Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 15

I realised Miss Hobbes was standing beside me and stood back to allow her room. She knelt on the ground beside him and cupped his face in her hands. "Maurice?" And then more firmly, "Maurice?"

Newbury stirred, groaning. His eyes flickered open, and he looked up at us, confused. "Has it gone?"

"Yes, it's gone," I said, with a heavy sigh. "Although we're lucky to be alive. I fear it was a rather abortive encounter."

Newbury grinned as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, dusting himself down. "On the contrary, Dr Watson. Now we know what it is. Tomorrow we'll be able to catch it."

I frowned. "Forgive me, Sir Maurice, but how exactly do you propose to capture a mechanical beast of that size?"

Newbury laughed and took Miss Hobbes's proffered hand in order to pull himself to his feet. "With an equally big net," he replied, clapping me boldly on the shoulder. He glanced at Miss Hobbes. "You look shaken, Miss Hobbes. Are you all right?"

"Yes," she replied, dabbing with a handkerchief at a minor cut on her temple. Her hair had shaken loose and she was flushed. I recall thinking at the time, however, that it was not so much the encounter with the submersible that had shaken her, but her fear for Newbury. "Yes, I'm quite well."

Newbury nodded, but it was clear he was not entirely satisfied with her answer. "Now, I'm sure we could all do with a stiff brandy. Let's repair to Cleveland Avenue where we can rest, tend our wounds, and discuss our strategy for tomorrow."

I found myself nodding and falling into step. I was keen to put some distance between our little band and the scene of the disturbance, and to find somewhere warm to rest my weary bones. I also must admit that, despite the danger, I had found myself quite swept up in the adventure and mystery of it all. There were questions to be answered. Who had that man been inside the strange submersible, staring out at me with such a pale, haunted expression? What was the purpose of the vehicle, and why had the pilot spared my life at the last moment?

I knew I'd be unable to rest until I had the answers to those questions. And besides, I was anxious to know more of these remarkable people with whom I had found myself working. Both Newbury and Miss Hobbes had shown remarkable courage in the face of terrible danger. Not only that, but they had remained entirely unperturbed by the appearance of the bizarre machine, as if they'd seen its like a hundred times before. I was intrigued to know how they planned to tackle the machine the following day, and I knew that whatever scheme was outlined to me that night, I would be unable to resist playing a role.

The following day I woke to a spasming muscle in my left calf. I felt tired and drained, and my body ached as it hadn't done for years. Nevertheless, I also felt somewhat invigorated by the recollection of my adventure the prior evening. It seemed to me as if I'd stumbled upon something momentous, and I was anxious to get to the bottom of the matter.

I washed and dressed and worked the muscle in my leg until the cramping eased. I was badly bruised from where I'd fallen, and my elbow was painful to move. I knew it wouldn't stop me, however. I might have been an old soldier, but I was a soldier still, and I knew how to pick myself up and carry on.

I took a stout breakfast of porridge and fruit, and then set out to call on Brownlow. A short trip on the Underground took me across town, and the brisk walk at the other end did much to clear my head. It was a cold, damp day, and the sky above was an oppressive canopy of grey, brooding and pregnant.

Upon my arrival, Brownlow's wife-a willowy woman in her late thirties, who wore a permanently startled expression-informed me that her husband was out, and so I trudged the quarter mile to his surgery, where I found him enjoying a momentary respite from his patients. He ushered me into his office and asked the clerk to organise a pot of tea.

It was clear almost immediately that I'd been correct in my a.s.sumption that Brownlow would have thrown himself into his work in an effort to dispel his anxiety over the events of two nights previous. He acted as if the encounter had never even occurred, and when I raised the subject he waved me down with a severe frown, indicating that he no longer wished to discuss it. Still, I persisted, and when I began to relate the story of my own encounter with the mechanical beast, he listened quietly, absorbing every detail.

"So I am not, after all, bound for Bedlam," he said when I'd finished. He did so with a jovial smile, but the relief was plain to see on his face. "Thank you, John."

"You were never bound for Bedlam, Peter. But I do believe you are guilty of overworking yourself. You should consider allowing yourself a holiday with that pretty wife of yours."

