The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part II

by David Marcum

  “The stone bridge across the river?”

  “That’s the one. Then I want you to go to the barn and make sure the flying machine is fuelled-up and ready to go.”

  “Are we going to fly out?”

  “If necessary. As you know, every good burglar prepares an alternative way of escape.”

  Grimdale nodded.

  “Then, first thing in the morning, go back to the barn and light the boiler. Until then, the night and the girl are yours.”

  Shortly after midnight, I tried the door of the Countess’s bedroom. The handle turned easily and without a sound. Inside, the air was infused with the smell of expensive cologne. The Countess was alone, lying on her back; a well-upholstered woman in a well-upholstered bed. She was snoring like a pig. The sleeping potion had obviously worked. It ought to have done. There was enough in that vial to put an elephant out for the count.

  Now I had to find the necklace. But where would she have put it? The Countess had boasted about keeping it close to herself at all times. The idea of searching her person didn’t appeal to me in the slightest, so I began with the bedside cabinet. I had a lantern with hinged shutters on all four sides. This was the only light I had to work with. In addition, I would have to rely on the well-honed sensitivity of my fingertips.

  The top drawer contained only personal documents. I slipped these into my coat pocket. Then I tried the middle drawer. Nothing. Then a stroke of luck. I found the jewels in the bottom drawer. They were in an ordinary jewellery-case, hidden beneath a large fur hat. I took the jewels, returned the case and closed the drawer.

  On my way out, I dropped the wine waiter’s button onto the floor beside the bed. That would see his goose nicely cooked.

  It was still dark when I reached Sir Henry’s study early the next morning. The safe stood in its usual place, against the wall directly opposite the door. I lit my lantern and knelt down to examine the lock. It was a simple combination affair. I tried the number we’d extracted from Jeremiah Silt just before he died. It was no use. Pulmorton had obviously changed the combination number. I’d certainly have done the same in his shoes.

  It didn’t really matter. I had it open within five minutes anyway.

  I was now glad that I was wearing my voluminous coat with the cavernous pockets. It might look an ungainly garment, but it is extremely practical for a burglar. Faced with a pile of jewellery-cases, and with no time to examine their contents, I transferred them all to the pockets of my coat.

  At the back of the safe, I found what I was looking for. The bundle of papers we’d taken from Silt outside the German Embassy. I took them out of the safe and locked it again. Then I stood up and turned towards the study door.

  There, in the gloom, I saw Sir Henry Pulmorton. He was standing in the doorway, holding a double-barrelled shotgun, and pointing it directly at me.

  “Moriarty!” he exclaimed. “I’ve had a message from Whitehall warning me not to trust you. Now I see the truth of it. I’ve sent a telegram to Scotland Yard, asking what they know about you. I expect a reply imminently.”

  I’d anticipated something like this. That’s the trouble with honest people; you just can’t trust them. But it was too late now to protest my innocence.

  “Damn you, Mycroft!” I hissed. “And damn you too, Pulmorton!”

  “No, you’re the one who’ll be damned, Moriarty,” he growled. “Put those things back in my safe, or I’ll shoot you as an intruder.”

  Was he bluffing? Did he have the nerve to pull the trigger? In this world, I consider myself the measure of all things. If the hereafter brings judgement, then I shall have to face it in due time. But I had no wish to be sent to my doom by Sir Henry Pulmorton. Nor, on the other hand, did I wish to return my ill-gotten gains to his safe. The result was a tense stand-off.

  It was now that Grimdale appeared. And just in time, as well. He opened the front door and called out, “Everything’s ready, Professor.”

  Instinctively, Sir Henry turned his attention away from me and looked out into the entrance hall.

  I am no gymnast, but today I had to act quickly. In the blink of an eyelid, I kicked out at the shotgun in Sir Henry’s hands.

  The gun went off, peppering the ceiling above us with the contents of both barrels, and bringing down a shower of plaster. The noise was loud enough to waken the dead. The fact that it would rouse the rest of the household was bad enough. Time was now extremely short.

