“Pah! You mean to say you actually think this figment of the imagination is real? A prancing jack-in-a-box, popping up hither and yon in the East End, scaring burglars and impeding robberies in progress? Really, Sherlock, I can accept Watson here falling for such shilling-shocker claptrap, but you?”
I made to protest at the insult that had been levelled against me, but my friend got there first.
“Mycroft, Watson is as astute a judge of the facts as any man. He may embellish and romanticise his accounts of my exploits somewhat, in order to make them more pleasing as literary entertainment, but he has an eye for detail and a nose for the truth, and I will not have you impugning his character or his acumen.”
Mycroft, abashed, turned to me and grumbled an apology, something about his having spoken out of turn, the pressure he was under, great weight on his shoulders, no offence meant.
I myself was flattered beyond measure by Holmes’s praise. He was not usually so unstinting with his compliments, least of all where my intellectual prowess or my writing skills were concerned. There were times in his company, and more so in the company of him and his brother together, that I was made to feel as though I were a member of an inferior species, a reasonably gifted ape perhaps. It was nice to be reminded that my companion thought more highly of me than that.
“But seriously, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, “this absurd Baron Cauchemar rumour, there’s no more substance to it than there was to Spring-heeled Jack. In fact, I would maintain that the former is an adjunct of the latter, a modern updating of a fifty-year-old myth, the only difference being that Cauchemar foils crimes whereas Spring-heeled Jack, with his propensity for assaulting strangers and molesting women, perpetrated them.”
“It is a crucial difference, one that outweighs any superficial similarities between the two.”
“Baron Cauchemar is a story that residents of a dismal, overcrowded corner of London have dreamed up in order to bring a touch of colour and excitement to their otherwise drab, squalid lives,” Mycroft insisted. “He is a fantasy, as insubstantial as this table is solid.” He thumped the top of the oak dining table to underscore his point. “They say he can leap twenty feet in the air. They say he can break down a brick wall with his hands. They say he can stun a man with a jolt of electricity or knock him out with a puff of gas expelled from his hand. I believe not one iota of it. The slums and rookeries of this city breed all manner of superstition and old wives’ tales: giant rats in the sewers, baby-abducting ghouls, flying boats, ghostly coachmen, sinister Chinamen with the power to bend your will to theirs via sheer animal magnetism, and whatnot. I’m almost ashamed to call you my brother if you’re going to start putting store by any of that nonsense.”
“There is a compelling case for thinking that Baron Cauchemar is more than mere fancy, Mycroft,” said Holmes. “I am also of the view that his emergence into the public eye in the past few weeks is not unconnected with the bombings.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Yes indeed,” said Holmes stoutly. “And, to that end, Baron Cauchemar is the avenue of investigation I intend to pursue.”
“And you’re not prepared to accept that it’s pure happenstance, this fairytale creature appearing at the same time as a fresh wave of insurrectionist bombings hits the capital? At the very least coincidence?”
“In as much as I’m innately suspicious of coincidences, no. To my mind, it seems more likely than not that the one set of extraordinary occurrences should in some way be related to the other. And if I am wrong, and if the existence of Baron Cauchemar is impossible, as you insist, then at least I will have eliminated that impossibility from my enquiries, leaving me one step closer to the truth, however improbable.”
Mycroft’s chin sank into the fold of blubber that bulged out over his shirt collar.
“If that is your choice, Sherlock, so be it,” he said in a sullen growl, fixing his watery grey eyes on his brother. “Go and chase your silly chimera. I will be in touch again in a couple of days’ time to see what progress you have made – which will be none, I’ll wager. Then, perhaps, you will change your mind and make the sensible decision to work directly for me after all.”
“We shall see,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson! We’ve stayed long enough.”
And so we left the silent Diogenes Club and an equally silent, and fuming, Mycroft.
Outside in the street, removed from the club’s stifling confines, I once again remonstrated with my friend. “Holmes, should you not at the very least visit Waterloo Station? It is most unlike you to turn down the opportunity to inspect a crime scene. The terrorists might well have left clues.”
