Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine Read online

  “Riiiiiiiiight,” said Lestrade. “Well, I think we’re done here. Don’t you, gentlemen?”

  “But shouldn’t we…?” Hopkins wondered, indicating the stranger with a finger.

  “No. There is no point,” Lestrade assured him and guided Hopkins away down the lane, in the direction of the village and the train station. Forty yards along, Hopkins leaned towards Lestrade and hissed, “Didn’t he seem a bit… suspicious?”

  “Oh, more than a bit, but I want him to think we’re gone. Once we’re around that bend in the road, let’s get into the woods. We’ll come up behind Black Peter’s cabin. Clearly, that’s where our man is heading. I think he may be waiting for darkness so we’ve less than twenty minutes.”

  If there was one thing you could count on, it was Inspector Vladislav Lestrade’s uncanny certitude regarding when the sun was due to rise or set.

  Thus it was that we made our way around one bend, through the woods, and right up behind the worst thief I’d ever encountered. We stood half concealed, some fifteen feet behind him as he struggled and grunted with Black Peter’s feeble lock. He must have scratched at it for five or ten minutes with his little silver penknife before it finally opened. His cry of triumph was quickly followed by a scream of terror, when he beheld the impaled body of Peter Carey.

  “We should probably take that down,” Holmes reflected.

  As soon as he mastered himself, the thief began casting about inside the cabin until—with a second triumphant cry—he came across the box. He tore it open, beheld the securities within and gave his third, and loudest, cry of triumph.

  “Theefs shoon’t yell so much,” said Grogsson.

  “True,” I agreed. “Yet there he is, with the evidence in hand. Shall we? As the case is Hopkins’s I think it would only be proper to allow him to make the arrest.”

  Stepping from our feeble concealment, we walked to the door of Black Peter’s cabin, whereupon Inspector Hopkins declared, “Sir, I place you under arrest for the murder of Peter Carey.”

  The intruder gave a squeal and turned to run. He made it around Hopkins, but effected no more than two steps across the threshold before Grogsson caught him by the collar and hoisted him, shrieking, into the air. His skinny little legs continued to pump furiously—though none too effectively—as the disgusted detective marched him back inside. Grogsson threw the prisoner down in one of the chairs, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and demanded, “Who you?”

  “Just a moment, Grogsson!” Hopkins interjected. “Let me first caution this young man that anything he says to us is admissible testimony and may be referenced in court!”

  “Whutever,” said Grogsson, rolling his eyes. “Now… who you?”

  The young thief stared up, visibly terrified by the array of official-looking faces looking sternly down at him. With one quivering finger, he pointed at the ledger.

  “You are John Hopley Neligan?” Hopkins wondered.

  “Junior,” our prisoner replied.

  “Ah-ha! Son of the absconding banker!”

  This drew a flash of anger from the young man. “No! Never! Papa would do no such thing! I know that’s the first thing everybody thinks—and who can blame them, with the sums involved—but you don’t know him like I did! Something must have happened to him!”

  “He became a thief and his son became a murderer?” Lestrade suggested.

  “I tell you, he would never! His reputation is much maligned and I have made it my life’s work to uncover the mystery and do right by his creditors!”

  “That does not explain how you come to find yourself at Peter Carey’s cabin,” Lestrade pointed out.

  “Simple,” replied John Jr. “Father was not without his friends. As soon as it was reported that one of the missing securities had appeared on the London market, Mother and I heard of it. I spent all my school holidays and much of our remaining money tracking it back to the source. It had been sold by this man, Peter Carey!”

  “So you killed him!” Hopkins roared, eager to show he’d been the first to figure out the crime.

  “No! No, I wouldn’t!” Neligan insisted, then furrowed his brow and muttered, “Or… I think I wouldn’t, but I never found out. Look I… I may have come here two nights ago and forced open that lock—”

  “Which would explain the inexpert scratches we found,” I whispered to Holmes.

  “—but Mr. Carey was not here. Neither was the box. I came back last night, but I heard two scary voices arguing so I ran away. Only tonight did I learn all my searching has not been in vain! At last, I have the means to repay my father’s creditors and clear my family name!”

