Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 4

  Percy was moved to his own quarters—a task more difficult than dissolving any militia you care to name. There were stairs in the way, you see. I gather he was no great enthusiast for them, even when he was well. A great team of grooms, gardeners, stablehands and—I made sure— Joseph Harrison were led from one sick room to another by the indefatigable Pixby. Tadpole Phelps mewled the whole way.

  I’m sure Annie Harrison wished to be ever by his side, but I could not allow it. I had other uses for her. I let her wrap Percy up in a cocoon of soft blankets and mop his brow, but as the litter-bearers scooped him up, I blocked Miss Harrison’s way. “Madam,” I told her, “I am afraid you must remain here.”

  I was pleased she wasn’t carrying one of her muskets at that moment, or those would likely have been my last words.

  “What are you talking about, sir? By what right do you pretend—”

  “Has anybody told her my occupation?” I wondered aloud.

  Straining beneath the weight of Percy Phelps (and a few hundred blankets), Joseph grunted, “Listen to him, Annie. He’s a doctor.”

  Miss Harrison’s eyes went wide. I could barely contain my smile. We doctors enjoy a number of social allowances that should never have been extended to us. Lenders are unshakably certain that a doctor will be able to pay his debts, no matter how crushing. Constables seem to be willing to let us get away with a bit more than the average gentleman, but their tolerance is nothing compared to what judges allow us. Nevertheless, there is no facet of society that grants us greater stature than these: hypochondriacs and worrywarts. To them, we are next unto God.

  Annie faltered. I spoke. “It is of utmost importance that Percy be given time to recover his own internal strength. He must have no outside assistance. Like a baby bird which cannot flourish unless he bursts his own shell, Percy must either take heart and grow strong, or he will be coddled and begin his final decline. You might think it a kindness to offer Percy your hand in his hour of need but I tell you this: if you go to attend him tonight, Percy will die.”

  Did I say next unto God? To those who thrive on over-concern, any doctor who is willing to foretell doom far outranks the Almighty. Annie Harrison steeled her features and asked, “What must I do?”

  “Stay right here. Should the murderer decide to finish his deed, he will no doubt return to the place where he believes Percy to be resting. Look: darkness is gathering. He may come at any time. Hold this room, Miss Harrison. Do not leave it for anything, or it may be the end of Percy. If you need food, ring the bell. If you need to use the lavatory… er… look, there is a flower pot. Do you understand the severity of this responsibility? Will you do your best to preserve Percy?”

  Of course she would.

  Poor Miss Harrison missed quite the dinner that night. To the Phelps family and the staff at Briarbrae, any tiny move towards normalcy was an occasion for raucous celebration. Sherries were called for and quaffed with great abandon by any who cared to partake. Then brandies. Then a surprising quantity of Scotch whisky. I was a bally hero, too. Though I was constantly seized by the shoulder, shaken, congratulated, and offered libation, I did my best to abstain. So did Holmes, though I always knew I could count on it. Due to brandy’s complete failure to be either toast or soup, Holmes had no interest in it. After an hour or so of such treatment, I began to make our excuses.

  “No, no, no. Holmes and I have urgent business in London.”

  “But won’t you—”

  “We shall return tomorrow to check in, but I expect every success.”

  “Are you sure you won’t—”

  “I’m afraid we cannot. Come along, Holmes.”

  On the way out, I stopped at Percy’s former sick room to make one important modification to my defenses. “Miss Harrison, may I have a word? I fear I may have made a mistake placing you within this room. What if the killer should spy you through the window? You might scare him off. Or he might be armed with a pistol, you see? No, I think it would be better if we placed you in the hallway, just outside the room. That way you are in no danger and yet positioned to make sure the killer cannot make his way further into the house.”

  Miss Harrison heartily agreed, dragged her table full of muskets to the other side of the doorway and fortified herself in the hall. At last, I was free to leave.

  As Holmes and I stepped out into the cold December air, my friend mentioned, “You know, Watson, it’s a pretty inconvenient hour to try and get back to London.”

  “We’re not going to London,” I told him. “We are going to the next flower bed down from Percy’s sick room.”

