Holmes grabbed Challenger’s arm and pulled him back toward their hansom. The driver did not need to be told to leave the area with all due haste. He wheeled his animal about, turned right on Throgmorton Road and did not slow down until he was on Old Broad Street, heading in the direction of Liverpool Station, and slowed only then because of the press of the traffic.
”Good God, Holmes!” Challenger gasped.
“The Irish Separatists again,” Holmes replied grimly. “Chief Inspector Durant will catch more fire over this than about the attack on Scotland Yard. Bearding the Metropolitan Police in its den is one thing, but attacking the lifeblood of the Empire is an attack on every English and a threat to every politician’s career.”
“Was this a coincidence, Holmes?”
“Our presence? Or the attack itself?”
“Yes, to both, I suppose.”
“I loathe coincidences, but they happen, and even my youthful correspondent Jung is not yet prepared to declare them meaningful,” Holmes replied. “No one knew of my intention to remand the statue to the Bullion Officer, not even you till I told you before departing. There is no way the explosives could have been gathered from their secret warehouse, assembled into an internal device and placed in a cab at the front of the bank in time to precede our arrival.”
“A cab?” Challenger frowned.
“A hansom, to be precise,” Holmes explained. “Surely you noticed the wheel and the head of that unfortunate animal. The width of the wheel specified it as a hansom rather than some other conveyance, and there was single horse.”
“Why a cab at all?” Challenger asked.
“The Bank of England is too well guarded to allow anyone to approach closely enough to mount an attack,” Holmes said.
“Not that these Separatist blaggards are the kind to mount an honorable assault!” Challenger snarled.
“They see themselves clothed in another mantel of honor than would those whom they consider outsiders,” Holmes explained. “They use the tactics forced upon them by their situation; they do not fight with the hope of capturing territory or subduing the enemy. Their attacks against Scotland Yard and the Bank of England are not even assaults against those institutions, but against the authority they represent, against the society that supports them. Their aims are to spread terror amongst the population and to lessen confidence in the government.”
“Unless Inspector Durant stops them, they may achieve their goals,” Challenger observed.
Holmes shook his head. “The British spirit is made of sterner stuff than can be destroyed by infernal devices, and His Majesty’s Government has weathered gales just as strong. But, don’t worry, Challenger—the matter will be put to an end soon, just as our own adventure will soon end.”
The scientist looked at the consulting detective with no small measure of surprise. “I cannot see how we are much closer to a solution than we were when that sailor stumbled into our lives; indeed, I feel we are so beleaguered by the unknown that even defining the nature of the mystery we face gives me a headache.”
“There are forces at work all about us, each pushing for a solution favorable to its own ends,” Holmes said, “but in working against us they may also work against each other.”
“The enemy of my enemy may become an unwitting ally,” Challenger quipped.
“Quite, but a dangerous ally nevertheless.”
When they returned to Baker Street, they found three messages awaiting them, two that had been delivered by messenger and one that had come in the fourth post of the day. One was a report from the hospital, that Inspector Wilkins was on the mend and would be released in a few days, The second was from Barton, stating that Bronislav had sent an agent to the Docks area, who met with a man known as Harkeen.
“Barton is an intelligent observer,” Holmes remarked. “The man who left to do Bronislav’s bidding is no doubt the information-monger once attached to Moriarty’s and Moran’s organizations. With such a detailed description as provided by Barton here, I will know him if ever we meet.”
“What about this Harkeen?”
“A petty criminal lacking either conscience or cunning,” the detective replied. “He is cruel and brutal in the same way children often are, but his mind is housed in a great bestial form. He is dangerous, but not likely to ever be employed by Bronislav except through the agency of his courier.”
“This man gives Bronislav avenues of action to which he would not normally have access?” Challenger said.
Holmes nodded. “Bronislav is as dangerous as an adder, but he is not a criminal in the accepted sense of the word, hence his limitations. His ally, though that may be too strong a word for a man who will never be more than a tool, is on most intimate terms with the London underworld.” Holmes read the third message, frowned, then handed it to Challenger. “From Lord Whitecliff.”
“He wants to meet us at Hammersmith Bridge at the midnight hour,” Challenger murmured as he read the note. “He gives no reason except to say he wants to give us more information about the idol in our possession.”
“Curious, wouldn’t you say?” Holmes remarked.
“That he should ask us to meet him at Hammersmith Bridge rather than at the British Museum?” Challenger asked. “Or curious that he should insist I be there as well, considering our relationship and our history?”
“Neither,” Holmes replied, “but that he should refer to it merely as the ‘idol that has come into your possession’.”
“You doubt his sincerity?”
“I doubt everything about this note,” Holmes snapped.
“Yet that is certainly Cecil Whitecliff’s signature,” Challenger pointed out. “I recognize it.”
“There is not a document that cannot be forged convincingly,” Holmes mused. “There is even a chance the signature may be authentic and the letter not.”
“Perhaps we should forego the journey to Hammersmith,” Challenger suggested, “and proceed directly to his house. I am not welcome there, but I know where it is.”
