Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine Read online

  Holmes gave an uncomfortable look as if he’d rather be helping Flora than Lord St. Simon. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

  “Did Hatty display any previous signs she might be averse to the marriage?” I asked.

  “None! Why up until the night before, she was chatting away about what we should do together in our future lives… places we should visit…” The disdain with which his Lordship spat that last part out made it pretty clear he had no interest in visiting anywhere at all, apart from the bank.

  “When was the first time Hatty seemed reticent?”

  “During the ceremony itself,” said Lord St. Simon, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Halfway through, she flushed bright red and started looking about as if something had upset her. By the time we were done, she was so nervous that she dropped her bouquet as we walked down the aisle. Fortunately, it was not damaged. Some gentleman in the first pew picked it up for her.”

  “Oh, disregard him,” Holmes suggested.

  “A gentleman?” I asked.

  “I use the term as a politeness,” said Lord St. Simon, airily. “If the man had any rank, it would come as a shock to me. He was nobody we knew. Probably a reporter. He’d been scribbling away furiously a few moments before.”

  “Disregard him,” said Holmes, with a nervous laugh. “He’s a reporter! What do reporters deserve? To be disregarded, everybody knows it!”

  “Quite right,” said Lord St. Simon.

  “So you saw this ‘gentleman’ too, Holmes?”

  “Oh? Er… yes. Well, I was sitting a bit behind him, you see. Warding off evil spirits and the like. He was directly between me and Saint Lord, so it’s only natural I would have seen him. Hey, do you know what? Let’s disregard the fellow.”

  “Mmm hmm,” I said. “And after this, Lord St. Simon, you went to the wedding breakfast?”

  “Yes and Hatty had hardly sat down before she went upstairs, and was never seen again!”

  “Very well, Lord St. Simon. I feel that is sufficient information to begin my investigation. Do let me know if—”

  “But, no! Are you sure you—?”

  “Quite sure, yes. Holmes knows where to find you, I trust? Good, good. We shall call upon you the moment we have news.”

  I bustled Lord St. Simon out a bit faster than I should have, as chance would have it. If I had not let him forget his hat and gloves—which he had hung from the coat rack—the whole case might have turned out very differently. But, ah well… hindsight.

  No sooner had I heard the Baker Street door close than I rounded on my friend and demanded, “Why did you do it, Holmes?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know perfectly well!”

  “Yes, but… how do you?”

  “Because I reasoned it out, Holmes, and it wasn’t hard! Egad, you’re practically transparent! You’ve got a face like a crumb-covered puppy next to an empty biscuit tin and if that were not enough, what about your words? ‘Oh please, disregard him! Disregard him!’ Something happened with that man in the front pew, Holmes, and you know exactly what it is!”

  “All right, but you don’t!”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t, if I hadn’t just spent the last hour tidying up all your notes on soul-binding magic! Why did you do it, Holmes? Why did you bind the soul of Hatty Doran to the gentleman in the first row?”

  He wrung his hands and gave me a look of pure anguish. “I didn’t mean to, Watson! You’ve got to believe me: I didn’t! It’s just… well, there I was sitting in the church, making ‘oooh-ooooooh’ noises and waving my hands about, as if I were banishing evil spirits. Only there weren’t any. So I was bored. So I started looking at people’s souls and the bonds between them. And there was Hatty, trying to put a brave face on things but it was clear she had no attachment whatsoever to the groom. And how could she? He’s an absolute arse-face.”

  “Holmes! You cannot speak about a man like Lord St. Simon in such terms! His position is above reproach! He is noble—”

  “Then he’s a noble arse-face, Watson! Please, if that man is not an arse-face then there is no such thing as an arse-face!”

  I wished I had grounds to refute him, but… instead, I fell silent.

