Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 14

"Yes, yes, Watson. Do come in and stop loitering in the hallway. And since you're here, see about building up this fire, will you? It's peris.h.i.+ng in here."

Shaking my head in dismay, but deciding it would do neither of us any good to take umbrage, I set about clearing the grate.

"I expect you're here about those wild reports in the newspapers this morning," he said, strolling over to the window and peering out at the busy street below. He gave a sharp tw.a.n.g on another violin string, and I winced at the sound.

"I won't bother to ask how you managed to discern that, Holmes," I said, sighing as a plume of soot settled on my s.h.i.+rt cuff and then smeared as I attempted to brush it away. "Can't Mrs Hudson do this?" I said, grumpily.

"Mrs Hudson has gone out to the market," he replied, turning back from the window to look at me.

"She was here a moment ago," I said, triumphantly. "She opened the door and let me in."

Holmes held up a single index finger to indicate the need for silence. I watched him for a moment, counting beneath my breath as I begged the G.o.ds to grant me patience. Downstairs, I heard the exterior door slam shut with a bang. "There!" he exclaimed with a beaming smile. "Off to the market."

I sighed and continued piling logs onto the fire. "Well, of course you're right."

"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."

"Hmmm," 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 coa.r.s.e, 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 a.s.sist 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' dismissive att.i.tude, 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, meek as he was, 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 att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 una.s.suming 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 doorknocker.

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 embarra.s.sment 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 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 embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.s. I offered him a brief smile of grat.i.tude as I pa.s.sed 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 gathered, am Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sistance, 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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sist 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 grat.i.tude 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 a.s.sistance."

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' reb.u.t.tal?

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 a.s.sure 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 rea.s.suringly. "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 a.s.sertion 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, s.h.i.+vering 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 airs.h.i.+p crash from the previous summer that I remembered well; his run-in with the Chinese crime lord 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' 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, pa.s.sing along the embankment with their heads stooped low against the inclement weather. They appeared to me like ghostly shapes emerging from the mist, pa.s.sing from one realm into another as they drifted along beside the river.

We must have waited there for hours without pa.s.sing a word 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 s.h.i.+p 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 probosces, 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 s.h.i.+fted 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.

Newbury had continued to approach the water's edge but was now keeping himself at a safe distance, obviously keen not to find himself caught by one of the thras.h.i.+ng tendrils as the creature heaved itself further and further out of the Thames. The screeching noise continued, and I now realised that what I'd at first considered to be a mechanical noise must in fact have been the sound of the creature itself. I shuddered at the thought of such an infernal beast.

Another tentacle whipped over the side of the embankment, followed closely by a fourth. I had a sense, then, of the immensity of the thing, and as its body finally hove into view I had to fight the urge to run. Brownlow had been correct in his description of the creature and at that point I understood what had so disturbed him about his encounter with the creature the previous night. It was a thing to inspire madness. Simply to look upon it was to question one's own sanity.

As I watched, the monster slipped its bulk over the top of the embankment wall and raised itself up to its full height-at least twenty feet tall-twisting and turning as if trying to decide which direction it should now take. I could see very little of it, other than the silhouette of its ma.s.s and the gleam of its wet carapace, catching and reflecting what thin shafts of moonlight fell on it from above.

It appeared to settle on a course a moment later, shuffling off in the direction of the nearest side street. It had a curious ambulatory technique, part way between a crawl and a slither, and I couldn't help thinking, despite everything, that the beast was far more suited to water than to land. Nevertheless, it moved with a not inconsiderable momentum, dragging itself along with all the noise of Hades, screeching and grinding as its multiple limbs struck again and again upon the flagstones.

"After it!" bellowed Newbury, his words rousing me from my temporary stupor. I did as he said, charging after it as fast as my numb, tired legs would carry me.

The beast had dragged itself into a narrow opening between two rows of houses, leading to a dark, cobbled alleyway beyond. Now its limbs were splayed around it, grasping at the sides of the buildings, pulling chunks out of the brickwork as it swiftly propelled itself along.

"Stand aside!" called Newbury, coming up behind me at a run. I dived quickly to one side as Miss Hobbes ducked to the other, and Newbury lurched to a stop, hurling something high into the air in the direction of the creature.

There was a sudden explosion of bright, white light as the flare-for that was what Newbury had thrown-hissed to life, rendering the entire scene in a series of brilliant, stuttering flashes as it spun wildly through the air.

