by George Mann
“About Mrs Hudson?”
“About the reason I’m here. This supposed beast. I had the unhappy task of comforting a friend last night who claimed to have seen it. The poor man was terrified.”
“Hmm,” said Holmes, resuming his pacing.
I waited for his response until it was evident that I’d already had the entirety of it. “Well?”
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something, Watson?” he said, a little unkindly.
I glowered at him. “Really, Holmes! I thought you would be glad of the case. I mean, you’ve been holed up in here for weeks with nothing to occupy your mind. And poor Brownlow—”
“There’s nothing in it, Watson. Some idle hoaxer looking to sell his story. Nothing more. I have no interest in such coarse, ridiculous matters.” He plucked violently at three strings in succession. “Besides,” he continued, his tone softening, “I find myself in the midst of a rather sensitive affair. Mycroft has gone and lost his favourite spy, a government scientist by the name of Mr Xavier Gray. He’s quite frantic about the whole matter, and he’s prevailing on me to assist him in the search for the missing man.”
“Well, what are you doing here?” I asked. Sometimes I found it very difficult to fathom the motives of my dear friend.
“Thinking,” he replied, as if that explained everything. He reached for the bow that he’d balanced precariously on the arm of a chair and began chopping furiously at the violin, emitting a long, cacophonous screech. I rose from where I’d been crouching by the fire and dusted off my hands. Clearly, I was unlikely to gain anything further from Holmes. As I crossed the room, heading towards the door, the violin stopped abruptly behind me and I turned to see Holmes regarding me, a curious expression on his face. “Send your friend to see a man named Maurice Newbury, of 10 Cleveland Avenue, Chelsea. I understand he’s an ‘expert’ in matters such as these.” He spoke the man’s name with such disdain that he clearly thought him to be no such thing.
“Very well,” I said, curtly. “I hope you find your missing spy.” But Holmes had already started up again with his violin.
* * *
As I clambered into a hansom outside number 221B, frustrated by Holmes’s dismissive attitude, I made the sudden, snap decision to pay a visit to this Newbury character myself. I am not typically given to such rash acts, but I remained intent on discovering the truth about the infernal beast that had so terrified my friend. Brownlow, being so meek, would never call on Newbury of his own account, no matter how I pressed him. I was sure that even now he would be reconciling himself to what had occurred, finding a way to accommodate the bizarre encounter into his own, conservative view of the world. He would rationalise it and carry on, returning to the distractions of his patients and his busy life. My interest, however, had been piqued and I was not prepared to allow the matter to rest without explanation.
I must admit that I was also keen to prove Holmes wrong. I realise now how ridiculous that sounds, how petty, but his attitude had galled me and I was anxious to prove to my friend that the matter was not beneath his attention. As things were to transpire, I would be more successful on that count than I could have possibly imagined.
The drive to Chelsea was brisk, and I passed it by staring out of the window, watching the streets flicker by in rapid, stuttering succession. Almost before I knew it we had arrived at Cleveland Avenue. I paid the driver and watched as the cab clattered away down the street, the horse’s breaths leaving steaming clouds in the frigid air.
Number 10 was an unassuming terraced house, fronted by a small rose garden that in turn was flanked by a black iron railing. A short path terminated in three large stone steps and a door painted in a bright, pillar-box red. I approached with some hesitation, feeling a little awkward now after my somewhat hasty retreat from Baker Street. What would I say to this Newbury fellow? I was there on behalf of a friend who claimed to have seen a monster? Perhaps Holmes had been right. Perhaps it was ridiculous. But there I was, on the doorstep, and I’d never been a man to shy away from a challenge. I rapped firmly with the door knocker.
A few moments later I heard footsteps rapping on floorboards from within, and then the door swung open and a pale, handsome face peered out at me. The man was dressed in a smart black suit and had an expectant look on his face. “May I help you?” he said, in warm, velvet tones.
“Mr Maurice Newbury?” I replied. “I was told I might find him at this address?”
The man gave a disapproving frown. “Sir Maurice is not receiving visitors at present, I’m afraid.”
Holmes! He might have saved me that embarrassment if he’d wanted to. “Indeed,” I replied, as graciously as I could muster. “I wonder if I might leave a card. My name is John Watson and I’m here on a rather urgent matter. I would speak with him as soon as is convenient. He comes very highly recommended.”
The man—whom I now realised was most likely Newbury’s valet—raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Dr John Watson? The writer?”
I smiled at this unexpected recognition. “Quite so.”
The valet grinned. I had to admit, I was warming to the fellow. “Well, Dr Watson, I think you’d better come in. I’m sure Sir Maurice will be anxious to meet you when he discovers the nature of his caller.” He coughed nervously as he closed the door behind me and took my hat and coat. “If you’d like to follow me?”