  When Sir Henry turned to face me again, I pressed the point of my swordstick blade tightly against his throat.

  “Drop the gun, Sir Henry,” I told him.

  He dropped it onto the floor beside him.

  “Now step away from it.”

  He shuffled to one side.

  Without repeating Sir Henry’s mistake of taking my eyes off my opponent, I spoke to Grimdale. “We have to get away from here quickly,” I told him. “Go back to the barn and open the doors.”

  When my companion had left, Sir Henry turned his blazing eyes fully onto me. “You’ll never be able to fly that machine, Moriarty,” he growled. “It took me twelve months to learn, and then I crashed the thing.”

  “I’m a fast learner,” I replied.

  “Very well. Take the thing, and break your neck.”

  I could hear footsteps hurrying along the corridor. It was time to leave. I sheathed the blade, picked up the shotgun and rushed outside. There I dropped the weapon into the herbaceous border. I hoped that might give me enough time to get clear of the grounds.

  When I reached the barn, I found that Grimdale had the flying machine ready for me. It was an impressive sight. The boiler was bubbling nicely, steam was bursting out through gaps in the machine’s boiler-jacket, and the sweet smell of industrial alcohol was hanging in the morning air.

  I climbed onto the seat and jammed the blueprints safely behind a couple of struts. Then I pushed my cane into a space beside the seat and pulled my hat firmly down on my head.

  Pulmorton had been right about the controls. They were fiendishly complicated. I was now faced with a confusing array of valves, cranks, dials and foot-pedals.

  I tried to remember what Sir Henry had told me on my previous visit. I cautiously opened a valve. High-pressure steam hissed into the engine cylinders. One of the dials indicated an increase in steam-pressure. The four-bladed propeller started to turn. The flying machine emerged under its own power and began to move slowly along the pathway. The wheels rattled noisily on the hard-packed earth.

  Then I heard angry shouts coming from somewhere nearby. I needed to make a quick exit. I opened the steam valve still further. The pressure in the engine now increased rapidly, the propeller began to turn more quickly, and the machine shot forward, giving me a violent kick in the rear.

  A gunshot rang out. Trust Sir Henry to have another twelve-bore. I was spared a direct hit as shotgun pellets peppered the structures around me. One of them hit the fuel cylinder, and alcohol-spirits began to spray out through the hole. I was lucky the entire thing hadn’t exploded there and then.

  As the flying machine picked up speed, a gust of wind caught the wings and made it swerve off the pathway. Fortunately, the wheelbase was wide enough to keep it upright when it landed on the lawn. On the other hand, it was now out of control, and careered across the front lawn like a demented chicken. Its wheels gouged unsightly ruts in the carefully manicured turf. I didn’t know how to control the thing, let alone how to make it take off. All I could do was to hang on tightly.

  The machine soon reached the end of the lawn, where it bounced against the raised edge of the gravel footpath and hopped across the ha-ha. No longer having any solid ground beneath it, the machine began to fall. Desperate to avoid a crash, I opened the steam-valve as far as it would go. The contraption immediately picked up speed, and just about managed to keep clear of the
ground. I was flying!

  I had no idea how to control the direction of travel. I was having to learn the basics of flying as I went along. At the same time, my mathematical brain was devising possible improvements to the design.

  Using a mixture of cold logic and blind panic, I fiddled with the controls until the wings opened to their fullest extent. Then I managed to alter the camber of the leading edge of the wings. These, together with the early morning breeze and increased airspeed, made the flying machine slowly gain height.

  But something was wrong. I sensed that the machine was overbalanced at the front. I looked down and saw Grimdale hanging onto the wheel struts for dear life.

  “What are you doing there?” I shouted.

  “I wasn’t going to stay and have that maniac shoot at me,” he hollered back.

  At that moment, the morning sun rose from behind a nearby hill and bathed the countryside in its bright warming glow.