He smiled at this and poured the tea. "I think, my dear friend, that I should find such a holiday even more stress-inducing than a late-night encounter with a mechanical beast. I cannot abandon my patients."

I sighed and reached for my teacup.

It was approaching midday when I left Brownlow to his patients, feeling as if, for once, I'd been able to lift a weight from his shoulders. Newbury had said he'd need time to prepare for the evening's activities-that he needed to speak with a man named Aldous Renwick-and so, left to my own devices, I decided to head to Baker Street in order to take luncheon with Holmes. I was still rankled with him for his dismissive att.i.tude the previous day, but felt it would not do to let things fester between us. He had, after all, no other friends upon which to prevail if he found himself in need. He was not a man that responded well to prolonged solitude; despite his protestations to the opposite, Holmes needed an audience.

I found him hunched over a leather-bound tome, poring over page after page of arcane diagrams, each of which appeared to depict complex chemical formulas. He was still wearing his ratty old dressing gown and his unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth. Dark rings had developed beneath his hooded eyes, and he appeared gaunt. I guessed he had not been to bed since I had last seen him, let alone the thought that he might have taken a bath or gone for a stroll.

He didn't look up when Mrs Hudson showed me into the room, but waved for me to take a seat. I s.h.i.+fted a heap of newspapers to the floor in order to do so.

"Well, Holmes!" I said, clutching the arms of the chair and leaning forward, hoping to draw his attention from the manual upon his lap. "Last night's activities by the river were quite invigorating."

"Hmmm," issued Holmes dismissively, still steadfastly refusing to look up from his book.

"I saw it for myself," I continued, determined that he'd hear me out. "The beast, that is. Turns out it's a ruddy great machine of some sort, a submersible with legs, containing a pilot. Things looked a bit hairy for a while, on account of the aforementioned pilot attacking Sir Maurice, his a.s.sociate Miss Hobbes, and me. Had to chase him off with my revolver in the end. You should have seen it, Holmes. Quite remarkable."

At this, Holmes suddenly slammed his book shut and looked up, turning his familiar hawk-like gaze upon me. "What was that, Watson? I fear I didn't quite catch what you said."

I issued a long, familiar sigh. "Nothing, Holmes," I said, deflated. "It wasn't important."

Holmes raised a single eyebrow, and then tossed the book he'd been reading onto the floor. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet by my feet. He turned, stretching out upon the divan like a luxuriating cat, resting his slippered feet upon the arm.

I shook my head in resigned dismay. "How is your investigation going?" I asked. "It looks as if you've barely left the drawing room these past two days. Your search for Mr Xavier Gray is not, I presume, proving easy."

Holmes glanced at me, a thin smile forming upon his lips. "Oh, I'd say the investigation is proceeding quite as planned, Watson. The matter has my full attention."

I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief. Despite living with Holmes for many long years and chronicling all of his most notable investigations, his methods could still seem opaque to me.

"What time is lunch?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. "I'm famished and in need of one of Mrs Hudson's hearty broths." I knew it was a liberty, but I felt I'd earned it after the events of the following evening, and besides, it looked as if Holmes could do with a square meal. Perhaps if I stayed to accompany him, he might actually eat.

"You shall not be disappointed, Watson, if you have it in you to bide your time in that chair for another twenty-six minutes. Beef stew, I believe, with dumplings."

"Ah, my favourite! Let me guess," I said, grinning. "You heard Mrs Hudson place the pot upon the stove, and, over recent months- if not years-you've worked to memorised her routine from the very sounds she makes as she toils. Now, you're able to fathom her every movement from the noises issuing from the bas.e.m.e.nt, and predict the dish and the exact moment upon which she will serve luncheon?"

Holmes gave a cheerful guffaw. "Close, Watson. Very close. She came to inform me just a few moments before you arrived-four minutes, in fact-that she would be serving beef stew, with dumplings, in half an hour's time."

I could not suppress a chuckle. "Well, I'd better pop down and ask if she wouldn't mind setting another place," I said, moving to rise from my chair.

"No need," said Holmes, waving his pipe, "I attended to that yesterday."

