Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 9

  The idea filled them with pure horror, but after a moment of fretting, Bellinger asked, “Then… what do we do?”

  “One hesitates to presume,” I said, “but if you will entertain a humble suggestion: attend to affairs of state.”

  “But… destroy!”

  “No! Bad!” I yelled, shaking my finger at them both. “Attend to affairs of state! Say it!”

  Bellinger slumped like a chastened dog and mumbled, “Attend to affairs of state.”

  “Attend.”

  “Attend.”

  “Good. Well, now that is settled, we must bid you gentlemen good day. Holmes and I will conduct the investigation and then call on you at Whitehall Terrace or 10 Downing Street.”

  They both nodded.

  “Good. Now, get out of here. Attend to affairs of state.”

  “Attend,” said Hope as I pushed him towards the door.

  “Attend,” came Bellinger’s voice from the stairs as he stumbled towards the street.

  I turned back to our sitting room and heaved a sigh. Even Warlock was forced to admit, “A curious case, indeed.”

  “And I think a very dangerous one,” I said. “Help me understand something, Holmes: if Moriarty escaped your body after I shot you, what would he do?”

  “Ha! He’d be frantic,” Holmes laughed. “He’s hardly anything, right now. Merely a disembodied personality. Something like… the idea of Moriarty. And an idea that is not in anybody’s mind—an opinion held by nobody—what is that? He’s managed to find a way to make his personality long survive his physical form, but the accomplishment has not come without a cost. He’d immediately need a host to live in, or at least somebody to be transfixed by the idea of him, or else he’d simply fade away.”

  “Let us suppose that he found Lord Holdhurst.”

  “Which makes sense,” Holmes admitted. “If he couldn’t find a powerful magical entity to possess, he’d at least want a thrall with either great wealth or political power.”

  “So he hypnotizes Lord Holdhurst, who runs the Foreign Office,” I surmised, pacing the room as I followed the tread of my own imagination. “Trelawney Hope is Secretary for European Affairs, so of course he works with Lord Holdhurst a great deal. He notices the change in Lord Holdhurst, coaxes news of the source from him and begins to feel that the prime minister ought to hear of this strange ‘communication’. Of course, Lord Holdhurst does not wish to lose his new treasure.”

  “Oh!” cried Holmes. “That’s why he wished Percy Phelps to copy it! So he could pass the copy along without surrendering the actual rune.”

  “An impossible assignment, probably. Then again, it didn’t matter, since Joseph Harrison stole the rune before Percy could fail.”

  “Then we got it back for Lord Holdhurst, without knowing what it was,” said Holmes.

  “At which point Lord Bellinger—who was no doubt a bit tired of Lord Holdhurst’s extraordinary behavior— tried to confiscate it.”

  “So Lord Holdhurst stuck it up a turkey!”

  “Goose, Holmes. And yes. We have gone far into the realm of speculation, but it seems that shortly after Lord Holdhurst got the rune back from Phelps, he elected to hide it in a goose. Perhaps he needed a host to keep it alive. Perhaps it was merely an expedient way to get across town without being searched. Bellinger’s cronies would surely check his pockets, but would they think to look inside a goose?”

  “They didn’t have to, once we ate it for Christmas dinner. They must have gotten their hands on it some time after Grogsson… er… set it free,” Holmes reasoned. “After all, they’re both spectacularly mesmerized by it and it sounds as if they’ve done something rather rash to Lord Holdhurst.”

  “What would you expect a Moriarty-enthralled Bellinger to do, if Lord Holdhurst tried to reclaim the rune from him?”

  “Oh, he’d murder him on the spot! Or, to use the parlance of the day: extend an immediate invitation to the South of France.”

  “Which, it seems, they have,” I said. “With an axe and a hammer.”

  “Don’t forget the letter opener,” Holmes reminded me. “Some of them are quite savage. Do you know the kind I mean? The kind that’s supposed to be for envelopes but looks like it’s for throats?”

  A sudden commotion on the street outside broke my concentration and summoned me to the window. The source of the outcry was harmless enough: our pair of mesmerized politicians had failed to negotiate their way even to the end of the street. They’d wandered into traffic, it seems, nearly been killed by a hackney carriage and caused a bit of a traffic jam. Raised voices and shaking fists predominated. Yet of all the people who stopped to stare at our recent guests, one in particular commanded my attention. A woman in a white cloak watched them from the partial concealment of a street-vendor’s stand. When the two statesmen finally staggered out of sight, she made directly for our door.

  “It seems as if we are to have another visitor, Holmes.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “I can’t be sure, but her youth, the richness of her dress, and the fact that only an idiot could look at Mr. Trelawney Hope without realizing something was dreadfully wrong with him leads me to surmise that it may be Mrs. Trelawney Hope.”

  “Well, if it is, let us hope she isn’t intercepted and destroyed before we can find out what she wants,” Holmes said.

  We hadn’t long to wait, for at that very moment came the sound of Mrs. Hudson answering the front door. Soon there was a rap on our own door. When I answered it, Mrs. Hudson jerked a thumb towards our cloaked lady and announced, “Posh bit o’ crumpet to see you.”