  In its light, the harsh shadow of the bat-shaped flying machine swept rapidly and menacingly across the landscape beneath us. Seen from below, the spectacle must have been utterly bizarre. Black against the clear blue sky, a tall man in a top-hat and flapping coat-tails was riding a gigantic bat, whilst another man was desperately clinging on underneath. The effect it had on the estate workers, who were coming out to begin their daily work in the fields, was startling. When they saw us coming, many of them ran away screaming. Others simply stood still, gazing into the sky, with eyes and mouths wide open in terror.

  Superstitious minds might have thought that we were a vampire fleeing the light of the new day, and coming to suck their blood. Scaring people witless always gives me a great thrill.

  The land was now sloping downhill. As I’d intended, we were flying towards the river in the bottom of the valley. More alarmingly, we were heading directly towards a line of trees on the far bank of the river. With the additional weight on board, we were flying so low that we risked going straight into them.

  I knew I had to jettison something. I now had a choice. Either I choose to throw away the boxes in my pockets, together with the treasures they undoubtedly contained, or else I elect to drop Grimdale off as soon as possible.

  It was no contest.

  I noticed a willow tree on the nearside bank of the river and decided to direct the machine towards it. I flexed the ends of the wings and leaned over to my left. The machine began to turn. My colleague’s extra weight helped, and we were soon making our way directly towards the willow. We flew so close to the treetop that Grimdale became entangled in the upper branches. He released his grip on the undercarriage and fell ten feet into the water below.

  Now free from its destabilising load, the machine quickly gained height. Indeed, it rose so steeply that it rapidly lost airspeed. With the fuel also running low, the propeller lost power, and the flying machine plummeted towards the ground.

  I struggled frantically with the wings, trying to direct the falling machine towards the far bank of the river. I had no intension of getting wet like Grimdale, but I didn’t want to kill myself either, so I looked desperately for somewhere soft to land.

  Then I spotted it. Along one edge of the riverside meadow, just in front of the trees, stood a large haystack. My only hope now was to I reach this without hitting the trees. I flexed the wings, held tightly onto my hat, and prepared to hit the ground.

  The flying machine landed in the haystack with a tremendous crash. It immediately broke up. The impact threw me out of my seat and into a pile of soft grass. Some might think I didn’t deserve such an easy landing, but they can keep their opinions to themselves. I admit I was shaken, but I was also relieved that I was able to walk away from the wreckage.

  Which was just as well. A few seconds later, the remains of the flying machine burst into flames. The pall of black smoke drifted across the fields, turning the sweet morning air acrid with the smell of burning hay and scorched textile fabric. The heat was so intense that it forced me to back away. At least I still had my hat and cane with me.

  The estate workers, having overcome their initial shock, now came running. They used anything they could lay their hands on to try to beat out the flames and save what was left of the haystack.

  As arranged beforehand, our carriage was standing beside the old stone bridge. The coachman now opened the door and helped me climb aboard. Once inside, I sat down and heaved a sigh of relief.

  A moment later, Grimdale joined me there. He was soaked to the skin. I had no time for sympathy; my mind was already on other things.

  “To the German Embassy,” I announced. “Let’s hope their government official still wants to buy the plans to Sir Henry’s flying machine.”

  It was only as I looked around for the blueprints that I realised where they were. For safety, I’d pushed them behind some struts on the machine. They were still there, already burnt to ashes.

  I roundly cursed my bad luck.

  “All that work for nothing,” said Grimdale.

  I felt like throwing the man back into the river.

  “Drive on,” I told the coachman.

  As we rumbled out of the estate, I took off my hat and pulled something out from beneath the lining. It was the diamond necklace belonging to the Countess.

  The sight of the jewels cheered us both up as nothing else could have done at that moment.

  Grimdale gave a low whistle. “It must be worth a king’s ransom,” he gasped.

  Then I took out the jewellery boxes I’d removed from Sir Henry’s safe. We opened them one by one and took out their contents.