"Yesterday?" I asked, incredulous. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean that I asked Mrs Hudson to make a special effort to prepare a hearty lunch-your favourite stew, in fact-given that you'd be stopping by after what undoubtedly would have proved to have been a harrowing night on Cheyne Walk, grappling with monsters and such like." He struck a match with a flourish and lit his pipe.

"You astound me, Holmes," was about as much as I could muster.

He was still laughing when Mrs Hudson called us to the dining room for lunch.

Following my visit to Baker Street, still a little baffled by Holmes' unflappable mood and his apparent lack of progress in his case, I dropped in at my club to pa.s.s a few hours of quiet reflection. Duly restored, I called home to collect my revolver-carefully cleaned that morning-before setting out to meet Newbury and the others at Cheyne Walk. It was dark by then and the streets already had an abandoned, desolate air; a thick, syrupy fog had descended along with the darkness to smother everything in its damp embrace, sending the pedestrian population scuttling to the warmth of their homes.

We'd agreed to meet at the very same spot at which we'd encountered the strange machine the previous evening. Logic dictated that this was the most likely place for us to lay our trap. We had, while sat around the fire drinking brandy in Newbury's drawing room, discussed the possibility that the pilot might select a different stretch of the embankment to make his ascent that night, following his surprise confrontation with our little band. Miss Hobbes had argued, however, that there must have been some reason why he should so far have chosen to scale the walls at that particular point. All of the witness reports confirmed such was his habit. We'd decided between us that it would therefore make sense for us to stage our trap in the vicinity.

I was, as yet, unaware of the nature of this trap, and it wasn't until I rounded the corner of Cheyne Walk and saw the spectacle of it laid out before me that I began to get some sense of what Newbury had planned.

A large, box-shaped construct, about the height of a man and twice as wide again, sat squat at the far end of the street. Black smoke curled from the top of it, forming a dark, oily smudge, and even from ten feet away I could feel the heat of its furnace and smell the acrid stench of burning coal. The noise, too, was horrendous: a whirring, clacking cacophony, the sound of spinning turbines, powered by steam. Thick bunches of copper cable coiled from the belly of the portable generator, and a man with tufts of wild white hair was stretching them out upon the pavement, hands sheathed in thick rubber gloves. The cables sparked and popped with the violent electricity that coursed through them. Newbury stood over his shoulder, overseeing proceedings, and Miss Hobbes stood off to one side, watching the river for any signs of movement.

I coughed politely to announce my presence.

"Dr Watson!" Newbury called cheerfully, looking up for a moment from what the other man was doing. I was startled to see his expression alter suddenly from apparent pleasure to immediate concern. "Now, don't move an inch!"

I glanced down to see that, in my haste to join the others, I had strayed dangerously close to one of the live cables. My left boot was only a fraction of an inch from brus.h.i.+ng against it, and the slightest adjustment in my posture would have seen thousands of volts hungrily discharge into my body Cautiously, I edged away from the live wire until I was comfortable enough to breathe a sigh of relief. I moved over to join Newbury and the man I took to be Aldous Renwick. "So you're planning to electrocute it?" I asked, impressed by the machinery they'd been able to erect in just a few hours.

"Quite so, Dr Watson. When that mechanical beast finds itself entangled in these electrified cables, the resulting surge of power should render it temporarily immovable," replied Newbury.

"Yes, and temporarily deadly to the touch, too," said the other man, gruffly. He straightened his back, laying the last of the cables into position and turning to face me. "When that happens, the last thing you should do is consider touching the machine itself. If you do, you'll be blown clear into the river by the resulting shock. They'll be fis.h.i.+ng you out with a net."

Newbury laughed. "Dr Watson, meet my good friend, Aldous Renwick."

"A pleasure," I said, taking his hand.

In truth, I find it difficult to select words with which to adequately describe the appearance of such a unique and eccentric individual. Aldous Renwick defied easy interpretation. As I have already described, his hair was a wild, wispy mess upon his head, and he was unshaven, his lower face covered in wiry grey bristles. His teeth were yellowed from tobacco smoke and his complexion was that of a fifty-year-old, although I placed him closer to forty. He was dressed in an ill-fitting s.h.i.+rt, open at the collar, over which he wore a thick leather smock, such as one a butcher might don while carving meat. Most disturbing of all, however, was the appearance of his left eye, or rather the object embedded in the socket where his left eye should have been.

