East of Ealing

by Robert Rankin

  ‘If it is decorating,’ said Jim, squinting all around and about. ‘I do not feel that half an hour will be sufficient.’

  ‘It is not decorating, it is a little matter, below.’

  ‘Below . . . ah, well now.’ Both Pooley and Omally had in chapters past had very bad experiences ‘below’.

  ‘Are you sure this is safe?’ queried Omally.

  ‘As houses.’

  Pooley was more than doubtful. Sudden chill memories of former times spent beneath the surface of the globe flooded over him in an icy-black tide. ‘You can have my half, John,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll get an early night in.’

  ‘It will take the two of you I am afraid.’ Soap raised his palms in the gloom. ‘It is a simple matter. One man cannot move an object, three men can.’

  ‘Things are rarely as simple as they at first appear,’ said Pooley with a wisdom older than his years.

  ‘Come below then.’

  With that, a thin line of wan light appeared in the centre of the floor, growing to a pale square illuminating a flight of stairs. Soap led the way down. ‘Follow me,’ he said gaily.

  Pooley sucked upon a knuckle and, like the now legendary musical turn, dilly-dallied on the way. Omally nudged him in the back. ‘Thirty quid,’ he said.

  Soap’s newly-hired work-force followed him down the stairway, and above them the trapdoor slammed shut with what is referred to in condemned circles as a ‘death-cell finality’. The stairway, as might be imagined, led ever down, its passageway hewn from the living rock. At length it unexpectedly debouched into a pleasant looking sitting-room, furnished with a pale green Waterford settee and matching armchairs, and decorated with Laura Ashley wallpaper. ‘Nice, eh?’ said Soap as he divested himself of his ankle-length cloak to reveal a natty line in three-piece tweed wear.

  ‘Very,’ said John. ‘And the Russell Flints?’ He pointed to a brace of pictures which hung above the hearth. ‘No expense spared.’

  ‘A gift from Professor Slocombe,’ said Soap.

  Pooley, who had a definite sway on, sank into a comfortable armchair.

  ‘We have a couple of bottles of brown with us,’ said John. ‘If you have an opener?’

  ‘It’s a bit close down here.’ Pooley fanned at his brow.

  ‘It was a bit close down that hole today, wasn’t it Jim?’ Soap popped the stoppers from the bottles and ignored Pooley’s similarly popping eyes.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘There’s not much that goes on beneath ground level that I don’t know something of. Those swine from Lateinos and Romiith have been making my life a misery lately, sinking their damned foundations every which way about the parish.’

  ‘Progress,’ said Pooley in a doomed tone.

  ‘Some say,’ said Soap. ‘Listen now, let us dispense with brown ale. I have some home-brewed mushroom brandy which I think you might find interesting.’

  ‘That would be a challenge.’

  ‘Tis done then.’

  Something over an hour later, three very drunken men were to be found some three miles beneath the surface of planet Earth a-rowing in a leathern coracle over a stretch of ink-black subterranean water.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked an Irish surface-dweller.

  ‘Below the very heart of London.’

  ‘I don’t recognize it.’

  The splish-splash of the oars echoed about the vast cavern, eventually losing itself in the endless silence of the pit.

  ‘How do you know which way we’re going?’

  Soap pointed to his luminous watch. ‘Lodestone,’ he said informatively.

  ‘Oh, that lad.’

  ‘There,’ said Soap suddenly. ‘Dead ahead, land ho.’

  Before them in the distance an island loomed and as they drew nearer, the makings of a mausoleum wrought in marble, very much after the style of the Albert Memorial, made itself apparent.

  ‘What is it?’ Omally asked. ‘King Arthur’s tomb, don’t tell me.’ Soap tapped at his all but transparent nose. The coracle beached upon the shoreline and Soap stepped out to secure it to a frescoed pillar. The two inebriate sub-earth travellers shrugged and followed the pale man as he strode forward. ‘It was never like this for Jerome K Jerome,’ said Pooley.

  The strange edifice was, if anything, a work of inspiration. Marble pilasters, cunningly wrought with carved tracery-work, soared upwards to dwindle into a high-domed ceiling which glittered with golden mosaic. Above, tapering gothic spires lost themselves in the darkness.