  “Are we? To what purpose?”

  “To finally solve this thing and extricate Tadpole Phelps from my twice-damned life. Now, come on. We’ve got to go a way along the road so it looks like we’ve left, then double back and get in position.”

  The flower beds did not offer sufficient concealment, but Holmes found a little stand of trees that would suffice. It had a good view of the windows to Percy’s old room and yet enough concealment that we might easily go unnoticed. Even the moon did its part, hiding behind the clouds and shedding very little light across the lawn. Holmes moved with complete normalcy, his wounds seemingly forgotten, along with his strange desire to sport goat legs. Indeed his chief complaint was, “It’s cold, Watson. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “I think so, Holmes. I have a narrative that suits the clues and can think of no other. It begins with the question: ‘Why would a thief ring a bell in the middle of his crime?’”

  “I can think of a dozen reasons.”

  “Of course you can, Holmes, for you possess more creativity than sense. But try this one on for size: because he did not intend to be a thief! Let us recall that Percy expected to meet someone in London that night.”

  “Oh! Joseph Harrison?”

  “Just so. Let us suppose Harrison tired of waiting for Percy and went to call on him at the office. He finds Percy gone, rings for the commissionaire to see what has become of him, then his eye lights on… well… whatever it was that Percy and Lord Holdhurst seem so eager to hide. Does it have a clear monetary value? If so, Harrison might easily have seized it and made good his escape while Percy harried the commissionaire downstairs.”

  “And then he came back here?”

  “Yes. And—here’s the important bit—he hid his ill-gotten find in his room.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “Because he got chased out of that room as soon as Percy returned. Remember, he complained that he was turned out without even the chance to ‘reclaim all his belongings’. Since that time, Percy, Annie and the army of nurses have ensured he had no chance to remove his treasure.”

  “Until last night,” Holmes reasoned.

  “Exactly! And how would a thief or murderer know Percy was alone in that room, unless he was somebody who spent his days inside that house? If that’s not enough, consider that the intruder lifted the window latch with one of the Phelps’s own butter knives. And did you see how tired Harrison looked? There was a man who’d lost a good portion of sleep last night, I’ll wager.”

  “And the sword?”

  “There was never a sword! Percy saw the butter knife and panicked.”

  “Oh, so that’s why the murderer didn’t approach the bed.”

  “Yes. He never wished Percy any harm. Or… no more than the rest of us do. He simply moved to recover his stolen goods—”

  “Until Percy gave his battle cry!”

  “‘Squealed like a piglet’ is what I think you mean. But yes, Harrison was foiled. Likewise, he had no chance to recover his treasure with the entire staff armed and marching the grounds. Nor could he get it once I’d fooled his sister into guarding the room all day.”

  “But she’s gone now.”

  “No, she is in the hallway, just outside. Otherwise, he might simply walk into the room and make good his theft. With Annie Harrison blocking the internal door, Joseph Harrison has no way into that room excep
t…”

  “One of those windows, right there!” Holmes crowed.

  “Correct! But hush! I see a shadow—here he comes!”

  “Er… rather a small shadow, don’t you think, Watson?”

  “Is it?”

  “That would be the cat, I think,” said Holmes, giving my shoulder a comforting pat. “I don’t know if anybody’s told you, Watson, but you have a tendency to get a bit worked up in moments such as this.”

  Indeed, we had to wait over an hour before our man made his move. I huddled in my coat, struggling against the two drinks I’d been unable to refuse, which filled my blood with a warm glow and made every effort to persuade my body that this would be a fine spot for a nap. At last a sound came to our ears: the none-too-stealthy shutting of the servants’ door. Soon a shadowy figure crept along the side of the house, and—I had to admit—he did appear notably less feline than my initial suspect. He wore a dark cloak and covered his face with a mask, but I was fairly sure, from his weight and bearing, that I had guessed right. It was Joseph Harrison. We saw the gleam of silver as he lifted the window latch with another of the Phelps’s butter knives.

  “All right,” said Holmes. “Let’s get him.”

  “Wait! Give him a moment to get inside and retrieve his treasure.”

