Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine Read online

  “Well done, Watson,” Holmes crowed. “And I am pleased to say the day has not been wasted here while you were gone. Behold! I have made us paper hats!”

  “Holmes… Why?”

  “To wear on our trip to the theater tonight!”

  “To help us really blend in with the crowd?”

  “Well partly, John, partly. But they do a great deal more than that. Have you asked yourself what would happen if it rains tonight?”

  “Then my own, regular hat would do a fine job of holding the drizzle at bay,” I told him. “As a special bonus, it would not then turn into a soggy lump of newsprint dripping down my face.”

  Holmes put both hands on his hips and grumbled, “I’ve said it before, Watson, and I’ll say it again: you have much to learn of gratitude!”

  3

  WHEN MARY MORSTAN ARRIVED THAT EVENING, WHAT A strange trio we made. I suppose I was the most mundane-looking of the three. Though pale and trembling, my appearance was generally acceptable for the theater and it might easily be assumed I was naught but a London gentleman suffering from some minor infirmity. Of course, hidden beneath my clothes was the truth: I was a London gentleman suffering from mystic self-poisoning, who stood on the very brink of irreversible damage to almost every one of his internal organs.

  Mary wore the same nondescript dress she’d been in earlier. However, she must have taken to heart my warning that Holmes and I might be unwilling to shoot her mysterious benefactor, even if she commanded it. Miss Morstan seemed to have grown suspicious bulges in both sleeves, one in her right boot and an alarmingly huge one in her handbag. My personal suspicion was that she had gone straight back home and ransacked her employers’ house for whatever weaponry she could find. Let no aspersions ever be cast upon Mary’s resourcefulness: she seemed to have dug up half an armory and strapped herself for battle.

  So, there we were. I was sick, Mary Morstan was prepared to kill and kill and kill, and Holmes had a paper hat.

  We hailed a cab.

  On the drive, I think I must have seemed distant and desultory. In truth, I was simply exhausted. Mary seemed distracted. She didn’t know what situation she was walking into, but she was resolved to walk out laden with loot. Holmes was chatty. He kept holding forth on the virtues of used newsprint as the basis for haberdashery, and how—given the unknowability of the night’s events—certain people might feel better about things if they held hands.

  I gave him a warning look. I think he was unsettled that I had not expressed my usual interest in our female client. And… well, I confess it was a failing of mine. As Holmes peppered his conversation with observations that the road was bumpy, and wouldn’t the carriage handle better if Mary and I were to sit a bit closer, I thought I read a dueling uncertainty in his features. I think he was wondering if my lack of interest was due to my feeble physical state, or my agitation that he had tried to turn me out of 221B. Indeed, either of those two might well have explained it, but Holmes was overlooking a third, overriding motive.

  Mary was just awful.

  I had no desire to spend an extra instant in her company, more than the evening’s business demanded. True, I was glad she’d sought our help, for I needed something to distract Holmes from my expulsion and a chance to remind him that he could not manage these little affairs without me. Yet my only desire was to bring the mystery to a satisfactory conclusion as quickly as I might.

  Preferably without allowing Mary to murder anybody.

  No sooner had we alighted outside the theater, than a street urchin gave a loud whistle to a shadowy figure who sat waiting in a four-wheeler directly across from us. The man said something to his driver and—in only the time it took to make an inadvisable U-turn in evening theater traffic—the carriage pulled up in front of us. The door opened to reveal a hard-looking man in his late thirties. He was not particularly large, but had a deformed cheekbone, two cauliflower ears and enough facial scarring to prove to even the most inexperienced observer that he must have had quite the career as a prizefighter.

  “Miss Mary Morstan?” the man asked.

  “I am,” she replied. “And these are my two escorts, Dr. Something-or-other and Warlock Holmes.”

  “Holy Hell!” the man screamed, jumping back into the depths of the carriage. “Johnny, get us out of here!”