“Did I say I was not going to look there?”
“You did not say that you were. Come on, a little of your time. Set aside this Baron Cauchemar business for just one moment.”
“I’m almost certain it would be pointless. Special Branch will have already trampled all over the place in their hobnailed boots, leaving little useful evidence for someone with a keener eye to detect.”
“I would be in your debt if you would go,” I said. “You weren’t there. It was terrible. Those people – innocents – ripped to bits. And don’t forget how close I came to being one of the victims. Anything that can be done to bring us that bit nearer to finding the persons responsible...”
I admit I was playing upon his sympathies. Some might even call it a kind of blackmail. Yet I felt I had a very personal stake in the matter.
“Very well,” said Holmes. “Since you insist. I’ll warrant something may have survived Special Branch’s clodhopping vandalism.”
He turned his feet in the direction of Waterloo with what seemed to be a show of great reluctance, yet I had the sneaking suspicion it had been his intention to survey the scene of the bombing all along, even without my cajoling. He just hadn’t wanted Mycroft to know this, not wishing to appear meekly subservient to his brother’s wishes. Whatever sibling rivalries had characterised the youthful years of the two Holmeses remained in force even in adulthood. I don’t believe there is a younger brother alive who would willingly be at his older brother’s beck and call, and Holmes, for all his genius and his detachment from the tidal pull of base emotions, was no exception to this rule.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE AROMA OF OVERRIPE BANANAS
Arriving at the station, we found a throng of onlookers clustered around the entrance, gawping and prurient. As with any disaster, it never took long for the news to spread and for spectators to come from far and wide, eager for a glimpse of other people’s tragedy.
Holmes headed inside, I following with some reluctance. My memories of the bombing were still fresh and raw. I could scarcely bring myself to re-enter the building, fearing irrationally that a second bomb might have been laid, to finish what the first had started.
Holmes made himself known to the Special Branch officer who was supervising. The man, Grimsdyke, was built like a gorilla and had perfected a forbidding glower that would have intimidated a rampaging sepoy. Holmes nonetheless was able to convince him of our bona fides, dropping the name of our sometime ally in the CID, Inspector Lestrade. Grimsdyke admitted he knew of Holmes’s reputation.
“Something of a loose cannon, I’m told,” he said, “but frankly we need all the firepower we can get.”
Grudgingly he granted my friend permission to conduct an examination of the bomb wreckage.
I watched Holmes go through his usual familiar routine at a crime scene: scurrying hither and thither, occasionally going down on all fours to study something on the ground, peering through a magnifying glass at some infinitesimal and seemingly inconsequential detail. His movements lithe and nimble, he resembled a bloodhound questing this way and that to find a scent. He spent a considerable amount of time at the huge gouge in the western wall which betokened where the gentlemen’s lavatory lay, the epicentre of the blast. The hole itself and the rubble which surrounded it were of particular interest to him. He also interviewed various memb
ers of railway staff who were present.
By and by he straightened up, offered his hand to Grimsdyke, and rejoined me at the main entrance, where I had stayed all the while.
“What did you discover?” I asked as we stepped back out into the lengthening shadows of evening. I was glad to be out of there.
“A few things of interest,” he replied. “The bomb was placed in the last of the row of stalls, that much is plain, lodged behind the cistern. I can also say without doubt that the explosive used was dynamite. Nitroglycerin has a distinctively sweet aroma, not unlike that of overripe bananas. The wood pulp that it is soaked in, to give it form and stability, also leaves behind a marked odour after detonation, much like bonfire smoke.”
“Dynamite. Which would seem to confirm that the same agency was behind this attack as the previous two.”
“It would be surprising if it were otherwise. The useful thing about dynamite, from our point of view, is that it is difficult to get hold of. Legally, at least. Unless one is engaged in the kind of work which requires it of necessity, such as quarrying or mining, it may be purchased only on the black market from disreputable sources. That may prove helpful in our enquiries.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing that adds greatly to the sum of our knowledge. None of the railway employees I spoke to has any recollection of a person behaving erratically or suspiciously in the vicinity prior to the bombing. All stated that it was a busy time of day and that countless people were going to and fro. Our terrorists would appear to be able to pass as ordinary citizens and act in a coolheaded manner under pressure.”