  ‘Here it is,’ said Soap. The two wonderers halted in their tracks. In the very centre of this Victorian folly stood something so totally out of place as to take the breath from their lungs. It was a cylinder of bright sparkling metal, but it was of no metal that any man of Earth had yet seen. It glistened with an oily sheen and swam through a spectrum of colours, reflecting mirror-like. A broad panel of what might have been glass, but probably was not, lay set into a section of the cylinder’s apparent lid, and it was over this that the three visitors to this sunken marvel craned their necks.

  ‘Strike me down,’ said Jim Pooley.

  ‘By Michael and the other lads,’ said John Omally.

  ‘Good, eh?’ said Soap Distant.

  ‘But who is he?’

  Beneath the glazed panel, reclining upon satin cushioning, his head upon a linen pillow, lay the body of a man. He was of indeterminate age, his hair jet-black and combed away behind his ears. He had high cheek-bones and a great hawk’s beak of a nose. The face bore an indefinable grandeur, one of ancient aristocracy. From what was immediately visible, he appeared to be wearing a high wing-collared shirt, dark tie affixed with a crested stud, and a silken dressing-gown.

  ‘He seems, almost, well, alive,’ said Omally.

  Soap pointed towards the gowned chest, and it could be clearly observed that it slowly rose and fell. ‘Indubitably,’ said he.

  ‘But this container jobbie? Who built it and why?’

  ‘Best way to find out would be to lift the lid, wake the sleeper and ask him.’

  Pooley had more than a few doubts upon this score. ‘He looks pretty peaceful to me,’ he said. ‘Best to leave him alone. No business of ours this.’

  ‘I think somehow that it is,’ said Soap, and his tone left little doubt that he did.

  ‘This thing doesn’t belong,’ said Omally. ‘It is all wrong. Victorian mausoleum all well and good, but this? This is no product of our age even.’

  ‘Herein lies the mystery,’ said Soap. ‘Give us a hand then, thirty quid for a quick heave.’

  Pooley shook his head so vigorously that it made him more dizzy than he already was. ‘I think not, Soap. We are tampering with something which is none of our business. Only sorrow will come out of it, mark my words. "He that diggeth a pit will fall. . ."‘

  ‘I know all that,’ said Soap. ‘Kindly take hold of the top end. I had it giving a little.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Jim, folding his arms.

  ‘Jim,’ said John. ‘Do you know the way back?’

  ‘That way.’ Pooley pointed variously about.

  ‘I see. And do you think that Soap will guide us if we do not assist him?’

  ‘Well, I. . .’

  ‘Top end,’ said Soap. ‘I had it giving a little.’

  The three men applied themselves to the lid of the glistening cylinder, and amidst much grunting, puffing, and cursing, there was a sharp click, a sudden rushing of air, and a metallic clang as the object of their efforts tumbled aside to fall upon the marble flooring of the outre construction. Three faces appeared once more over the rim of the metal sarcophagus.

  The gaunt man lay corpse-like but for his gently-heaving chest; his face was placid and without expression. Then suddenly the eyelids snapped wide, the lips opened to draw in a great gulp of air and the chest rose higher than before. A cry arose from his mouth and three faces ducked away to reappear as a trinity of Chads, noses crooked above the coffin’s edge. The occupant stretched up his
arms and yawned loudly. His eyes flickered wildly about. He snatched at the coffin’s side, and drew himself up.

  He caught sight of the three now-cowering men, and a look of perplexity clouded his face. ‘What year is this?’ he demanded.

  Omally volunteered the information.

  ‘Too early, you have broken the seal.’

  ‘Told you,’ said Jim. ‘Leave well enough alone I said. But does anybody ever listen to me, do they . . . ?’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Soap, ‘and kindly give me a hand.’ With the aid of Omally he helped the bemused-looking man in the dressing-gown up from the steely cylinder and into the upright position. ‘Are you feeling yourself now?’ The tall man, as now he revealed himself to be, did not reply, but simply stood stretching his limbs and shaking his head. ‘Come quickly now,’ said Soap. ‘We must take him at once to Professor Slocombe.’