  “Now just a moment, my good man,” said Holmes, raising one finger. “Miss Morstan has broken none of your injunctions. I am not a member of the regular police force, nor have I ever been. True, I may have aided them in their investigations a few times. And… er… I may have been the subject of their investigations a number of times as well. But, so long as no harm is threatened to Mary Morstan, I shall act as a simple observer.”

  “Promise?” asked the ex-fighter, wide-eyed and gripping the carriage door with white-knuckled fingers.

  “I promise,” said Holmes.

  The man licked his lips and glanced around, nervously. “Well… all right, but I’ll have my pistol drawn and on you the whole time, so don’t try nuffin’ funny.”

  “Fair enough,” said Holmes. He climbed up into the four-wheeler, sending our mysterious contact shuffling back into the far corner. Holmes made sure to sit on the same seat with him, leaving the rear one for me and Mary, hoping—no doubt—that we might feel the need to snuggle.

  As we settled in, the ex-fighter fumbled about in his pockets, then produced a small revolver, which he pointed at… well, mostly at Holmes. His hands trembled so badly that he waved the thing back and forth across half the compartment. He also took the opportunity to feebly knock against the roof and bleat, “Johnny! You got to… get us home… Move, Johnny… Johnny, please!”

  I raised my eyebrows at Holmes. “Your reputation precedes you, it would seem.”

  “Well,” he said, with a little shrug, “I’ve been operating in London for some time, so word has gotten about in… you know… certain circles.”

  It was not the most jovial carriage ride I have ever enjoyed. I tried to engage our mysterious escort in conversation, if only to calm his nerves. I had the distinct impression that somebody was sure to be accidentally shot if I didn’t. We got a little information out of him—for example, that his name was Williams, he was the former lightweight champion of England, and he had never done anything wicked, so there was certainly no need for Holmes to punish him—yet he insisted that he was under strict orders to let his employer explain everything.

  The evening traffic slowed us, until we cleared Vauxhall Bridge. From there we headed southeast at a good pace, through Stockwell, finally stopping outside an ornate house on Coldharbour Lane. Williams practically kicked the carriage door open and indicated, with a squeal, that we should disembark.

  We made our way to the door, Mary in the lead and Williams hanging back a dozen feet, his eyes locked warily on Holmes. There was no bell, but the door had a corroded brass knocker, which Mary used to deliver a firm, businesslike rap. Almost instantly, the door was swept open by an aging Indian servant in a yellow turban. An overwhelming miasma of stinking vapor rolled out from behind him, stinging our eyes and sending us into fits of coughing. For an instant, I thought I was being poisoned. A good deal of my mistrust was due to the man’s yellow headwear, which I knew to be the identifying mark of the murderous Thuggee gang. Yet, even as my lungs became accustomed to the initial onslaught of the house’s atmosphere, I realized his turban wasn’t so much yellow as yellowed—perhaps the natural reaction of any white fabric to such foul air. Indeed, the man himself seemed to have suffered the same. His eyes were bloodshot, yellow and dark-circled with stress and fatigue. He was just opening his mouth—whether to offer welcome or explanation, I will never know—when a high, whining voice from deep within the house called, “Ah! Hew! They are arrived at last! Oh, khitmutgar! Khitmutgar! You must show them to me at once! No delays, now! No delays! Mew, hew, hew…”

  4

  THE HOUSE WAS MOSTLY EMPTY. THE FIRST TWO ROOMS we passed had no furniture in them, a
nd the third had only a small wardrobe and a simple bed—probably where our guide the khitmutgar slept. However, when we ascended the staircase to the first floor we suddenly found ourselves on a lavish carpet—thick and pleasant. Fine paintings lined the walls, although I noted they were of limited provenance. It was as if someone had told the owner of the house, “Look here, when it comes to world-class paintings, trust none but the Dutch, the Italians and the French, in that order.”

  Not bad advice, when one comes to think of it.

  As we ascended to the next floor, our surroundings became even more opulent, with marble busts and tapestries all about. At last, the khitmutgar stopped before a carved wooden door, swept it open, and motioned for us to enter.