He led me along the hallway until we reached a panelled door. I could hear voices from inside, two of them, belonging to a man and a woman and talking in the most animated of tones. The valet rapped loudly on the door and stepped inside. I waited in the hallway until I knew I would be welcome.
“You have a visitor, sir.”
When it came the man’s reply was firm, but not unkind. “I thought I’d explained, Scarbright, that I wished to receive no callers today? I have an urgent matter I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the valet, a little sheepishly. “Only, it’s Dr John Watson, sir.”
“Dr Watson?” said Newbury, as if attempting to recall the significance of my name. “Ah, yes, the writer chap. You’re a follower of his work, aren’t you, Scarbright?”
“Indeed, sir,” said the valet, and I couldn’t suppress a little smile as I heard the crack of embarrassment in his voice. “He claims to have a rather urgent matter to discuss with you, sir.”
Newbury gave a sigh of resignation. “Very well, Scarbright. You’d better send him in.”
The valet stepped back and held the door open to allow me to pass. I offered him a brief smile of gratitude as I passed over the threshold into what I took to be the drawing room. In fact, it was much like the room in Baker Street from which I’d recently departed, only decorated with a more esoteric flair. Where Holmes might have had a stack of letters on the mantelpiece, speared by a knife, Newbury had the bleached skull of a cat. Listing stacks of leather-bound books formed irregular sentries around the edges of the room, and two high-backed Chesterfields had been placed before a raging fire. Both were occupied, the one on the left by the man I took to be Sir Maurice Newbury, and the other by a beautiful young woman who smiled warmly at me as I met her gaze.
Newbury was up and out of his seat before I’d crossed the threshold, welcoming me with a firm handshake and beckoning me to take a seat on the low-backed sofa that filled much of the centre of the room. He was a wiry-looking fellow of about forty, and was dressed in an ill-fitting black suit that appeared to have been tailored for a slightly larger man. Either that, or he had recently lost weight. He was ruggedly handsome, with fierce, olive-green eyes and raven-black hair swept back from his forehead. He had dark rings around his eyes and a sallow complexion, and I saw in him immediately the hallmarks of an opium eater: perhaps not the most auspicious of beginnings for our acquaintance. Nevertheless, I’d made it that far and I was determined to see it out.
“You are very welcome, Dr Watson,” said Newbury, genially. “I, as you might have gathe
red, am Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my associate Miss Veronica Hobbes.”
I took the young woman’s hand and kissed it briefly, before accepting Newbury’s offer of a seat. Miss Hobbes was stunningly beautiful, with dark brown hair tied up in a neat chignon. She was wearing dark grey culottes and a matching jacket—the picture of modern womanhood.
“Would you care for a drink, Doctor?” said Newbury, indicating the well-stocked sideboard with a wave of his hand. “A brandy, perhaps?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. Most kind, but I’ll abstain.”
Newbury returned to his seat by the fire, angling his body towards me. “So, how may I be of assistance, Dr Watson? I presume it’s not related to one of your journalistic endeavours?”
“Indeed not,” I replied, gravely. “I’m here on behalf of an associate of mine, a man named Brownlow. It’s connected with that business about the supposed beast that’s been seen crawling out of the river. Last night Brownlow had an encounter with the thing, and it rather left him terrified out of his wits. It was... suggested to me that you might be able to help shed some light.”
The corner of Newbury’s mouth twitched with the stirrings of a wry smile. “And this was not a matter that Mr Holmes was able to assist you with?”
“Holmes is busy,” I said, a little defensively. “And besides, it was Holmes who recommended I call. He said you were considered rather an expert in matters such as these.”
“I’m sure he did,” said Newbury, knowingly.
“Tell us, Dr Watson...” Miss Hobbes interjected, offering Newbury a mildly disapproving look “...did Mr Brownlow give you any indication as to when and where this sighting occurred?” In truth, I couldn’t blame the man for enjoying the moment. It was fair to imagine that Holmes himself would have done precisely the same. In fact, knowing him as I did, I’m convinced he would have taken the time to truly relish the irony of the situation.
I smiled at Miss Hobbes in gratitude for the timeliness of her interruption. “Cheyne Walk,” I replied. “Close to eleven o’clock yesterday evening. Following the incident he came directly to my club, where he is also a member, and sought me out for my assistance.”
Newbury looked thoughtful. “And did he offer a description of the beast?”
I hesitated for a moment as I considered the sheer ludicrousness of what I was about to relate. I felt ridiculous now for coming here and adding weight and validity to this story. How could it be real? Had I simply overreacted to Holmes’s rebuttal?
Well, whatever the case, it was too late to back out. “Brownlow described it as having a large, bulbous body about the size of a hansom cab, and eight thick limbs like tentacles upon which it slithered in the manner of an octopus. Now, I’m a little unsure as to the veracity of my friend’s description, but given the accounts in the newspapers this morning... well, you understand, I had to come. The poor man thinks he’s going insane. He might yet be right.”