  Holmes continued, “Well, I thought Hatty might like it better if there was some kind of bond between the two of them. So I started looking around for the purple stringy things of his soul, so I could tie them to Hatty’s. But it wasn’t easy! You remember what a mess souls are! So many people in the same place with so many strands reaching out from them. It was like sitting in a room full of lavender spaghetti! Let me tell you it wasn’t easy finding St. Lord Robert’s strands—the little arse-face has barely got a soul at all. Well, at last I found some and I tangled them all up with Hatty’s, but…”

  “But as there was another gentleman seated directly between you and Lord St. Simon…”

  “…I might have mistaken some of the other gentleman’s strands for his…”

  “And now Lord St. Simon’s new bride finds her soul and destiny intimately linked to a man she’d never met before. Well done, Holmes. Really, just a whole new level of achievement for you, isn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Watson!”

  “Well… it was.”

  “All right, but I didn’t mean to.”

  I sighed and looked at my friend. “Regardless of your intent, Holmes, the damage is done. I suppose the best we can do is try to track the lady down and gauge how best to ameliorate the situation. Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “St. George’s, Hanover Square.”

  * * *

  My hope had been that someone at the church might know the gentleman Holmes had bound Hatty Doran’s soul to. We asked around, but the only information we got was from the vicar, who had a vague memory of the man in the front pew. He’d been around a few times in the past two weeks, but had not been back since the day of the wedding. He was a handsome young man, the vicar recalled, but sad-looking, with a strong jaw and large, lonely eyes. They’d exchanged greetings only once. The man had had some form of foreign accent—Australian or American, probably.

  “Could you understand even a single word the man said?” I asked.

  “Quite easily,” said the vicar.

  “Then he was no Australian. Officially, Australia was begun as a penal colony, but I have long suspected this to be a lie. More likely, there was an extra question on the 1785 census: Can you speak English? Any man who responded, ‘Of course I can,’ was welcome to stay. Any man who said, ‘Wolla! Ronza turolla rei,’ found himself with a bag over his head, being trotted onto a prison transport with no recourse to further appeal.”

  So, we hadn’t gotten far. Our man was likely American, and definitely in possession of a rugged jawline. But, really, aren’t they all? I’ve often wondered who the saddest person in the world is: the only Eskimo girl who loves fancy shoes, or the only man in Montana with a normal, human jaw. Dejected and defeated, we turned our steps towards Baker Street.

  As we opened the door, who should we find coming down the stairs but Detective Vladislav Lestrade. The stunted Romanian had traded his usual dour black suit for a blue pea-coat, white shorts, white knee socks and a jaunty little sailor cap. In his hand he had a sodden canvas bag and on his face he had his usual expression of tired hatred for the entire world. When he saw us, he exclaimed, “Hello, Holmes. And… um… hello, Dr. Watson. How’s the arm?” He gave me the look of a young debutant who’s just been discovered in a broom closet, snogging a handsome undergraduate: sorry indeed to have been caught; not at all sorry to have done it.

  “Practically shredded by a vampire,” I replied. “Yet, if the infection processes I’m sure are underway are kind to me, I might manage to keep it.”

  “Oh, no, no. There will be no infection. My saliva has not only anti-coagulating characteristics, but it’s quite cleansing as well. You should remember that, in case you ever need to seek employment as anybody’s blood doll.”

>   I think he was on the very point of telling me I was delicious, and only the extreme iciness of my gaze stopped him. Finally, I drew a measured breath and asked, “And exactly why are we dressed like Bucky the Little Sailor Boy?”

  He gave a sigh. “Because I am assigned to the St. Simon case. I’ve been dragging the Serpentine and Lord St. Simon insists that anyone with a nautical job dress the part.”

  “Nautical?” I scoffed. “He made you dress as a sailor to look in a pond?”

  Lestrade gave a pained look. “I’ll be glad when this is over. Speaking of which: let me show you what I’ve found!”

  As soon as we got upstairs, Lestrade upended the canvas bag over our dining table and disgorged his treasure. A sopping-wet wedding dress, two bridal slippers, a veil, a bouquet and half of a soaked and torn note poured forth. Last came a gold wedding band, which pinged off our table and landed in the much-abused posies of the bridal bouquet with a wet thump.

  “I think we can use these,” Lestrade said. “I am building a case against Flora Millar, the woman who made the disturbance after the wedding.”

  “Why?” Holmes asked. “Is it your opinion she lured Miss Hatty away and did her harm?”