I fell back, awestruck, as I caught my first proper glimpse of the creature, and realised with shock that it wasn't in fact a creature at all. What had at first appeared as some kind of gargantuan, primitive animal was, in the harsh brilliance of the flare, shown to be nothing more than a huge mechanical construct. Its metallic limbs, now clearly a series of cleverly segmented iron coils, glinted with reflected light as they writhed and twisted, scrabbling at the walls. Its carapace was dull and black, still dripping with river water, and to my surprise I saw the startled face of a man inside, peering out through the thick gla.s.s of a riveted porthole. I realised it was some sort of amphibious vehicle, and that the man inside was most likely the pilot. Judging by the appearance of it, I guessed it was a submersible-but a remarkable submersible of the like I had never seen, with the ability to clamber out of the water and scale sheer walls. I wondered at who might have even conceived of such a thing.

The flare struck the back of the machine's carapace and rebounded, tumbling over and over until it struck the cobbles a few feet away and continued to fizz and sputter in the gutter.

I was still standing in awe of the machine when one of the tentacles whipped out and struck Newbury full in the chest, lifting him clean off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground with a dull thud. It occurred to me later that the pilot had probably a.s.sumed he was under attack, and that the flare had been some sort of weapon or explosive device. At the time, however, I was quite unprepared for what happened next.

Miss Hobbes emitted a shrill cry of alarm, but rather than rush to Newbury's aid, she grabbed for a large stone from a nearby rockery and pitched it straight at the strange vehicle. It boomed as it struck the metal hull, causing the pilot's pod to rock back and forth upon the writhing cradle of its legs. In response, the machine reared up, twisting around and releasing its hold on the two buildings. One of its tentacles flicked out and caught Miss Hobbes around the waist, snaking around her and hoisting her high into the air. She looked like a fragile doll in its grip as it swung her around and thrust her, hard, against the nearest wall. She howled pain and frustration, clutching furiously at the iron tentacle in an attempt to prise herself free.

Incensed, I reached for my service revolver, which I'd secreted in the pocket of my overcoat before setting out from home. It felt cold but rea.s.suring in my fist as I raised my arms, searching for a clear shot in the mist-ridden gloom.

Miss Hobbes gave a sharp cry of pain as she was slammed once more against the wall, lolling in the machine's terrible iron grip. Behind me, Newbury was silent and still where he lay on the pavement, unconscious or dead.

I c.o.c.ked the hammer and took my aim, hoping beyond hope that my bullet would not ricochet and further injure Miss Hobbes. I could think of no other course of action, however; to get entangled in the machine's writhing limbs would mean certain death for us all. I was doubtful my bullets would puncture the vehicle's thick armour plating, but if I could create a distraction I thought I might be able to lure it away from Miss Hobbes.

By this time I was convinced that the people in the neighbouring houses must have raised the alarm, and I expected the police to appear on the scene at any moment. I hoped for it, concerned that what little I might be able to do would still not be enough.

I squeezed the trigger and braced myself as the weapon discharged. The report was like a thunderclap that echoed off the nearby buildings. I heard the bullet ping as it struck the belly of the mechanical beast, and I ducked involuntarily in case it rebounded in my direction.

Just as I'd hoped, the shot seemed to startle the pilot enough to draw his attention. I squeezed off another bullet, then a third in quick succession. I was pleased to hear the satisfying splinter of gla.s.s, suggesting I'd managed to unwittingly strike one of the portholes.

The machine twisted around, releasing its stranglehold on Miss Hobbes and allowing her to slump heavily to the ground. With a terrible sc.r.a.ping of metal against stone, the vehicle lurched out of the mouth of the alleyway towards me. I stumbled back, trying desperately to keep myself out of reach of the probing limbs that thrashed across the cobbles before it. I stumbled then, catching my heel on a loose paving stone and tumbling backwards, jarring my elbow and sending my revolver skittering across the street.

Panicked, I tried to roll out of the way of the oncoming machine, but in my heart I knew it was over. The mechanical beast would crush me utterly beneath its ma.s.sive bulk.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and felt a moment of strange, lucid calm as I waited for it to strike. At least I'd managed to save Miss Hobbes.

But the blow never came. To my amazement the vehicle veered away at the last moment, lurching back the way it had come, towards the river. I leapt to my feet, reclaiming my revolver and staggering after it, but within moments it had slithered over the edge of the embankment, dropping into the water with an almighty splash. I ran to the edge but could see nothing but a frothy ring of bubbles upon the surface.

I rushed back to where Miss Hobbes was struggling to pull herself upright in the mouth of the alley. "Are you hurt?" I asked, skipping the pleasantries.

She shook her head, gasping for breath. "No, not seriously. Please... Maurice." She pointed to the p.r.o.ne form of Newbury. He hadn't moved since he'd been thrown across the street by the beast. I went to his side.

He was still breathing. I checked him hurriedly for broken limbs. Miraculously, he appeared to be mostly unhurt. He'd have a few aches and bruises when he came round, perhaps even a mild concussion, but he'd sustained no serious injuries.