  “Ha! Or maybe you killed Peter Carey last night and, in your passion, forgot to rifle his possessions!” said Hopkins. By God, he did have Lanner’s love of premature accusation.

  “Are you sure you aren’t being a bit hasty, Inspector Hopkins?” I asked.

  “Hasty?” he scoffed. “He has a motive! He admits he’s broken in here before! His father’s ledger was found at the scene of the crime! What more evidence could we possibly require?”

  “I do see your point,” I conceded, “but there are two other factors I would ask you to consider. Firstly, even though Mr. Neligan thought himself unobserved, he cried out in surprise when he saw the corpse of Peter Carey. Do you suppose he murdered the man last night and then forgot he did it?”

  Hopkins’s indignant glare wavered for an instant, but he maintained his skepticism. “And the second?” he demanded.

  “Only this…”

  I placed one foot behind the back leg of John Hopley Neligan Jr.’s chair, grasped him by the lapels, and tipped him backwards. He screamed. Once I had him flat on his back, I placed two fingers on the center of his chest and pushed down as hard as I could.

  “No! Ouch! What are you doing? Eeeee! Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

  He squealed and thrashed, slapping at my wrist, yet, try as he might, he could not free himself from my two-fingered pin.

  “It is your contention, Hopkins, that this gentleman forced a harpoon all the way through Peter Carey and the brick wall behind him, in a single blow?”

  “Oh…” said Hopkins, turning somewhat red. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Clearly.”

  “So then, what did happen? Why is he here?”

  “It is just possible Mr. Neligan is telling the truth,” I said, allowing the man up. “Whatever business he and his father had with Black Peter Carey may indeed prove to be incidental to his murder.”

  “Well, I can’t count on that,” Hopkins said, stamping his foot. “Look, even if he isn’t under arrest, John Neligan Jr. is a person of interest in this case and is not to leave town until this matter is resolved!”

  “Yah! Dat’s right!” said Grogsson, giving Hopkins a congratulatory poke on the shoulder that nearly bowled him off his feet.

  “Very prudent,” Lestrade added.

  Stanley Hopkins colored from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair. I smiled. Yes indeed, it seemed it would not be hard to win him to our cause if we could bring him his first victory.

  “So… erm… what should we do now?” Hopkins wondered.

  “Tonight? Very little, I should think,” I said. And oh, it was horrible, how tired I felt. “I suggest we return to London. You can investigate further tomorrow.”

  Before we parted company, I took Lestrade aside and told him, “Keep me abreast of the case, won’t you? I’ve thought of a promising avenue to chase in London. Give me a few days and I think I may be of some service…”

  * * *

  I did not inject myself with Xantharaxes that night. My body needed time to heal. And yet it frustrated me deeply to miss a night of dreaming. I’d learned so much! The secret magics that underlay our familiar physics, the thoughts and hopes of demons, cows, grass, stars and clouds had all been made known to me. By God, it was thrilling! Thus, every night I faced a choice: heal or hurt. Yet, what if I missed the dream I ne
eded? Any night might bring the final piece of the puzzle I needed to move against Adler or Moriarty. It was becoming ever rarer for me to abstain, and ever harder.

  At least I was in good shape to be useful the next day. I needed to know how a man might go about setting himself up with a crew for a seal-hunting voyage. I knew a seafaring nation such as Britain must have well-established practices for such things, so I went down to the docks to enquire. Before noon I had my answer: shipping agents. But they had no wish to speak to you unless you were a captain with berths to fill or one of the unfortunate saps who would end up filling one.

  Two hours and twelve telegrams later, I’d set myself up in business as Captain Basil, a seasoned and trustworthy old whaler, even if he was a bit fictional. Britain’s sea trade is so vast, I feared I would never find the fellow I needed, until a casual word from one of the agents put me on the trail of a man named Sumner, on Ratcliff Highway. It seems he’d worked with Peter Carey several times before and was in a unique position to help me. By the end of business that day, I had things so well in order that I sent a further fan of telegrams, apprising Hopkins, Lestrade and Grogsson of my plans and inviting them to Baker Street on the morrow.