“One would wish that they could not.”
“Yes, if only every villain would skulk around all swivel-eyed and cackling, it would make life much easier.”
The note of sarcasm in my friend’s voice irked me. “Well, I appreciate your agreeing to come here, even if it was only to indulge my whim. I trust the time wasn’t wholly wasted.”
“It’s never a waste of time pursuing a potential trail of evidence, even if it appears to lead nowhere distinct. A dead end at least has the function of telling one which way not to go and confirming what the right track might be.”
“You mean, in this instance, Baron Cauchemar.”
“I do.”
“But what I don’t understand is, this creature, even if he exists, appears to be the foe of wrongdoers. He prevents crime rather than commits it. Why would you prefer to concentrate on him when there are clear and present evils to be combated?” I gestured back at the station.
“He fascinates me,” said Holmes. “And, as I said to Mycroft, I don’t believe that his manifesting now in our city is unrelated to the bombings. There is some connection, which I am determined to fathom. Solving the mystery of Baron Cauchemar might well even provide the key to unlocking the identity of the terrorists.”
“So what now?”
“Now? I have thinking to do, my friend, and it is best done at home, with the aid of three pipes’ worth of shag tobacco and a few violin pieces. Some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder would fit the bill, and perhaps Beethoven’s Kreutzer Sonata. I shall call for you again tomorrow. I trust you will be free.”
“I have no other plans,” I said.
And even if I had, I would have cancelled them.
CHAPTER FIVE
GROUT THE IRREGULAR
Holmes sent for me towards evening the next day. His messenger was a scrubby little boy, name of Grout, one of Holmes’s troop of semi-feral street children, the Baker Street Irregulars. Grout wore a cloth cap several sizes too large for him, which was prevented from slipping down over his eyes by virtue of a jutting pair of jug ears. His face had not known the touch of soap and water in ages, being more smudge than skin, but he had a lively, engaging manner, a birdlike alertness about him.
“Mr ’Olmes says you need to dress down,” Grout informed me. “He ’as a job for you what requires you to be able to ‘mingle with the undesirables’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“And where am I to carry out this job?”
“You’ve got me to show you that,” said the boy. “Oh, and you ought to bring your service revolver with you, Mr Watson, just in case.”
I donned the shabbiest garments in my wardrobe, some tattered, moth-eaten items which Mary would have put out for the rag-and-bone man had I not found them useful for doing the gardening in. In the mirror, I cut a dishevelled, scarecrow-like figure. I mussed up my hair and reckoned that I might, just might, pass for someone more disreputable than myself.
Grout’s eyes grew huge as he saw me fetch my gun from its case and check that it was in good working order and fully loaded.
“Cor! Is that a Mark Three Adams, sir?”
“It is. You know your weapons.”
“Standard issue for British Army officer class. Six-shot, six-and-a-half-inch barrel, takes a hollow-based roundnosed lead bullet with a thirteen-grain black-powder charge.”
Now it was my turn to widen my eyes.
“You really do know your weapons,” I said, stowing the revolver in a pocket.
“It’s, er... a ’obby of mine.”
“I see. And not, perchance, a line of business you might dabble in from time to time?” Many of the Baker Street Irregulars were involved in illicit activities, from petty larceny to gun running. Their proximity to the criminal underworld was one of the reasons they were so valuable to Holmes.
“Oh no, Mr Watson,” Grout exclaimed, all innocence. “Not me, sir. I’m as honest as the day is long.”
“It’s autumn,” said I, wryly. “The nights are drawing in and the days are shortening.”
“I ’ave no idea what you’re getting at, sir. But time is a-wasting. Perhaps we should go.”
“Very well. Lead the way.”