At first I had a.s.sumed that Renwick was wearing a jeweller's magnifying gla.s.s, using it to examine the electrical cables with which he had been busying himself, but upon closer inspection I saw that the lens was, in fact, an integral part of the man's face. The device had been inserted into the vacant socket where his eyeball had once been: an artificial replacement, much like a gla.s.s eye, but significantly more practical. I soon realised that, although it might have appeared a little ungainly to some, the false eye actually enabled Renwick to see.

I studied the device for a moment as it whirred and clicked, turning as if by its own volition. Deep inside, behind the curved gla.s.s lens, a tiny pinp.r.i.c.k of fierce red light burned inside his skull. I wondered who had constructed and installed such a thing. It was at once remarkable and utterly disconcerting.

Renwick grinned, his face creasing with a thousand lines. "It's impressive, isn't it, Doctor?"

"It most certainly is, Mr Renwick. Quite remarkable. Tell me, does it offer the same clarity of vision as the original eye?"

Renwick shrugged. "It suits my needs," he said, glancing over at Newbury. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."

Newbury grinned. "Now to wait for the beast."

We fell back from the edge of the embankment, Miss Hobbes and I posted at opposite ends of the street to ensure that no innocent civilians inadvertently strayed into our trap, just as I had almost done a few moments earlier. The temperature had dropped dramatically, but I'd come prepared for a long wait, and had even thought to bring along a hip flask filled with brandy. I was careful to take only the shortest of warming nips, however, as I did not wish to face the infernal machine again while inebriated.

Hours pa.s.sed. I began to grow weary. I could see the others growing impatient, also, stamping their feet and pacing up and down, anxious for something to occur. At one point Newbury abandoned his post to join me for a moment. I offered him my hip flask, which he received gratefully, taking a long draw. "Perhaps we scared him off," he said, studying the oily river, which stretched away into the night like a black ribbon. "Perhaps he isn't coming back tonight?"

"Perhaps," I replied, noncommittally.

"Another hour," he said, quietly. "We'll give it another hour." He trudged off to join Aldous Renwick beneath the cover of the trees.

In the event, it was closer to two before we heard the approach of the b.e.s.t.i.a.l machine. Just as the previous night, the first warning was a sound like chains being ratcheted through metal eyelets. I watched, wide-eyed, as the first of the tentacular limbs snaked over the top of the embankment wall. This was swiftly followed by another, and then another, and then finally the hulking body of the submersible, water streaming down its sides as it hauled itself from the river.

"Stay back!" called Newbury, and I admit that I had no desire to disobey his order. I could feel the trepidation like a dead weight in my belly. What if the trap didn't work? What if the machine proved impervious to the electrical storm, or the pilot chose to take an alternative route entirely? It would all have been for nothing. Worse, we might all have found ourselves once more in terrible danger.

Newbury, of course, was not leaving anything to chance. I watched, surprised, as he suddenly produced a hurricane lantern from somewhere beside him, raising the shutters so that bright, yellow light spilled out, encapsulating him in a glowing orb.

He marched forward, towards the electrical cables, waving the lantern above his head as if he were a matador taunting a bull.

"Maurice, be careful," I heard Miss Hobbes call out in the gloom, and I noted the edge of warning in her tone.

The machine started forward, and then stopped, as if the pilot was uneasy about this unexpected development.

"Over here!" shouted Newbury, waving the lantern back and forth. "Over here!"

The pilot seemed to make up his mind then and the submersible swept forward, its tentacles grinding across the pavement as it charged at Newbury.

With a triumphant cry, Newbury skipped backwards, leading the mechanical beast on.

The sound when the first of the tentacles struck the copper cables was like a thunderclap, a deafening blow that left me reeling with shock. The accompanying flash of sudden, sparking light was almost too much to bear, and I squeezed my eyes shut as it seared my retinas. For a moment everything seemed to take on a dream-like quality as, struck suddenly deaf and blind, I tried to regain my senses.

When I opened my eyes again a few moments later, the sight was utterly breathtaking.