  That night I injected myself with some Xantharaxesinfused blood. Sadly, it was a waste, for I sickened and the dream I had was useless; some rubbish about a ship that traveled under the water.

  I’d rather have seen Irene.

  I awoke weak and nauseous, to find Holmes standing by my bed with a fistful of telegrams that gave me every expectation of bringing our case to a satisfying conclusion within only a few hours. Grogsson was first to arrive, chewing on an enormous crumpet. Apparently he’d helped save a baker’s child from kidnappers some years ago, and the man never failed to have at least one Grogsson-sized baked good available every morning at a very reasonable rate.

  Next came Hopkins and Lestrade, together. The former was most confused by my telegram and told me so, as he stepped into our sitting room. “What’s this I hear about me cracking the case?” Hopkins asked. “I haven’t done anything! I spent yesterday chasing shadows. If John Neligan Jr. didn’t do it, then… well… I just don’t know!”

  “Ah, but what you did do is help me clarify my thoughts,” I told him. “When you placed the blame on Neligan, I demonstrated why he could not possibly be our man. This inspired a chain of reasoning that may very well lead us to the killer. It begins like this: how was Peter Carey murdered?”

  “With a harpoon. You saw it,” said Hopkins.

  “And who tends to be very adept in the use of harpoons?”

  “Er… harpooners?”

  “Exactly. Now, was Black Peter Carey in a position to know many harpooners?”

  “Oh! Of course!” Hopkins cried. “He captained a ship that hunted seals and whales!”

  I raised a finger and said, “Ah! In fact, you have just touched upon the next important fact. He captained a ship. The entirety of his captaincy was spent on one vessel: the Sea Unicorn. The balance of probability therefore dictates that Black Peter’s killer is most likely…”

  I paused to let Stanley Hopkins figure it out. In half a blink, he clapped his hand to his brow and cried, “A harpooner who worked with him on the Sea Unicorn!”

  “There, you see?” said Lestrade, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You did figure it out. When Lanner asks what your line of reasoning was, you must tell him exactly that.”

  “But, no! I didn’t solve anything; Dr. Watson did,” Hopkins spluttered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lestrade said, in his most soothing tone. “Holmes and Watson do not want credit. If ever they should be of use to you in a case, the kindest thing you can do is to claim you thought it all out by yourself.”

  “But that’s not right!” Hopkins protested.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll solve many cases on your own,” I told him. “But Lestrade is correct. Anonymity is all we crave. Holmes, what do we say about anonymity?”

  “Sweet, sweet anonymity: it’s better than strawberry jam!”

  “Just so. Now let me tell you what I did next, Hopkins, and why I’ve asked you here. As Black Peter has quite the reputation in seagoing circles, it is reasonable to expect news of his death to be the talk of that community. I therefore presented myself as the first vulture to pick his corpse. I contacted several shipping agents and told them my name was Captain Basil. I was a whaler myself and had often been jealous that Peter Carey always came home with such a fine catch and a huge profit. The reason for this, I was sure, was the excellence of his crew. I was therefore willing to pay high wages to any of his former men and, of course, high commissions to any agent who could send them my way. Mr. Sumner is confident that he can produce at least three of Carey’s former harpooners to speak to me today, and they are coming at nine, ten, and eleven. Now, I do not say this will definitely provide us with his killer, but it’s the best trap I’ve been able to devise.”

  “Brilliant!” Hopkins crowed.

  “Let us hope so.”

  Promptly at nine, Mrs. Hudson ushered up the first arrival, banged her bony little fist against our door and trilled, “Got a salt-smellin’ seal murderer out here, what wishes to talk to sum’un named Captain Basil! That one o’ your aliases, Warlock?”

  Clearly, my landlady was going to need some coaching on the finer points of the morning’s deception. Indeed, if that first visitor had been Peter Carey’s killer, she might have blown the whole show.