  The journey back was to say the very least uneventful. The gaunt man in the dressing-gown sat staring into space while Omally, under Soap’s direction, applied himself to the oars. Pooley, who had by now given up the ghost; slept soundly, his dreams full of six-horse accumulators coming up at stupendous odds and rocketing him into the super-dooper tax bracket. Of a sudden, these dreams dissolved as Omally dug him firmly in the ribs and said, ‘We are going up.’

  They made a strange procession through Brentford’s night-time streets. The pale ghost of a man, now once more clad in a cloak and hood, leading a striking figure in a silk dressing-gown, and followed by two stumbling, drunken bums. Vile Tony Watkins who ran the Nocturnal Street Cleaning truck watched them pass, and a few swear words of his own invention slipped from between his dumb lips.

  As the four men entered the sweeping tree-lined drive which swept into the Butts Estate, one lone light glowed in the distance, shining from Professor Slocombe’s ever-open French windows.

  The odd party finally paused before the Professor’s garden door and Omally pressed his hand to the bolt. Through the open windows all could view the venerable scholar as he bent low over the manuscripts and priceless books. As they drew nearer he set his quill pen aside and turned to greet them.

  ‘So,’ said he, rising with difficulty from his leather chair. ‘Visitors at such a late hour. And to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your work,’ said Omally, who was now at the vanguard. ‘But we have, well, how shall I put it. . . ?’

  The tall man in the dressing-gown thrust his way past Omally and stood framed in the doorway.

  A broad smile suddenly broke out upon his bleak countenance. ‘Professor,’ said he. ‘We meet again.’

  ‘My word,’ said the other. ‘This is a most pleasant if unexpected surprise.’

  The tall man stepped forward and wrung the ancient’s hand between his own.

  ‘You mean you know who he is?’ asked Omally incredulously. Pooley was supporting himself upon the door-frame.

  ‘Have you not been formally introduced?’ enquired the Professor. Omally shook his head.

  ‘Then allow me to do the honours. Soap Distant, John Omally, Jim Pooley, gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present Mr Sherlock Holmes, formerly of 221b Baker Street.’

  ‘Your servant,’ said that very man.

  9

  Professor Slocombe closed and bolted the long shutters upon his French windows. When his guests had seated themselves, he moved amongst them, distributing drinks and cigarettes. Sherlock Holmes lounged in a high leather-backed fireside chair and accepted a Turkish cigarette. ‘My thanks, Professor,’ said he. ‘I see that you still favour the same brand.’

  The Professor smiled and seated himself. ‘I think that we have much to speak of, Sherlock. Your arrival here, although bringing me untold joy at the pleasure of meeting once more a noble friend, is, to say the least, a little perplexing.’

  Holmes drew deeply upon his cigarette and blew out a plume of light blue smoke. ‘It is a singular business and no mistake.’

  Pooley and Omally, who had been shaking their heads in disbelief and generally making with the rumbles of suspicion, gave the thing up and slumped in their seats sipping liquor.

  ‘It all truly began,’ said Holmes, ‘one foggy November night back in Eighteen-ninety. The previous month had been a successful one for me, having solved the remarkable case of the Naval Treaty and been more than adequately rewarded by Lord Holdhurst. I was experiencing a brief period of inactivity and as you will recall, such spells are no good to me. My soul as ever ached for the thrill of the chase, the challenge of pitting one’s wits against some diabolic adversary, the blood coursing through the temples, the rushing of. . .’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Professor Slocombe. ‘Your enthusiasm for your work is well-recorded. Upon this particular evening, however?’

  ‘Yes, well, Watson and I had, I recall, just partaken of one of Mrs Hudson’s most palatable tables of roast beef, and were setting towards consuming the last of a fine bottle of Vamberry’s Port, when there came a violent knocking upon our chambers’ door.’

  ‘Probably the raven,’ said Omally sarcastically.

  ‘Do you mind?’ said Professor Slocombe.

  Holmes continued. ‘I had heard no rappings upon the front door and knowing that Mrs Hudson was below in the kitchen was put immediately upon my guard. I had many enemies at that time you must understand. I counselled Watson to open the door whilst I remained at my chair, my revolver upon my knee, covered with a napkin.’