  The smell was even worse. And there—seated on an enormous pile of silk-brocade cushions on the far side of the room, was our host. I don’t think he was quite five feet tall. His skin was doughy white. He had a tall, bald head, strangely pointed at the top, but rounder and thicker at the bottom, like a misshapen gumdrop. His hands were in a constant state of motion, incessantly fidgeting with whatever came within their reach. Chiefly they toyed with the mouthpiece of a hookah-like contraption that rested just beside him, venting a foul, thick smoke. As we entered he was making a long, quiet “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, mew, mew” sound. A few moments in his company was enough to suggest that this was the result of physical deformity. It seemed he could not exhale without making some sound, and was therefore forced to choose between speaking or simply emitting random noises. There was a brief moment where I imagined trying to sleep in the same room as him, and was stricken by a sudden revulsion.

  As we entered, Holmes said, in a tactful whisper, “Well… there’s no way that’s human.”

  “Nope,” I agreed.

  Drawing a deep, excited breath, our host exclaimed, “Eww, Miss Morstan! The estimable Mary Morstan! It is an honor, madam. I am Thaddeus Sholto, your servant. Forever your servant. Ah. Mew.”

  “He says his name is Thaddeus,” Holmes whispered. “Got to be a demon.”

  “No, Holmes. Thaddeus is a human name.”

  “What? Can’t be!”

  Mary Morstan was staring at our host with open expectation and strained patience. It was clear she was waiting—rather baitedly—either to be offered a seat, or a preposterously expensive pearl. Do you know, now that I put it to paper, I have become fairly certain: both. She wanted both.

  Yet Thaddeus Sholto did neither. He turned to Holmes and me and said, “And your servant, too, I am sure. Yes. Mew. Do tell me, Miss Morstan, who are these stalwart fellows who have agreed to safeguard you?”

  Mary gave an impatient sigh. “This is Mr. Warlock Holmes—he has a reputation for helping people out when things get weird. That’s Dr. Whatsisname. I can’t remember.”

  “Dr. John Watson, at your service,” I told him, but it was clear Thaddeus Sholto didn’t care what my name was either. His eyes locked excitedly on my medical bag. I had grown in the habit of carrying it with me; if adventure should break out, it was a damned useful thing to have along.

  Not least because there was a pistol in it.

  “A doctor, eh?” he cried, much excited. “Have you your stethoscope? Might I ask you—would you have the kindness? I have great doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral. Hmm. Mew.”

  With a nod, I drew the stethoscope from my case and stepped over to our host. Now, there are certain specialists for whom the subtle clicks in the lub-dub of the human heart paint a clear picture, but I was no such authority. Nevertheless, the habit of my profession drove me to pretend I was. Nearly half of general practice is pretending you know what you’re doing. The other half is referring your patient to somebody who actually might. Assuming an expression of competence, I leaned in and touched the bell of my stethoscope to Thaddeus Sholto’s chest.

  Lub d-spweeeeeeeeeeeeee, krickik, fwub, fwub, fwub, kikkik… dub.

  Eager to resume the business of the evening, I straightened and told him, “Sir, you have nothing to fear. I am sure…” Yet, as I still had some modicum of professional honor, the lie died upon my lips. “Actually, no. You might want to get that looked at. Tomorrow, if you’re smart.”

  His eyes widened with the thousand innate fears of every hypochondriac and I gave him a curt nod to say that, yes, they were all correct. His mouth fell open in horror and a soft “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” sound began to escape. To quell this, he shoved the hookah’s mouthpiece between his lips and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, puffs of stinking smoke leaked out left and right.

  “It’s no surprise, really. No surprise. I have always been a great sufferer. Mew-hew. Perhaps we had best hurry to repair Miss Morstan’s fortunes, before my internal infirmities overcome me and I perish.”

  “Yes,” said Mary, somewhat coolly. “Let’s do that.”