  Lestrade gave him a sideways glance. “No. I have no idea what happened, Holmes, but I’m sure it will prove to be all your fault and I just assumed I’d need to have a scapegoat ready. Millar is harmless, but I’m sure the public will easily believe she was driven mad by jealousy of her lover’s younger, prettier, richer new bride. Murder cases have been built on less. We’ve no body, but we’ve got the clothing and that’s something.”

  “Well done, Lestrade! Bravo!” Holmes crowed.

  But I shook my head. “No. It makes no sense. If this were the work of a murderer, why strip the body and hide the clothes separately? It would mean two incriminating bundles instead of one. And a woman in a wedding dress found floating in the river might have wound up there by accident. But a naked corpse, with all her belongings bundled up separately? Well… that’s less likely to be coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Of course I do,” Lestrade agreed. “But judges never worry about such things, nor do bloodthirsty mobs. Really, the biggest problem is the note. I’d like to destroy it and pretend I never found the thing. Alas, two constables have seen it, so it must remain. Still, it’s torn and the part we possess has no signature. Unless the other fragment should turn up and dash our hopes, my plan to hang Flora Millar can proceed, unhindered. That note cannot lead anybody to its author. As long as it is incomplete, it is untraceable.”

  Fortunately for Flora Millar, Lestrade was incorrect. I took the note in my hand and examined it. On the one side, it said:

  I must see you again! I must speak with you! Please, won’t you come to th—

  Turning it over, I saw it had been written on a fragment of a hotel bill. The hotel name was missing. All we had was a few fragmentary charges. 22 June 1883: rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry 8d.

  “Ha! Wonderful!” I crowed.

  “Eh?” said Holmes and Lestrade together.

  “Don’t you see, Holmes? The fellow in the front pew! What was he writing? This note! He must have flashed it at Hatty when she and her bridegroom turned to the congregation after the ceremony. She made sure she dropped her bouquet right next to the man, so he’d have a chance to slip it in when he handed the flowers back! Ha! I’ve got him now!”

  “How?” asked Lestrade. “Just because you know he was staying at a hotel? There must be hundreds in London!”

  “Possibly,” I laughed. “Possibly. But how many are there who would dare to charge eightpence for a single glass of sherry? Four? Perhaps five? No, no, gentlemen. I intend to start my search at Northumberland Avenue, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I conclude it there, as well. Holmes: please order a nice cold supper for you, me and two guests. We’ll be expecting company at nine this evening. Cold pheasant and bisque might do.”

  “But what will I e—”

  “Bisque is soup. You must wait here for it to arrive and make ready for guests. Lestrade: thank you for the help, but you must go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because our visitors are likely to find your maw full of glistening murder-fangs off-putting. Or if not that, at least they might notice that you don’t eat food. And now, I will bid you gentlemen adieu. This shan’t take long.”

  * * *

  It didn’t. Luxury hotels are not afraid to charge grotesque fees for the most humble of items, but that does not mean they are in the habit of passing any of that money on to their employees. Thus, for a one-shilling bribe, the front desk clerk at the Hotel Northumberland agreed to show me the visitors’ book. In no time at all, I found the 22 June entry that matched the fragment on the back of the note Lestrade had recovered. The items had been billed to a Mr. Francis Hay Moulton—an American visitor of notoriously strange habits. Well… he hadn’t been, at first, but a number of days ago he had taken to his room and refused to emerge. His only contact with any of the staff had been his repeated orders of huge amounts of food. At this, I raised an eyebrow and asked the clerk if perhaps Moulton had anybody in the room with him. I was haughtily assured this was not that kind of hotel. After which, I counter-assured the clerk that there simply was no other kind of hotel, then asked him how else he could explain such large quantities of food. The man shrugged and gave me a better answer than I had expected.

  “Well, he is American.”

  Begging the use of a pen and a sheet of hotel stationery, I dashed off a quick note, sneaked upstairs and slipped it underneath the door of Francis Moulton’s room. I gave a quick little knock, then hid around the corner of the nearest corridor. The cry of alarm I heard a moment later gave me to know my impromptu invitation was unlikely to be disregarded. A minute later, I was on the street with my hand in the air for a cab. Two miles after that, I was back at Baker Street, happy to see that my orders had been carried out. Lestrade was gone and Holmes had successfully procured supper.

