Home From the Sea

by William Meikle

The beast kept coming until it loomed over the Column, its head level with old Nelson's, its compound eyes, each yards across, meeting the old sailor's steady one-eyed gaze. I saw poor George, dwarfed and looking lost and tiny, standing next to our kit at the base of the Column beside the lion guard. I waited until the last possible moment, when the beast was almost touching Nelson's statue, then waved.

  Everything seemed to happen at once, George switched off the box at his end and green light flared, brighter than the sun, in a high canopy hanging over the whole square. The beast reared up, and grabbed at the Column. Admiral Nelson swayed and rocked, then toppled, the whole column coming down and burying our box, and poor George with it, under tons of stone and dust and rubble.

  The kit at my back on the Gallery steps whined and screeched, the beast screeched back at it and clacked the huge pincers, somehow, it looked angry. The great tail came round, if it hit where it had been aimed it was going to flatten the whole north side of the square.

  Blue sparks of electricity flew all around and my box of tricks hummed, buzzed and whined, the sound rising, and rising again until the scream threatened to puncture my ears, then, as I had hoped it might, it blew, the explosion knocking all of us present to the ground. I lay there, thunder roaring in my ears, looking up as the segmented tail swept overhead, and kept right on going, passing through the Grecian pillars of the old Gallery building as if it wasn't there. The bulk of the creature's body passed over the top of my head. One of its legs came down, straight for me, and I flinched, but felt nothing as the green sky turned to blue and the beast faded back to wherever it had come from. The last thing to go was a lingering tang of vinegar in the air.

  It seemed we had succeeded, the door had once again been locked.

  A great silence fell over central London, as if the whole city paused for breath, then I was on my feet, running across the rubble-strewn square to the base of the column. I feared the worst, but just as I got there young George pulled himself out of a pile of fallen stones. He had many cuts and bruises, and was going to need a new suit, but he seemed none the worse for wear.

  "Well," he said as I ran up to him and shook his hand. "Bettie's never going to believe this one."

  The Colour That Came To Chiswick

  I hoped that my friend Sherlock Holmes would be more settled when I called on him that evening in May of '87. His recovery from his travails in France, and the subsequent excitement in Reigate, meant that a period of house rest was prescribed. As ever, he paid little attention to my ministrations and pleadings, and over the course of the previous fortnight had driven poor Mrs. Hudson to despair with a series of petty requests.

  On my last visit she had pleaded with me to do my best to calm my patient. Indeed, she had worked herself into such a state that I do believe that had any longer time passed it would have been her and not Holmes who would be coming under my ministrations.

  It was Holmes himself who greeted me as I entered the apartments in Baker Street.

  "Come in Doctor Watson," he said in a near perfect impression of Mrs. Hudson's Scots brogue. "You'll be wanting some tea?"

  He laughed, and fair bounded up the stairs to his apartment. I had not seen him in such good humour for several months.

  I discovered why on entering his rooms. . . he had a new case. Several sheaves of paper lay scattered on his desk, his brass microscope was in use off to one side, and a glass retort bubbled and seethed above a paraffin burner. An acrid odour hung in the air, thick, almost chewable. The whole place reeked of it, despite the fact that that the windows were all open to their fullest extent.

  Holmes noticed my discomfort.

  "It is nothing," he said.

  "I doubt Mrs. Hudson will agree," I said.

  "Do not worry Watson," Holmes said. "Our esteemed landlady has gone to Earls Court with the widow Murray."

  "The Wild West show? Yes, I have seen the posters around town. It is said it will be a great spectacle."

  I had wished to inquire as to Holmes' opinion on the authenticity of Mr. Cody's show, but it was obvious that his mind was already elsewhere. He stood over the microscope, studying the slide contents intently.

  "What have you got there Holmes?"

  In answer he passed me a sheet of paper.

  "This came in several hours ago."

  It was a note on letter-headed paper, from the Fullers Brewery in Chiswick, and addressed to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective at this Baker Street address. The note proved to be short and to the point.