Newbury glanced at Miss Hobbes. “Oh, I assure you, Dr Watson, that your friend is quite sane. His report is the same in every respect as the others. This ‘beast’, whatever it is, is quite real.”
“Sir Maurice’s clerk, Mrs Coulthard, was another of the witnesses,” continued Miss Hobbes, smiling reassuringly. “You find us in the midst of a discussion over how best to approach the situation.”
“Have you any thought yet as to what it might be? Some sort of primordial beast, woken after years of hibernation? The result of an experiment? A previously undiscovered species brought back from the colonies?” I sighed. “The mind boggles...”
I realise now that these suggestions may appear somewhat ignorant to a reader aware of the facts, but at the time I could think of no other reasonable explanation for what this beast might have been. As Holmes was fond of saying, “Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” If that axiom was indeed correct—and Newbury, also, was right in his assertion that the beast was real—then I could see no other credible explanation.
“I think it would be wrong for us to jump to any conclusions at this stage, Doctor. At least before we’ve had chance to lay eyes upon the beast ourselves.” Newbury glanced at his companion before continuing. “Miss Hobbes and I had only just resolved to take a stroll along Cheyne Walk this very evening. I’m of a mind to catch a glimpse of this creature myself. You’d be more than welcome to accompany us, if you so wished.”
“Well, it certainly makes sense to pool our resources,” I said. “And I also tend to favour the evidence of my own eyes. I’d be delighted to join you, Sir Maurice.” I admit to feeling a certain sense of relief at this rather unexpected development. I couldn’t help but wonder what Holmes would make of it all.
“In that case, Doctor, I shall encourage you to make haste to your home and prepare for a cold evening by the river. Warm clothes, stout boots and a firearm would be advisable. We can meet here for an early dinner at, say, six o’clock, and then be on our way.” Newbury smiled, and stood to accompany me to the door.
“Thank you, Sir Maurice,” I said, taking him by the hand. “And good afternoon, Miss Hobbes.”
“Until this evening, Dr Watson,” she replied brightly.
It wasn’t until I’d already left the house on Cleveland Avenue that it occurred to me that baiting monsters by the river might have been a rather unsuitable pursuit for a lady. Nevertheless, as I was soon to discover, Miss Veronica Hobbes was most definitely a woman who knew how to look after herself.
* * *
So it was that, a few hours later, my belly full of the most excellent beef Wellington, I found myself on the banks of the Thames, shivering beneath my heavy woollen overcoat as Newbury, Miss Hobbes and I took up our positions along Cheyne Walk.
I’d found myself warming to Newbury as we’d talked over dinner, discussing the nature of his work—or rather, as much of it as he was able to discuss, given the secrecy of his role. It transpired he worked in some obscure capacity for the Crown, on one hand aiding Scotland Yard in their ever-constant battle against the criminal elements of the capital, and on the other taking direction from Buckingham Palace itself, performing the role of a state spy and expert in the occult.
That was about as much as I could glean about the man himself, but he talked openly about his catalogue of bizarre experiences, including his encounters with plague-ridden Revenants in the slums; his investigation into the wreckage of The Lady Armitage—a terrible airship crash from the previous summer that I remembered well; his run-in with the Chinese crimelord Meng Li; and other, increasingly surprising stories. He was a master at weaving a good yarn, and he held my attention throughout the three delicious courses of our meal. Miss Hobbes, herself a player in many of these exceptional tales, watched Newbury as he related these accounts of their adventures with no small measure of affection.
I came away from that dinner sure that, should Holmes ever decide to hang up his hat, I should readily have another subject upon which to focus my literary endeavours. Moreover, I decided that, despite Holmes’s obvious disdain for the man’s reputation, if the two of them were to actually meet they would surely find each other’s company most invigorating.
* * *
I reflected on this as I stood in the shadow of Thomas Carlyle—or rather his memorial statue—at one end of the street, looking out over the Chelsea Embankment. We’d spread out along this stretch of the river, about a hundred yards apart. Miss Hobbes—wrapped in a dark, grey overcoat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat—was between Newbury and I, who, from this distance, I could just make out in the misty evening as a dark silhouette.
This, I understood from Newbury, was the location cited in the majority of the reports, including those of Brownlow and Newbury’s clerk, Mrs Coulthard. Most claimed to have seen the creature scale the wall of the embankment and drag itself over the stone lip, pulling itself onto land and slithering off into the alleyways between the serried rows of terraced houses. One report, however, was of
the creature also returning to the river by the same means, in or about the same spot. It seemed logical, then, that we should make our observation from this point, and we’d come prepared for a long wait.
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 a word passing 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 proboscises, 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.