  Nearly.

  “Holmes, why are there five settings?”

  “Because that is how many people are coming.”

  “Holmes, look: you and me—” I held up two fingers “—and two guests—” two more fingers “—makes four.”

  He frowned at this. “I must say, Watson, your mathematics seem sound. And yet… It’s five, I’m sure of it!”

  I had no time to argue with him, for other matters pressed. Though I had spent the day in pursuit of this case, I knew a portion of it must also be directed towards my own continuing survival. I went to my room, cleared my writing desk, fetched my surgical bag and undertook the task of ridding myself of one unwanted beef Wellington.

  It was easier than I’d expected. Wincing and cursing Torg Grogsson, I made a small test-incision in my left arm. Probing inside with my forceps, I easily located my target. The whole thing felt squishy and gelatinous. It was so slippery I had trouble getting a grasp on it. Yet, when at last I did, the whole thing slid forth out of the incision in one gooey wad. I had hardly expected it to emerge in pristine and appetizing condition, yet still, I found its current state just… weird. I poked and prodded at it with great fascination. Though it was recognizable, its texture shared no trait with either pastry or meat. Clearly, its trip through the runcible amphigory had changed it significantly.

  Still, I had little time for inquiry, magical or scientific. I pushed the disgusting thing aside and set to stitching my arm. I had just got myself cleaned up and had buttoned my shirt when the bell rang promptly at nine.

  “Oi!” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from just outside our door. “Couple o’ unescorted young people, lookin’ somewhat pie-eyed and dehydrated, but who am I to judge, eh?”

  With my customary sigh of distaste, I went to answer the door, saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you may go now.”

  To say either of my visitors looked at ease would be utter falsehood. How they had ever imagined they wouldn’t
be caught is beyond me, but now they looked deeply uncomfortable.

  “Um… Yes. Hello. We were invited to come here to dinner, I believe. I am Mr. Francis Moulton and this is Miss Hatty Doran.”

  “If only that were so, we would find ourselves in a much improved circumstance,” I chided, “but in fact you are Mr. Francis Moulton and that is Lady St. Simon! Now, step inside, if you please, and let us find the way to handle this situation that involves the fewest deaths and incarcerations.”

  I was perhaps not the ideal person to comfort our guests. Holmes, as always, outdid me. He gave a dismissive snort and said, “Oh, don’t mind him, he’s always like that. That’s Dr. John Watson, and my name is Warlock Holmes. He’s right that you’ve got yourselves in a bit of a spot, though. It got me in a spot, too. But come have dinner and we’ll put it all to rights. Look, there’s soup and present, and I made everyone a big pile of toast!”

  Sure enough, before I could even say, “Pheasant, Holmes,” my friend whisked the silver cover from one of the serving dishes to reveal a towering wad of toasted bread. I threw my hand to my brow and shook my head. One simply does not present visiting millionaires a plate of twice-warmed bread. Yet Holmes’s words—and even his pile of toast—proved to be just what was needed. Both our guests broke into broad smiles.

  “Wonderful!” said Hatty. “Toast and soup is the best, but I’ve yet to meet the Englishman who’ll serve it for dinner.”

  “Then I apologize for the ignorance of my countrymen,” said Holmes, beaming. “But come, sit down and tell me all that has occurred since the wedding!”

  Which they did. Francis and Hatty, scared as they were, seemed happy to have an ally. Their description of what had happened since the wedding was brief. And, I suspect, heavily censored. Yet the most interesting part of the tale, to me, was Hatty’s description of what had happened at the wedding.

  “There I was, standing at the altar with Lord St. Simon feeling… well… I’d already made my peace with it. Really, compared to what my fate should have been as the daughter of an uneducated miner, I was about to enter a world I’d no right to dream of. Yet… I just kept thinking, Let it be anyone but him. And then, as I was looking about at the congregation, there was—”