  “We must go and confront Brother Bartholomew, I fear,” said Thaddeus, with a shake of his pendulous head. “He suffers from our family failing. He is greedy. Mew. Oh. Greedy. From the day Father gained the Agra treasure—even before Brother Bartholomew and I were born—he always said half of it must go to Arthur Morstan. Yet, he and Mother—and now Brother Bartholomew too—were never able to give up so much as a single jewel. Eew. Terrible of them…”

  “And is that your brother, Bartholomew, up there?” I asked, directing everybody’s attention to the family portrait that hung above Thaddeus Sholto’s nest of cushions. The painting portrayed a graying military man, dressed in a major’s uniform with two medals pinned to his chest. Upon his lap sat two smiling boys. Two revolting, white, doughy, smiling, shapeless, hideously mutated boys. As there was no difference in their shape or size, I deemed Thaddeus and Bartholomew must be twins. Either that or the artist had been an inexcusably lazy sort of fellow. Upon the major’s shoulder rested the claw-like hand of his wife, who must once have stood behind him in the picture. Once, I say, for the canvas was torn away, leaving a gaping hole. Little clue remained of her, save that the amount of space allotted was rather large and the hand had a greenish-white tint.

  “All of us, yes, mew,” Thaddeus confirmed. “How happy we were! Yes, those were better times. Better times. That is Bartholomew, on the left. Or… I think it is. Maybe it’s me. Little difference, really. That is my father, John Sholto, whom I think you must have heard of, Miss Morstan. And… well… Mother used to be there. Sadly, we have no picture left of her. Eww, oh… just before his end, Father went a bit funny about her likeness and destroyed them all. She didn’t seem to mind.”

  “How sad,” said Holmes, supportively.

  “Why would your father do that?” I asked.

  “Who can say?” said Thaddeus, with a shrug. “Theirs was a peculiar courtship. Hew. I suppose I can speak of it, as it bears upon the business of the day. My father and Miss Morstan’s father worked together to find a large cache of jewels—the Agra treasure, it was called. It was my father who went to claim it, but when he got to the hiding place he found it guarded by my mother. She refused to surrender it unless he agreed to marry her. Isn’t that strange? Ha. Mew. A funny way to meet. But they were happy enough most of the time, you know. When we were growing up… mew. Yes.”

  As he spoke, Holmes leaned towards me and said, in a guarded undertone, “You know, Watson, it may just be your deduction thing rubbing off on me, but… do you suppose what we are hearing is the tale of an unguarded treasure, discovered by a wayward greed demon?”

  “An interesting theory, Holmes.”

  “As an outsider, she would need to anchor herself to an object capable of inspiring immense avarice in the mortal heart, or she probably could not sustain her existence here.”

  “Especially because—” as subtly as I could, I cocked a finger at Thaddeus’s reeking hookah-like contrivance “—in her native world, I suspect she may have been a methane-breather.”

  “Brilliant! Yes! Then one day John Sho
lto shows up and says he’s taking her treasure. Now, she’s probably got no real way of stopping him, being as weak as she is. Believe me, no greed demon would willingly part with its hoard.”

  “But she must have had enough leverage to ensure that part of the deal was that he’d marry her. Which is fairly clever, as it still gives her some claim to the treasure. Of course, the marriage would not be valid unless consummated…”

  “Eww,” Holmes noted. “But it must have been, at least once, because: twins.”

  “And they all lived happily ever after, until Arthur Morstan reappeared and… I don’t know… what do you think happened?”

  Fortunately, Thaddeus was entering exactly that part of the story.

  “…but, of course, Mummy had always known that Arthur Morstan would come one day to claim his portion of the treasure. Ah-hew. She did not care for the idea, I assure you. Mew. Yes. And finally, he did come. Father greeted him as a friend and showed him the treasure, but that’s where it all turned sour, you see.”

  “They murdered him,” said Mary coldly, but more matter-of-factly than I might have imagined. It seemed she had accepted the fact of her father’s death long ago and the fresh injury was not that they had taken his life, but that they had withheld his legacy.

  Not to Thaddeus. He seemed utterly horrified by the idea. “No, no, mew!” he cried. “They would never! Arthur Morstan had a weak heart—everybody knows it.”