  “Mrs. Hudson, really! I will thank you never to describe my visitors in such terms!”

  “Yeah, but she is, though.”

  “Immaterial!”

  Our guest waved impatient hands at Mrs. Hudson and insisted, “It is of no account.” She cocked her head to one side and stared at me expectantly.

  “Oh… yes, of course. Won’t you come in, madam?”

  She stepped over our threshold, turned to Mrs. Hudson, said, “Thank you for showing me up; that will be all,” and gently but unapologetically shut the door in my landlady’s face.

  I liked her.

  This, I think, must have been the common reaction, for my guest was one of those people who is perfect in every respect. She was beautiful in the extreme, fair-haired, with white skin and a graceful, swan-like neck. Her nose was aquiline; her green eyes shone with vigor and intelligence. And it got even better.

  “Mrs. Hope, I presume?”

  “Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Lady? Forgive me, I was unaware that the position of Secretary for European Affairs conferred title upon—”

  “No, no, no. Daddy is Duke of Belminster.”

  So: rich, beautiful, smart, well-mannered, kind, and daughter to a bloody duke, no less. She gave me an apologetic smile, which, I realized, she was forced to do with everybody she ever met. It was merely a quick little grimace to say, “Yes, I am aware that my very existence is unfair; that the gifts of nature are distributed with grotesque inequity. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Well, Lady Hilda, I am honored to meet you. I am Dr. John Watson.”

  At my name, she gave a little gasp and cried out, “Yes! That’s it! That’s the name my husband has been trying to work out for the last several days. You are in danger, sir!”

  “As are we all, I fear. Allow me to present my colleague, Mr. Warlock Holmes.”

  “A pleasure to know you,” he said, stepping toward Lady Hilda and bowing his head. “You are indeed a very posh bit of crumpet.”

  “Holmes!”

  “What? She is.”

  “Immaterial!”

  “Gentlemen, I’ve little time to waste,” Lady Hilda interjected. “I need your help with an… ahem… purely theoretical problem.”

  “Theoretical?” I asked.

  “Purely. Yes, you see, I’m… well, let us s
ay I am writing a book.”

  “Oh! I love books,” Holmes enthused. “Is there magic in it? Is there kissing?”

  “Well… perhaps. You see, the heroine of this book is a lady who is married to a rising politician. She tries to do her best by her husband and the realm, but she has been injudicious in her youth and certain indiscretions have come to the attention of one Eduardo Lucas—a wretched foreign spy who lives at 16 Godolphin Street. Did you note the address? 16 Godolphin Street!”

  “I believe I have it,” I assured her.

  “It seems he’s come into possession of a rather compromising letter she once wrote to her tennis instructor, who had buttocks so taut you’d swear you could forge a sword on them. The awful spy says he’ll make the letter public, unless our heroine steals a certain document of her husband’s and delivers it to…?”

  “16 Godolphin Street?” I hazarded.

  “Just so. Now, our heroine is glad to have that particular ‘document’ leave the house anyway, for it seems to be having an effect on her husband’s wit. So, night falls, the item is duly stolen, brought to 16 Godolphin Street and traded for her injudicious letter. Our heroine returns home, has a sit-down, swallows three glasses of sherry, spends an hour in fond remembrance of the back half of her tennis instructor and chucks the letter into the fire. All would seem to be well, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would,” I agreed, “unless her husband discovers the loss and goes somewhat crazy over it.”

  “Oh, my God! Somewhat? There’s every danger that the army and navy shall be called out at any instant. What should our entirely fictional heroine do?”

  “She should seek help, I would think.”

  “Very wise, Dr. Watson. Ah! Perhaps she has heard of someone who might help. Perhaps word has come to her of a powerful sorcerer and his rather mundane keeper—a set of fellows with a penchant for unraveling such problems. Do you think they might help her?”

  “I’m sure they would not fail,” I replied. “Though I might suggest ‘finest of the mainstream’ in place of ‘rather mundane’.”

  “Well,” she said, granting me a smile with just a touch too much mischief in it, “you may be right. Oops! I seem to have dropped a piece of paper on which someone has written the address of the hotel I’m staying at and the assumed name I’m using. Perhaps it’s for the best. After all, if anyone knew of further developments for that book I’m writing, they could most likely reach me there.”

  “I think I might have some material contribution, soon,” I told her.

  “Good. Any missing story elements you recover should be brought directly to me. To attempt to return them to my husband, the prime minister or Whitehall Terrace would be foolhardy in the extreme. Well, good day, gentlemen. I suppose I had better get back to my ‘writing’. Who will see me out?”

  “Watson, most probably,” Holmes said. “He always seems desperate to spend time in women’s company, and I haven’t got my slippers on.”

  “Watson it is, then,” Lady Hope said, extending her arm to me.

  As I escorted her down the stairs she pressed against me. It may have only been the narrowness of the passageway that was to blame, but… No, she was entirely too familiar. I blushed to think what might be supposed if anyone happened to observe us. What would occur if her husband saw how she hung on my arm as we descended the steps? Well… I suppose he was bent on my destruction anyway. I began to perspire. The chaotic slew of emotion she caused in me was either a strange accident or devised by a master of stagecraft. Her touch was unexpected, terrifying, embarrassing and yet… not unwelcome. On the last step, she paused. She stepped just slightly back from me and stared up at my face with strange earnestness. After a moment’s scrutiny, she asked, “Dr. Watson, if I needed any little thing… or if I wished someone to talk to… would I be welcome in your home?”