  “Why?” Holmes wondered.

  “Er… because it’s late and it’s cold and I’m too tired to look for it?”

  “Fair enough.”

  Thus, Holmes and I gave Harrison a few seconds’ head start before we worked our way across the lawn to the window. We could hear him in there, puttering about behind the water pipes. It seemed I’d overlooked a little maintenance hatch, built to allow water shutoff in case of leaks. By the time Holmes and I peeped in, Harrison had already retrieved his ill-gotten treasure and was turning back towards us.

  “You there!” I bellowed, as I struggled through the window. “Halt!”

  Joseph Harrison gave a little squeal of surprise and turned to unleash the only weapon he had to hand. The butter knife whizzed over my shoulder and struck Holmes dead in the center of his forehead.

  But… you know… handle first.

  “Ow!” said Holmes, as the discarded utensil plopped down into the flower bed at his feet. “I say! That was uncalled for!”

  I had one leg through the window. Harrison would have done best to attack me while I was off balance, yet he did not. He was more a man of mischief than of action, I deemed. Across his chest, he clutched the oddest little case. It was styled as a diplomat’s attaché, yet it was just slightly too small and made not of leather, but of a dull gray metal. The lazy gleam and obvious weight of the thing proclaimed this was most likely lead. Joseph Harrison cradled it like a precious thing. His eyes turned from me, to the inner door, to his only other means of escape.

  “Holmes!” I cried. “The other window!”

  “Very well.” Still rubbing his reddened brow with one hand, Holmes pointed the other at the second window. A purple streak of hellfire shot forth and blasted it right out of the wall.

  “Holmes! What have you done?”

  “Seen to the other window, just as you asked.”

  “That wasn’t what I wanted!”

  “Well then, you should have clarified, shouldn’t you?”

  “How could that be what I wanted?”

  Yet, the sudden blast of hellfire was enough to convince Harrison he wanted nothing to do with that particular means of egress. He turned back towards the door, threw it open and tried to escape down the hall.

  Which he should not have done.

  There in the doorway stood Annie with a Brown Bess under each arm and an expression of vengeful resolve on her face. She pointed both weapons at the masked intruder’s chest and yanked back the triggers. Annie Harrison must have had some martial knowledge, for— judging that range and accuracy would be of limited use in such close confines—she had double-loaded both muskets. Four balls slammed into Joseph’s chest, utterly ruining his heart, his aortic arch, both lungs, one pulmonary artery and… well… fairly hollowing the poor fellow out. Even as he fell, my trained eye could see there was no point in trying to save him. Then again, some effort might be well spent trying to save myself. No sooner had the twin gouts of smoke mushroomed off Joseph Harrison’s shattered chest than Annie threw down both muskets and reached for a second pair.

  “No! Miss Harrison, it’s me! It’s Dr. Watson!” I cried, raising my hands and nearly falling back out of the window.

  “Hello, Annie!” said Holmes, waving jovially through the smoking hole he’d made in the wall.

  She leveled the second pair of muskets at me and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Chasing the criminal. He’d stashed Percy’s missing case in this very room on the night of the theft. We let him retrieve it, then came in to get it from him, but… Oh, Annie… I’m so sorry… It was your brother. That’s Joseph.”

  She glanced down at the still-twitching body, gave a derisive little sniff and grumbled, “Well, he shouldn’t have stolen from my Percy, should he? I warned him his scheming would get him in trouble someday. I told him and told him. But did he ever listen to me?”

  Apparently not.

  Annie’s eyes traveled the fallen form of her brother and came to rest on the case he still clutched in his left arm. “Is that it? That’s what my little Tadpole lost?”

  I hesitated, stunned that even Annie called Phelps “Tadpole”.

  “Er… yes.”

  Annie dropped one of the muskets and reached down for it.

  “Wait! Miss Harrison, Holmes and I must examine that.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Miss Harrison—”

  “No! Lord Holdhurst was very clear: Percy’s only hope is in returning this, with its secrets intact. You’ll not endanger my Percy!” She pointed the remaining musket straight at my heart.