  "Dear Mr. Holmes," it began. "In the past three days we have encountered several problems with our brewing processes in our main Tuns. We suspect sabotage, but are unable to prove the cause, and our own chemists have drawn a blank. I have sent a sample from our latest fermentation, and would appreciate some of your time in its study. I shall be happy to discuss your remuneration by return of post."

  It was signed, Gerard Jones, Chief Brewer.

  "Examine the paper," Holmes said. "There is something peculiar on the left edge near the bottom."

  I immediately saw what he meant. The edge seemed bevelled and on closer examination proved to have a greenish tinge.

  "What is it Holmes? Some form of algal growth perhaps?"

  "That is what I am trying to determine," Holmes replied. "But so far I am having little success."

  He motioned me towards a jar that had been partially hidden behind the microscope.

  "The sample mentioned within the letter is there. See what you make of it Watson."

  As soon as I picked up the jar I knew I had never seen anything like it before.

  The jar held a pint of fluid but it did not look like anything resembling any fermentation of ale I had ever seen. As I held it up towards my face the contents shifted and the acrid odour grew so strong that I almost gagged as it caught at the back of my throat. The fluid was thick, almost solid, and a deep emerald green. It flowed, as if the whole thing were a single organism.

  "It seems to have some of the properties of a slime mould," Holmes said. "And it responds to external stimuli with a range of defensive adaptations."

  Holmes took the jar from me and placed it close to the paraffin burner. The green substance surged, piling up against the glass wall of the container.

  "And this is in the vats in the brewery?"

  Holmes nodded.

  "It would appear so. Our task is to prove whether it has been introduced deliberately, or whether it is an accident of nature of some kind."

  Holmes allowed me to study the sample he had mounted on a microscope slide. There was no evidence of any cellular structure, or any differentiation in the material. Nothing existed to show that the thing was in anyway alive. Yet it clearly moved. Even the small amount present on the slide pushed and surged against its confines with such violence that I stood back quickly in surprise. In doing so I knocked the bottom stage of the microscope, and swung the mirror away such that it no longer lit on the slide. I bent to rectify the problem but stopped as soon as I looked in the eyepiece.

  Despite the lack of lights I could still clearly see the sample. It glowed, a faint green luminescence. When I pointed this out to Holmes he at once drew the curtains and dimmed the lamps. It immediately became apparent that there was even more to our problem material than we realised.

  The full expanse of Holmes desk glowed a sickly green, the miasma hanging in the air a full two feet or more above the surface. Holmes showed me his hands. . . they too shone dimly.

  I frog-marched him downstairs and both of us scoured our hands with carbolic soap until no trace of green remained. When we went back upstairs the sight that met us made us pause in the doorway.

  The curtains were still drawn closed, and the darkness only accentuated the effect. The sample jar sat square in the middle of Holmes' desk and the air seemed to dance, an aurora of light hovering in an almost perfect globe around it.

  Armed with vinegar and salt I set to cleaning and disinfecting as much as I could see. Holme
s could scarcely take his eyes from the jar and merely stood, contemplating the sheer strangeness of it, as I worked.

  I was nearly finished in my task when a knock came downstairs. Holmes requested that I answer, and I went down, opening the door on Inspector Lestrade. He too was given pause by the sight of the jar on the desk, and might have been standing there yet had Holmes not pressed him on his business. Even then he did not take his eyes from the jar.

  "I understand you are commissioned on following up on the sabotage at the Fullers Brewery?"

  Holmes refused to either confirm or deny this fact, as Lestrade continued.

  "The saboteur has upped the ante," he said. "We have a brewer in hospital and foul play is suspected. . . a poison as yet unidentified." He was still staring at the desk. "I presume this came from Chiswick?"

  As ever Holmes stayed quiet, but he did request that I accompany Lestrade to the hospital to talk to the stricken man.

  Holmes motioned towards the jar.

  "The study of this requires more rigor than I can provide here," he said. "I shall remove this to the safety of a laboratory at the University and seek council from several Society Fellows. I shall meet you later in the Brewery."