  He wasn’t. What he was, was a grizzled old man of the sea with half a face. Apparently there had been an ill-advised wager one night, involving rather a lot of rum and a disagreement over whether a grown man could swing three times around the starboard hoist, with one foot in a shark-sized fishhook.

  The answer: two and a half.

  His name was James Lancaster, though, so he was of little interest to me. We told him the berth had been filled, gave him half a sovereign for his trouble and took his name and information “in case something should open up”. In truth, we wanted to know where to find him if my guess as to the murderer’s identity should prove false.

  Speaking of murderers: the second applicant almost certainly was one. His name was Hugh Pattins and he didn’t want to say exactly why, but if we could have him on board a ship and off English soil before the day was out, that would suit him just fine. The only thing to foul him as a suspect was this: he was the only person on earth who had both known Peter Carey and also liked him. It seems the two men had seen eye-to-eye on the subject of whether it was appropriate to spear a man in the face while he slept for saying something mean about you. Having just lost his sole supporter on this point, Hugh Pattins was shocked and saddened to hear Carey had been taken from this earth. We gave him his half-sovereign, took his information and sent him on his way.

  Hardly twenty minutes after we’d seen him off, there was a kick at the door and Mrs. Hudson called, “Got another ’un out here to talk to Captain Basil! Wink, wink!”

  Well, I can’t say she wasn’t improving.

  The third harpooner was… most interesting. To start with, he was huge—not quite Grogsson-sized, but not far from it. He was blubberous, as if it were only his clothes that gave him human shape. Yet despite the jiggly blobbiness of him, he moved with obvious strength. He had close-cropped graying hair and a beard to match. His nose was bulbous, his eyes dark and close-set. He looked about the room nervously and twisted a battered fisherman’s cap in both hands as he greeted us.

  “Good mornin’, sirs. I’m… er… here about the berth?”

  “Have you your papers?” I asked, trying to keep my surprise at his appearance from creeping into my voice.

  “Yes, sirs.”

  He withdrew a wrinkled sheaf from his belt and threw it upon our sitting-room table. My eyebrows rose.

  “Your name is Patrick Cairns?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I believe you are exactly the fellow we want.” I took a good step back and a
dded, “Grogsson, get him.”

  In a blur, the hulking detective was past me, with his hand on his man. Which, if Patrick Cairns had turned out to be an actual man, would likely have been the end of things. Instead he gave a pinnipedial bellow and fetched Grogsson a backhanded smack that rattled our windows. Grogsson responded with a quick jab under the ribs that I’m sure would have knocked the wind out of a buffalo or two, but Cairns—to everyone’s amazement—remained on his feet. The two of them set to in earnest while Holmes, Lestrade, Hopkins and I leapt and darted about the room in a generalized effort not to be crushed to death by nine hundred pounds of quarreling bully. When they hit the wall near our little writing desk, Cairns swept up a marble ink-blotter and flung it. Grogsson ducked it easily, leaving it free to careen across the room towards my face.

  Time seemed to slow, almost to a stop. I could see the ink-dappled face of the blotter as it neared. That needs a clean, I remember thinking. Yet, at the same time I knew: I would have no such chance. I’d never clean anything ever again. Here was finality. Here was the end of me, flying towards my face.

  Funny… I always thought the reaper would use a scythe.

  And then, at the last minute… it just… didn’t. An almost imperceptible bending of the space within the room—or of fate—carried it just past my head. I remember the sudden sting as it nicked my left ear, then whistled past me across the room.

  And smacked Stanley Hopkins straight in the face. It struck him right between the eyes and sent him reeling back against the wall where he collapsed, insensible.

  With a grunt of rage, Grogsson seized Cairns by the scruff of his neck and thrust his face against the corner of our mantelpiece, shattering it. Between that and the piggy-transfixings, Grogsson was running up a daunting repair bill for Holmes and me.

  “Ork! Ork!” howled Cairns, in a none-too-humansounding cry of protest. Yet the fight had gone out of him, and he collapsed to the floor. In a second, the rest of us were on him. We got his hands behind his back and snapped Lestrade’s cuffs around his wrists. Then, because it was laughable to think that might hold him, we got Grogsson’s on there as well.