“There is no time for that, but I will ask Barton to have a check on Whitecliff,” Holmes replied. “I earlier made arrangements for us to meet with the Admiralty. I had not planned to cart that loathsome thing all over London, but I see we have little choice but to do so, given the circumstances.”
The Admiralty was an imposing structure at the north end of Whitehall, the former Wallingford House, near the Horseguards’ Barracks. It was almost within view of Scotland Yard. The sharp smell in the air, though likely from London’s chimneys and steamers upon the great river beyond the Embankment to the west, put into Challenger’s mind the events that had befallen them and their friend Inspector Wilkins; indeed, that thought brought a vast rush of thoughts regarding the situation that had overwhelmed him after what had started out as nothing more than a visit to a man of which he had often heard but never met. The encounter had plunged him into a world alien to his experiences, the world of crime and criminals, but he wondered if Holmes, too, had not entered an arena alien to his experiences and proclivities, the realm of monsters, gods and magic. Holmes, would not use those terms, of course, but, until recently, neither would Challenger.
Challenger’s attention was jerked back to the present when he realized Holmes had introduced him to a naval officer, Commander Brin. He murmured a greeting and shook the Commander’s proffered hand.
“Please come this way, gentlemen,” Commander Brin said. “The Lord Admiral is waiting.”
They were conducted into a well-appointed meeting room paneled with dark wood, The carpet was so thick their feet made not a whisper as they moved. Three men were awaiting them—the Lord Admiral was instantly recognizable; the other two were introduced as Geoffrey Giles from the Home Office and Sir Robert Conners, of the Port of London Authority.
“I know our meeting was to be private, Mr Holmes,” the Lord Admiral began, “but the situation has changed.”
“There has been another attack, such as was committed at
Rotherhithe?” Holmes ventured.
“Yes, at the Millwall Dock, off West Ferry Road,” the Lord Admiral replied.
“Thank God we were able to keep this latest one out of the news,” Giles said.
“The same creatures?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, it seems so,” the Lord Admiral said. “The skepticism I evinced earlier, Mr Holmes, is completely vanished.”
“What exactly happened?”
“Sir Robert, if you please,” the Lord Admiral said.
“Shortly before dawn, two of the creatures you described to the Lord Admiral passed through the inlet under the West Ferry Road into the dock area,” Sir Robert explained. “At the same time, one came over the roadway, attacking two mounted Port officers, killing one severely wounding the other, they and their mounts were partially devoured, The beasts smashed through several warehouses containing grain and would no doubt have gone on to plunder the connected West India Docks if they had not finally been driven off by armed watchmen.”
The Lord Admiral slowly shook his snowy head. “Though I have always respected you, Mr Holmes, I hoped this time your imagination had outstripped your deduction.”
“I can hardly believe this is happening,” Giles said. “This is the sort of thing that might happen in one of Mr Wells’ scientific romances, or in the novels of that blasted Frenchman. This is the real world, not some penny dreadful.”
“Calm yourself, Mr Giles,” Sir Robert said, rather sharply.
“Mr Holmes,” said the Lord Admiral, “I have the outline of what has happened, but you possess more information than any of us. Please be so good as to brief us on what you know.”
Holmes quickly told how he and Challenger became involved in the matter, of the dead sailor who had found his way to Baker Street, and of the peculiar package that seemed to point to a dark heritage of prehistoric Britain. He told of their enquiry, or most of it, into the nature of the idol and, at the request of the Lord Admiral, revealed its form to them.
Giles turned rather pale and the Lord Admiral frowned disapprovingly, muttering, “Bad taste, bad taste.”
The official from the Port Authority nodded. “Yes, that’s it, going by the reports of the watchmen, but the creatures were not as large as certain aspects of that sculpture would indicate.”
“What will we do?” the Lord Admiral asked. The question was directed to no one in particular.
“Though they have the ability to travel over the surface of the earth,” Holmes said after a moment, “they are essentially marine creatures. River patrols should be increased and well armed, and all dock areas should be under extreme vigilance.”
“I’ll make arrangements to move several naval vessels onto the Thames and make munitions available,” the Lord Admiral said. “Mr Giles, please see that the Home Secretary is briefed on the urgency of this matter. Scotland Yard’s river patrol force will coordinate its efforts with the Royal Navy through Commander Brin,”
“I’ll see that the watches at all the docks are increased and ask that each ship mount an armed watch,” Sir Robert offered. “We will be asked the reason for the changes.”
“Make up any reason you want, but I want as few people as possible to be knowledgeable about the nature of the situation that has necessitated these steps. We must not allow a panic to ensue.” The Lord Admiral looked pointedly at the gathered men. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen, and thank you, Mr Holmes, Professor Challenger, for bringing this matter to our attention.”
Holmes nodded and stood to leave.
Challenger looked to his companion, a question poised upon his lips, yet unuttered. The look Holmes gave him prompted him to keep that question to himself. Once they were beyond the confines of the Admiralty conference room, he could hold it in no longer.