  *

  Lestrade was unusually quiet in the carriage on the way to the hospital, and would not speak of the condition of the victim.

  "I would rather not prejudice your opinion Doctor," was all he would say on the matter. I began to understand why when I was shown into a small room in the hospital. The corridor outside smelled strongly of carbolic soap, and I saw a strange reticence on the part of the staff to venture close to the doorway.

  I walked inside to find a young man writhing on the bed, tearing at his throat.

  I called for assistance and moved to his aid. A bloody dressing, a green smudge clearly visible, lay discarded on the bedcovers. As I entered the man's head turned to look at me. The whole bottom half of his face was a bubbling mess of green-tinged gore.

  Lestrade came quickly to my side and pinned the man's arms, holding him down. Just the sight of us seemed to calm him somewhat, but he was obviously in great pain. His wounds seethed, the green slime seeming to feast on his flesh. I have seen many men die of disease and corruption in warmer climes, but nothing of this speed or destructive capability.

  I had just bent to tend to the man when he screamed louder and his eye popped. Green-tinged fluid ran down his cheek and started to bubble at the join of neck and shoulder. The covers fell away from his chest and Lestrade moved aside, retching. Below the waist there was little left of the man, merely a rolling mess of green slime. The patient was past caring. He gripped my left hand tight and squeezed, just once, before the life went out of him completely.

  I decided not to wait to see if the slime would continue progressing after the death of its host. I dragged a sickly-looking Lestrade from the room and called once more for assistance. This time it was forthcoming.

  The poor man's remains were quickly removed, and both Lestrade and I went with them to the incinerator, standing there for long minutes to ensure that the job was done properly. I also ensured that all who had been in contact with the patient, Lestrade and myself included, washed thoroughly with soap and hot water. I checked us both for any hint of the slime. Lestrade continued to look pale and sickly, even after I gave us the all clear.

  "What in God's name did that to the man?" he asked me. I'm afraid I did not have an answer for him. But I resolved there and then to find out. I would not stand to watch any more men die in such a fashion – not if I was able to do something about it.

  I left Lestrade in the hospital to clear up the situation and headed for the brewery.

  *

  It was late evening by the time the carriage deposited me outside the brewery. The sound of cheering and applause came faintly across the river from where Mrs. Hudson was no doubt enjoying the spectacle of the gunplay and horsemanship. Standing there in the quiet dark I began to regret not bringing my own weapon on the trip.

  There was no sign of Holmes, nor indeed of anyone else. I knew that any large London brewery should be running an overnight operation, given the thirst of the population for their product. For the brewery to be sitting in darkness was an ominous sign. I considered waiting for Holmes, but all my thoughts were on the sight of that poor man's pitiful death in the hospital room. I had a feeling that, if I wanted to stop further deaths, I would need to move quickly. This contagion had a manner that suggested it would spread rapidly. It was not as Holmes' companion, but as a doctor, that I crossed the road to the brewery.

  I was grateful for what little light came from the gas lamps around the walls, but their flame only accentuated the shadows in the tall empty hall. Four large copper vats dominated the floor space. The air smelled almost sweet, with a hint of bitterness where fresh hops joined the tang of fermentation. Beneath these well-remembered odors I also sensed something new – a hint of the same acrid tang that had assaulted my passages back in Holmes' room. Before I stepped further than the doorway I peered into all the corners, searching for any trace of the luminescence. I found none. Nevertheless it was with some trepidation I stepped inside.

  It was obvious to me that someone had deliberately introduced a poisonous material into the brewing vats. Their reason was as yet unclear to me, but the thought that this might have been going on for some time made my blood run cold. There might even, at this very moment, be drinkers quaffing tainted ales all across the capital. In my mind's eye I saw the slime seethe in the flagons, see the terror in the drinkers' eyes as the contagion took them and started to feed. The fear of the consequences strengthened my resolve. I moved further inside.