Unable to halt its momentum, the submersible had slid fully onto the copper cables and was now caught in the full brunt of the electrical discharge. Blue lightning flickered over every surface, crawling like snakes across the carapace. The tentacles leapt and danced, thras.h.i.+ng about uncontrollably at the mercy of the current. The entirety of Cheyne Walk was lit up by the deadly-but irrefutably beautiful-storm.

"Halt the current!" I heard Newbury bellow, and Renwick rushed to the generator, forcing the lever into the "off" position. A few moments later, the submersible stuttered, gave a last, violent shudder, and then collapsed in a heap upon the ground.

I withdrew my revolver from my pocket and rushed over to where the others were gathering around the downed machine. Miss Hobbes was first to the site, and seemed about to clamber up onto the body of the machine itself in search of the hatch.

"Stand back, Miss Hobbes," called Renwick, running over in order to keep her from getting too close to the machine. "There may be some residual charge. Here, allow me." Renwick approached it gingerly, testing the surface with his gloved hands. He circled the vehicle once before turning to Newbury, a gleam in his single remaining eye. "It's quite something, isn't it? Just as you said."

"Indeed it is," said Newbury, although it was clear there was something else on his mind. "Aldous, the pilot...?"

Renwick frowned, as if he didn't understand the question.

"Will he be dead?" I asked, quietly.

Renwick shrugged. "It depends what protection he had inside." He glanced at each of us in turn. "Only one way to find out," he said. He reached up and took hold of a small metal wheel that jutted from the lower side of the hull and began twisting it, releasing the seal of the pilot's hatch. It loosened off a few seconds later with a pneumatic hiss, and the hatch hinged open with a metallic clang. We all waited with bated breath.

There was a low groan from inside the machine, followed by the sound of a man spluttering and coughing. I glanced at Newbury, who raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I suppose we'd better get him out of there, then?"

Together we worked to turn the hull of the vehicle until Newbury was able to reach inside and drag the pilot out onto the street. He was a sorry mess, shaking and spluttering as he propped himself up on one arm, staring up at us with a blank, pale expression. He was wearing a set of dark blue overalls that were covered in a week's worth of oil and grime, and blood was running freely from one nostril. He wiped at it ineffectually with his sleeve.

I stood over him with my revolver, although in truth it was an unnecessary gesture; there was no fight left in the man, and if he'd tried anything we should easily have been able to restrain him.

"Who are you?" asked Miss Hobbes, her voice more commanding than I'd come to expect from her. She was, if nothing else, a woman of many surprises.

The man gazed up at her, a haunted look in his eyes. "My name is Xavier Gray," he said.

I almost choked in surprise as I tried to a.s.similate this unexpected information. "Xavier Gray!" I exclaimed loudly.

"You know this man?" said Newbury.

I shook my head. "Indeed not. But I know a man who wants very much to find him. Mr Gray here is the quarry of none other than Sherlock Holmes."

Newbury emitted a rumbling guffaw. "Is that so, Dr Watson? How very surprising."

Gray looked as surprised as any of us. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, but it was clearly a rhetorical question.

"Tell us, Mr Gray," prompted Miss Hobbes, "what is the purpose of this machine, and for what reason have you been making these late-night excursions?"

"For them," replied Gray, trembling as he fought back tears. "It was all for them."

"This man is clearly disturbed," said Renwick, redundantly. It was plain for us all to see that Gray was suffering from severe shock.

"Speaking as a medical pract.i.tioner, it's clear this man needs rest and a chance to recover from the shock of this evening's events," I said, lowering my weapon. "I imagine we'll be better served by saving our questions until the morning."

"Very well," said Newbury. "May I suggest, Doctor, that you take this man into your temporary custody? I don't believe he represents any real danger, now that his machine has been rendered immobile. I have every faith that you'll be able to tend to his immediate medical needs, and I'm sure Mr Holmes would be only too delighted to hear that we've saved him a job." He delivered this with a wry smile on his lips, and I couldn't help sharing for a moment in his glee. After the manner in which Holmes had dismissed the whole episode it would give me no small measure of satisfaction to deliver Xavier Gray to his doorstep. I could imagine the look on his face.