“Blast it, Holmes, you did not say a single word about Laslo Bronislav,” the scientist blurted.
“To what purpose?”
“To arrest him of course,” Challenger said. “He’s behind this whole thing, and the sooner he is in a naval brig, the better.”
“If it were simply a matter of having him arrested, we could have asked Wilkins to do that, but it would have been a useless gesture,” Holmes said. “As I told you, Bronislav is not a criminal in the accepted sense of the word. He may be the motivating force of any amount of mayhem and murder, but nothing could be proved against him in a court of law.”
“What about these creatures?” Challenger demanded. “They are here because of Bronislav’s desire for the idol.”
“Do not let your emotions get the better of you, Challenger,” Holmes scolded. “The law is not equipped to deal with the likes of Bronislav. The official authorities will have better luck with these beings that have followed their image to England; the disposition of Bronislav is our responsibility.”
Challenger asked: “What can we do that the law cannot, and that which itself would not be against the law?”
“Certainly not murder him, if that is what you fear,” Holmes replied with a short laugh. “This is hardly the first time I have been forced to become a law unto myself. It is not that I am morally superior to any man, for I have more than my share of faults and foibles, but I think, at times, I possess an acute moral awareness which the majority of men do not.”
“As Wilkins might put it, the knowledge of good and evil?”
“Perhaps,” Holmes admitted with but the faintest trace of a smile. “Call it what you will, it is a trait that chose my life’s work for me, and made me a guardian of society.”
Dusk was upon the great city by the time they returned to Baker Street and found a telegram from the Pinkerton agent. Holmes frowned, then passed it to Challenger.
“Good lord!” the scientist gasped. “Cecil Whitecliff is dead! An accident, it says.”
“It was no accident,” Holmes replied.
“Barton reports he choked to death on a fragment of bone.”
“A cunning murder,” Holmes insisted. “One that was not meant to be found out till the morrow at least.”
“How does deduction lead you to the verdict of murder in this case?” Challenger asked.
“The timing of the death, mostly, but the manner as well,” Holmes replied. “It is the sort of death that might be experienced with an incautious, slothful and gluttonous man, but I think you know Lord Whitecliff was none of those.”
Challenger nodded grudgingly. “But accidents do happen.”
“And many murders have been hidden as accidents.”
“This cancels our meeting at Hammersmith Bridge.”
“On the contrary, Challenger,” Holmes said. “Our adversary has outreached himself this time. He should have waited to dispose of Whitecliff. He could not know I would send Barton around, and thus reveal what happened prior to tomorrow morning, not that we should ever know of it. Barton has not yet informed the police. I am asking him to hold off for the moment. If the police know, then Bronislav will certainly come into that knowledge as well.”
“Then the meeting at the bridge…”
“A trap!” Holmes cried, “I suspected as much, but now the proof of it has come out. I had not intended that we should ever go there alone, no matter Whitecliff’s pleas for confidentiality, but now I fully intend to trap the would-be trapper, Come, Challenger, we have plans to lay!”
Chapter Ten
Wispy strands of fog freighted with the scents of the darkness-mitered Thames flowed through Hammersmith Borough. It was near midnight. Silence lay heavy upon the ancient hamlet west of Kensington, now all but swallowed by the sprawl of London. The quaint waterfront mansions, one of which was Kelmscott House, formerly owned by Mr William Morris, the noted poet and designer, were unlighted, the occupants unaware of the drama about to be played out in their quiet cobbled lanes.
If all goes according to Bronislav’s plan, McBane thought. Whatever that plan may be.
The area around the bridge was deserted. The only sign of human activity was a steam launch anchored at the do
ck alongside the bridge, but it had been there when McBane arrived and was obviously unoccupied.
Earlier, he had watched Harkeen hide himself in a dark narrow alley just up from the bridge. There was no mistaking that hulking form, even at a distance, a massive anthropoid shape that would have been more at home in the Congo’s depths than London’s urban jungle. At their initial meeting, it had taken all McBane’s patience and persistence to convince Harkeen to become a harmonious element within Bronislav’s plan. Only two men? Break neck and slit throat, was the simple-minded giant’s desire, and it had taken the threat of non-payment to finally bring him into line.
But payment is not to be his at any rate, is it? McBane thought grimly. In the pocket of his jacket was the revolver that would end Harkeen’s pathetic existence. No doubt it would like require all six heavy bullets. Yes, a pathetic existence, McBane told himself. Ending it was a kindness, really, a correction of a mistake God should never have allowed the breath of life in the first place, and the brute’s death would be a service to society.
Yet there was no denying the distasteful nature of the act about to be forced upon him by Bronislav’s whims. It was not the sort of thing he did. True, he had killed before, had no moral compunctions against murder, but it was a physical act that went contrary to his intellectual aspirations. Both Moriarty and Moran had ordered hundreds of murders in their times, but when they had deigned to commit the act themselves, and against Sherlock Holmes at that, the results had been disastrous.
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