  ‘Exciting so far isn’t it?’ said Pooley, yawning loudly.

  ‘Riveting,’ said Omally.

  Holmes continued once more. ‘The two figures who revealed themselves upon the door’s opening were quite unlike any I have before encountered. I pride myself that I can accurately deduce the background and occupations of any man set before me, but those two left me baffled. They were tall and angular with almond-shaped eyes and oriental features. When they spoke I found their accents totally alien. Watson permitted them ingress into our rooms and although they refused both food and drink, saying that such were impossible for them, what they had to say was precise and to the point. They had come from the future, they said, naming a year well in advance of this. The world they came from was vastly different from that I inhabited, but they were adamant in offering few details. They were perplexed by a problem of utmost import which required the deductive reasoning of a mind their century did not possess. They had read in their history books of my humble exploits and felt I was the man to tackle the task. Was I willing?

  ‘As you can imagine, I was more than doubtful and demanded some proof of their claims. What they showed me was more than adequate to convince me that they told no lie.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ asked Professor Slocombe. ‘You should surely be away into the future by now.’

  ‘No,’ said Holmes. ‘You must understand that their sophisticated equipment enabled them to traverse the fields of time in an instant, but it was not possible for them to take a being from the past forward into the future with them. I would have simply crumbled to dust upon my arrival. They were more subtle than this. They arranged for a secret place to be built for me where I might be placed in suspended animation. They would then travel forward in their time-eliminating conveyance, and unearth and resuscitate me almost on the instant.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ said the Professor, turning towards Soap Distant.

  ‘How was I to know?’ complained Soap.

  ‘Well,’ said the Professor, ‘simply consider this a pleasurable stop off along your journey.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Holmes. ‘Mr Distant here has broken the seal and disabled the means of my travel through time. Unless you happen to know of someone who can reset the apparatus, I would appear to be trapped.’

  Professor Slocombe scratched at his head. ‘That might present some problems,’ said he. ‘Although there is always the thought that your visitors are already in the far future discovering your loss and even now are setting back to search for you.’
/>   ‘Such is, of course, the case, but they might search for a century and not find me.’

  ‘What a load of old nonsense,’ said Omally suddenly rising from his seat. ‘Come, Jim, let us away to our beds.’

  Pooley climbed to his feet. ‘Be fair, Professor,’ said he. ‘This is all a bit too much over the top. I know that the world is always ready and waiting for one more Sherlock Holmes story, but this is pushing credibility to the very limit.’

  ‘Do you doubt who I am?’ Holmes rose to his full height and stood glaring at the deuce of Doubting Thomases.

  ‘Be fair,’ said Pooley, ‘this is very far-fetched. You are at the very least extremely fictional in nature.’

  ‘I am as fictional as you,’ said Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘Ha,’ said Pooley. ‘If you are the legendary doyen of detectives, answer me some questions.’

  ‘Proceed.’

  ‘All right then, what are the thirty-nine steps?’

  ‘Wrong story,’ said John Omally.

  ‘Ah, well . . . In The Red-Headed League how did you know Vincent Spaulding was actually John Clay the murderer, thief, forger, and smasher?’

  ‘By the white splash of acid on his forehead and his pierced ears.’

  ‘Who lost his hat and his goose in The Blue Carbunkle?’

  ‘Henry Baker.’

  ‘What was the Musgrave Ritual?’

  ‘Who was it? He who is gone. Who shall have it? He who will come. What is the month? Sixth from the first. Where is the sun? Over the oak. Where was the shadow? . . .’

  ‘Right, right, under the elm, we know. Who was the Norwood Builder?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Jonas Oldacre.’

  ‘And the Three Students?’

  ‘Gilchrist, Danlat Ras and Miles McLaren.’

  ‘And the plumber engaged to Charles Augustus Milverton’s housemaid?’

  ‘Myself,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Well you could have read them. I always believed that Holmes really did go over the Riechenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty. Those later stories were the work of a stand-in, I thought.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Holmes. ‘You are, of course, correct. You must understand that a certain amount of subterfuge was necessary to cover my disappearance. My exploits were chronicled by Doctor Watson, through an arrangement we had with a Mr Conan Doyle. I left it to him to continue with the stories after my supposed death.’