  I had little doubt she’d use it. All I could do was hiss, “Holmes! Stop her!”

  “You know, Watson, in light of recent events I feel I should clarify: do you mean you wish me to kill her with demon-fire?”

  “No!”

  “Well, there. You see? I’m glad I clarified. What would you like me to do?”

  “Stop her; get that case back.”

  “With or without resorting to magic?”

  “Without!”

  “How do you propose I do that?”

  It was too late, anyway. Awakened by the sudden burst of musket-fire, Pixby and a few other ready braves burst into the hallway behind Annie. “What is it?” Pixby cried. “What has happened?”

  “The intruder is dead,” Annie said, evenly. “I’m afraid it was my own brother, Joseph. Misguided soul… On a happier note, Percy’s treasure is recovered and his future restored. Out of my way, please, I am bringing this straight to my little Tadpole.”

  “But, Miss Harrison, we have to—”

  “Straight to Percy!” Annie insisted, pointing the musket at Pixby’s dour little moustache.

  It should surprise nobody that Annie Harrison got her way. Percy was ecstatic. He fainted with joy. Three times. Word was sent to London that very night. Lord Holdhurst appeared the next morning and—though he did not explicitly forgive Percy Phelps—he disappeared back down the lane clutching his precious case and laughing like a maniac.

  Lord and Lady Phelps were oddly pleased by the turn of events. There is a certain reticence whenever a lowborn, less wealthy young lady marries into a family such as theirs—there is always the question of her motives and her loyalty. It turns out that gunning down one’s own brother in defense of one’s fiancé is a fine way to prove exactly whose side one is on. Her iron-clad loyalty to Percy confirmed, Annie was welcomed into the family. Everyone was so delighted, they barely even cared about the grand new hole in their wall.

  Holmes and I returned to Baker Street feeling somewhat defeated. Yes, we’d solved the mystery. Yes, Percy had been restored, which also meant he had no reason to peste
r me further. The turmoil that had so disturbed our Foreign Office was ameliorated and life was free to return to normal. Yet, Holmes and I never got to look into that attaché case. Even that day, it rankled us to have come so close to an arcane mystery and not encountered it. At first it seemed merely an annoyance. In less than two weeks, I’d find out how dire that setback had truly been.

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE GOB-RUNKLE

  AH, LONDON AT CHRISTMASTIME! IT IS THE VERY heart of our empire and—one may well be forgiven for feeling, at times such as these—the center of the world. And if it should snow? What a strange phenomenon it is to see London’s millions put aside their daily rush and look up in happy expectation. The white flakes descend, blanketing all with purity. Each eave and chimney finds itself ennobled by a crust of white. Each pane, kissed by delicate traces of frost. How wonderful to see it. How blessed is the man who lives in London, in the season of Christmas, in the rule of Victoria, in the legacy of Dickens, in the snow. All the bustle of the great city ceases as each man and woman reflects on the great gift it is to live here and now.

  For… I should say… about five minutes.

  Then commerce resumes, but with more shouting about what the snow is doing to traffic. And now the street urchins’ feet are cold, so they wail a bit louder. Horse and man, beast and boy answer the duties of nature and void their filth into the snow. The chemical plant and belching smokestack take up the less biological equivalent, blanketing the white drifts in soot. Millions of feet, wheels and hooves churn any surviving traces of purity to blackened piles of slush, which lie about everywhere, sometimes until February.

  This was the state of mixed blessing and blight when I opened the door on Christmas Day 1882 to behold the vampire detective, Vladislav Lestrade, lurking in the hallway. His normal expression of displeasure was gone, replaced by something resembling embarrassment. He refused to meet my gaze. He had an unfamiliar hat on his head and a huge goose in his hand. Though it was still alive and almost half as large as its captor, the poor beast had little chance of escape. Its wings were tied against its sides. Its legs were secured with twine. Its beak was strapped shut as well, and Lestrade had handcuffed the bird’s neck to his right wrist. The gigantic bird stared at me with unexpected hatred. In that gaze I found not only intelligence, but familiarity, as if he knew me personally and wished me to die, writhing, at my earliest convenience.