A thick fog had rolled in off the Thames estuary, flooding the London Basin and bringing an atmosphere of preternatural stillness and calm to the capital. It was dusk, but already it felt like long past sunset. Grout and I moved through the shrouded city, and sometimes the only sound we heard was our own footfalls and the only signs of human life we saw were our own flickering, etiolated shadows. The urchin knew exactly where he was going, never having to pause to check street signs or take his bearings. He seemed to navigate through the fog by some uncanny sixth sense.
I gathered that we were heading east, but my main preoccupation was sticking close to my guide and not losing sight of him. I feared that if we parted ways, I might become hopelessly marooned in this pea-souper and end up wandering in circles all night long.
“Is Holmes meeting us at our destination?” I asked.
Grout shrugged. “’E didn’t say. ’E just told me to get you there and make sure you know who you’re supposed to be tailing.”
“So I’m to follow someone.”
“That’s the gist of it, sir.”
A little further on, I decided to satisfy another curiosity of mine.
“Tell me, Grout, have you heard of this Baron Cauchemar creature?”
The boy gave a cautious, furtive nod. His voice lowered, taking on a note of anxiety.
“I ’aven’t seen ’im myself, like, but there’s plenty of folks round my way as ’as. Including my own uncle Bart.”
“Really?”
“Cross my ’eart. Uncle Bart’s a, well, not to beat about the bush, a cracksman.”
“A safe breaker?”
“And one of the best in the land,” said Grout with pride. “There ain’t a peter made what Bart can’t open, and usually in a minute flat. Bart was casing a ’ouse, a fortnight ago, nice place up near Blackheath. Rich bloke owns it, who’s often out of town on work. Bart ’ad it on good authority there was a nice big square-bodied inside, a Tann’s List Three, jammed with jewellery and readies. ’E was just about to break in, nice and easy, jemmy up the window, slip inside... Only that’s when ’e saw ’im.”
“Baron Cauchemar.”
“Yeah. Baron Coshmar. Coming up the road,
’e was, all kind of bouncing along on these enormous legs. Eyes aglare. Face like a demon’s. The Bloody Black Baron himself, out on patrol.”
“Your uncle got a good look at him?”
“Well, as Bart tells it, ’e dived into the nearest ’edge and ’id there, on account of being utterly petrified by this thing what was striding towards ’im in leaps and bounds. And I could ’ear it in ’is voice, as ’e was recounting the story, that ’e was proper scared, and it takes a lot to scare a ’ard nut like my uncle. But ’e peers out through the leaves anyway, and Baron Coshmar is striding right by, and ’e’s eight-foot tall if ’e’s an inch, and ’e’s all black and gleaming like some kind of beetle, and ’e’s making this noise, this ’issing, kind of psssh-pah, psssh-pah, as ’e goes. And ’is face is sort of this way...” Grout formed his features into an exaggerated leering expression, mouth gaping, eyes agog like marbles. “Shiny and blazing mad. ‘Like something out of ell,’ Bart said. ‘Like Satan ’imself come to earth.’ And Bart’s not one to make things up. Least, not always. Sometimes when ’e’s in ’is cups ’e’ll spin a yarn or two, but this time ’e was sober as a judge. Which is a funny expression, when you think about it. Some of the beaks I’ve been up in front of, they’ve not struck me as sober at all. Especially when it’s been after lunch.”
I masked a smile. “Did Bart have any further interaction with him?”
“Not on your life. Soon as that monster was out of sight, Bart jumped out from the ’edge and fled. Wasn’t conducting any more business that night, no way. One close shave was enough for ’im. The Bloody Black Baron don’t like crooks, you see. Everyone in the East End knows that. ’E catches you in the act, red-’anded – in flagrante delicto, like – you’re going to regret it.”
I was not surprised that an ill-educated street urchin like Grout would know a complicated Latin phrase like in flagrante delicto. He had doubtless heard it, and others of its ilk, issuing from the lips of members of the bar and the judiciary in the course of a trial which he was attending as a spectator or, more likely, as a defendant. For youngsters like him, a courtroom was often their only classroom, certainly their only exposure to higher culture.
Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares Page 3