  A cloud moved. Suddenly moonlight washed through the hall from above. It made my search somewhat easier. I found nothing around the nearer of the two vats and almost relaxed. That all changed when I rounded the third vat and almost walked into a mist of green luminescence. As I moved closer I saw that it rose from a body on the floor – the remains of what had been a man but was now a seething mass of green protoplasm. The slime seemed to notice my presence and began to slump and flow over the brewery floor, moving so quickly that I was forced to take several dancing steps backwards.

  My retreat was halted as the luminescence swelled and flared, engulfing me in a globe of dancing light. Suddenly I felt calm, almost serene. Shadows danced around me, wraiths made of little more than thin green fog. I felt no fear, no compulsion to run -- merely the innocent curiosity of a child. I stepped forward towards the rolling carpet of green.

  The arrival of my friend Sherlock Holmes saved my life. All he did was place a hand on my shoulder, but that was sufficient to break the spell under which I had been placed. I looked down to see the green slime merely inches from the toes of my brogues and getting closer.

  Holmes stepped forward and threw a handful of white powder over the green carpet. It immediately retreated, black pustules bubbling and bursting across the surface. My eyes started to sting and water. Holmes turned and smiled grimly, showing me another handful of white powder sitting in a leather-gloved hand.

  "Caustic soda," he said. "It seems to be efficacious."

  He wore a canvas satchel over his shoulder. It gaped open, showing it to be crammed full with the powder. Before I could inquire further Holmes strode away from me, following the retreating slime.

  "Come Watson," he called. "Let us beard Grendel in his lair."

  I followed, keeping at a distance to stay out of reach of the scattering of lye.

  The slime dragged itself away before the powder. A high, fluting cacophony echoed and whistled around us, as if the bubbling pustules screamed in agony. Within seconds Holmes had the remains of the creature cornered where it had retreated under the copper vat in the leftmost rear of the brewery.

  Holmes continued to throw handfuls of lye, at the same time calling out to me over his shoulder.

  "Watson. I have need of your old pen-knife."

  I moved forward, foll
owing Holmes' gaze. There was a large dent in the tun just above head height. Deep inside was a small lump of darker material, like a pebble embedded in the copper.

  I took out my knife and started to work the pebble free while Holmes kept the carpet of slime at bay. I was so intent on my task I did not notice the new arrivals on the brewery floor, only becoming aware of them when Holmes called out in despair.

  "No. Not yet!"

  I managed to free the pebble and dropped it into my waistcoat pocket. I turned to see three men clad in oilskins standing behind Holmes. They each carried long hoses and were spraying the floor all around. Suddenly the place smelled less like a brewery and more like a hospital as soap and bleach washed over our feet.

  My brogues were ruined, as were Holmes' leather boots, but he had not yet noticed. His gaze was fixed on a drain in the center of the floor. It sat in a slight dip, such that all spillage would flow that way. The pressure from the hoses washed across the slime and sent it sailing in bubbling foam.

  "Stop!" Holmes called, but it was too late. The last hint of the green substance disappeared down to the sewers below.

  *

  We found Lestrade out in the street coordinating proceedings. The hosing down of the brewery went on for several hours while we stood outside, smoking a pipe and keeping an eye out for any return of either the slime or the luminescence. After a time Lestrade announced himself satisfied and called off the clear up. Holmes proved harder to satisfy. He insisted on waiting until almost dawn, spending the intervening hours stalking the floor and peering in every corner of the brewery. Twice he asked to see the pebble I had dug from the vat. Both times he returned it to me with a grunt of displeasure. The sun was throwing an orange tinge across the sky before I was finally able to persuade him to leave.

  He said nothing in the carriage on the journey to Baker Street, merely sat, elbows on his thighs and fingers steepled at his lips, deep in thought.

  Mrs. Hudson ministered to our hunger, providing a hearty breakfast that I took to with gusto. Holmes scarcely ate a mouthful. He had already taken the pebble from me, and pored over it intently, subjecting it to a variety of assays and investigations. By the time I finished my breakfast he seemed to have come to some conclusions. He called me over and handed me a magnifying lens.