  “You must have got every piece of jewellery the Countess owns,” said Grimdale.

  “She is indeed a very rich lady,” I replied.

  “Or at least, she used to be,” added my companion.

  “Scotland Yard are already making plans to arrest me,” I said. “This is going to stir them up like a nest of hornets.”

  “They’ll scour the entire country looking for us,” Grimdale told me.

  “In that case,” I replied, “we’re going to need a vacation. Somewhere abroad, I think. Possibly Switzerland.”

  The Glennon Falls

  by Sam Wiebe

  May 3, 1891

  Meiringen, Switzerland

  The Colonel has found the ideal spot. Far enough up the trail to prevent witnesses, yet scenic enough for a plunge to seem like the wayward footfall of an overeager tourist. One crooked step and my most recent antagonist bows out of my affairs permanently, joining a long line of others.

  I am well-practiced in removing such nuisances. Since sleep has forsaken me, I have taken pen in hand to document my earliest foray into the world of crime. Yet I must admit to a certain hesitation. While the run-of-the-mill criminal values nothing save his own neck, and cares only about his “get-away,” we professionals strive for anonymity. To perpetrate fraud or robbery is a confluence of luck and skill; to convince others no crime has been committed demands a rather Napoleonic genius.

  There is no vanity as that of an anonymous man, and I find myself desiring a record of this, my first and by some measure, most perfect crime.

  I was from childhood something of a scapegrace, a blight on the Moriarty coat of arms. Mrs. Glennon, my former governess, informed me of my inherent wickedness before I reached my eleventh year.

  “James,” she scolded on more than one occasion, “you were born ready for the gallows.”

  Whether Mrs. Glennon was prescient remains to be discovered, but there was no misleading her. Stout and eagle-beaked, she bestrode my childhood, handing down sanctimony and punishment like a wrathful deity. While later in life I would find other antagonists, at that age she was my chief foil and mortal enemy. I loathed her.

  I know little of her childhood or upbringing, only that her parents had been liberal-minded and had seen fit
to grant her an education. She had some Greek and High German, was familiar with Virgil and the Caesars, and grasped enough of mathematics to make sense of Newton. To hear her speak of this patchwork education was to hear a beggar flaunt her rags.

  The Glennon woman had married a dull-witted dogs-body who’d ended up in my father’s employ. The wife’s services were far from optimal, but my father, a skinflint at heart, granted her employment as well. Their shared living expenses more than made up for the deficiencies in her pedagogy.

  I confess that in my early years I displayed no interest or aptitude in studies, and was accounted a dilettante. An accelerated intellect such as mine might find purchase in following its own curriculum, yet not show itself to advantage when corralled with lesser lights. While my father could have provided me with tutors, the miserly soul employed only the Glennon woman, believing her adequate. What impertinence and lack of foresight on both their parts!

  Early on in this arrangement, Mrs. Glennon challenged me in one or two trivial details - a Latin declension or two, the difference between Thucydides and Heraclitus. Emboldened by these minor victories, the oat-fed knave saw fit to intrude on larger matters. She became an expert on everything, from Locke’s philosophy to the arrangement of coprimes in Euclid’s orchard. Even diction - and her unable to conquer her scullery maid’s burr. Utter absurdity, and untenable, to say the least.

  I resolved to be done with her, and sued my father to end her employment. With an asinine judgment matched only by his miserly nature, he sided with the Glennon woman against his own son.

  For those readers whose senses are dull and slovenly - I assume this to be the majority of you, frankly - it may seem childish petulance for an adolescent to resent such a hovering, harping figure to such extent that he would consider transgressing the law to be rid of her. You may never understand what a great intellect feels when stifled by overbearing idiocy. Imagine a child caged at birth, straining to grow, yet bound by the narrow confines of dull iron bars. Now magnify this discomfort considerably, and you may begin to grasp my yearning for a more self-determined existence.