gaze upon me. “What was that, Watson? I fear I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
I issued a long, familiar sigh. “Nothing, Holmes,” I said, deflated. “It wasn’t important.”