  “What? Well, I should think… that is to say… of course you would.”

  “Whenever I wish?”

  “Whenever you wish.”

  “Thank you, John. It’s just what I wanted.” She leaned up, gave me a little kiss on the cheek, opened the door to Baker Street and stepped out into the light. As she left, she spared me a little smile of… what shall I say? Ownership, nearly. Then she set off up the street.

  I tottered on my heels for a moment, then turned and stumbled up the stairs. What had just happened? I’ll admit I was not a worldly fellow. Not experienced. Too much a child of propriety, perhaps. I knew there must be a thousand required steps of protocol between the act of first greeting an unknown lady and the act of… you know… generating a child. I’ll also confess to a certain frustrated ignorance as to what those thousand steps might be. Yet that day, as I returned to 221B, I had the distinct feeling I’d just been shown three or four of them.

  I returned to find Holmes poking at a loaf of bread with a long knife. It was part of his daily ritual. Hovering. Probing. Deciding whether it would be best to carve off a slice of that loaf and toast it, or whether discretion was the order of the day. I knew the answer perfectly well. Toast was the order of the day. Every day. I never saw him enjoy any discretion. Yet, at that particular moment, I gave him no time to complete his ritual.

  “Holmes, get your coat.”

  “Why?”

  “We have to go. 16 Godolphin Street.”

  “Because it is in some aristocrat’s unfinished novel? Really, Watson, I think you attach too much importance to the literary aspirations of Britain’s idle rich. What do you think, would it be wise of me to have a slice of toast or not?”

  “But we have to go! 16 Godolphin Street! Eduardo Lucas—”

  “Is an entirely fictional individual. Lady Hope said as much.”

  “She had to! Don’t you see, Holmes? The things she was admitting to are more than domestic indiscretion— they are tantamount to treason. I, for one, have not sat here agonizing about my lack of information only to ignore both a new mystery and the mystery’s solution when they are conveniently dumped in my lap! Now, get your coat.”

  A look of worry crossed his brow. “I don’t know, Watson, if it’s as you say…”

  “It is.”

  “…If this is some cleverly veiled confession…”

  “None too cleverly, I would think.”

  “…Then doesn’t it seem just a trifle too convenient? It dropped in your lap, just as you say. One visitor delivers the exact mystery you’ve been looking for. Five minutes later, a second drops the answer and you rush out, unprepared, to deal with it? It all seems a bit too much of a coincidence. Not only that, Watson, but… the more I think of her story… the more certain aspects of it make no sense.”

  Whatever my opinion of Holmes’s intelligence, I was forced to admit he enjoyed a vast superiority of experience compared to my own. Likewise, it was true that my intellect could be somewhat compromised by the touch of a pretty lady—a flaw precluded by Holmes’s dispassionate aloofness. Though the notion was repellant to me, it was entirely possible he had captured some detail that had eluded me. I paused. “Really?” I asked. “What was the matter with her story?”

  “‘Injudicious’,” Holmes replied, tapping his lips thoughtfully with the edge of his knife. “Yes… Yes, the more I think on it, the more certain I become: ‘injudicious’ is not a real word.”

  “Holmes,” I said, carefully swallowing a sudden urge to strike him in the side of the head, “firstly, it is a real word. Secondly, if it were not, it would not matter. Here is a secret of the English language you appear to be ignorant of: any improper word spoken by the daughter of a duke as wonderful and as beautiful as that becomes a proper word the second she utters it. Now, get your coat. We’re going.”

  * * *

  The instant our cab turned onto Godolphin Street, I could tell something was amiss. The gigantic knot of policemen standing about outside Number 16 was a clue, but not the main one. No, the true herald of misfortune was the terrible reek that overhung the entire area. Even in London—not known for the fre
shness of her breezes— the smell was shocking and aberrant. So severe was it that the cab horse snorted and shied back. His master appeared to agree, for the cabman pulled up and declared, “Here we are, gentlemen.”

  “Is this Number 16?” Holmes inquired.

  “It’s close enough! Out you get!”

  Still, I can’t complain of the treatment, for as I reached up to pay with one hand (covering my nose with the other) the cabman disregarded me. He whisked the cab around in a half-circle and set off at an unnecessary gallop. Much to the horse’s relief, I suspect. As Holmes and I turned to walk the rest of the way to Number 16, we were surprised to find Lestrade standing on the walk before us. He wore the same dour expression as he always did—a particular disadvantage of his character. When disaster struck, poor Lestrade had no facial method of communicating it, since he walked about at all hours of all days wearing a look most people reserved for the death of a dozen saintly orphans.

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” he said. He didn’t look glad.

  “What has happened, Lestrade?” Holmes asked. “Has something unfortunate occurred at Number 16?”

  Lestrade stared at him a moment, then replied, “Warlock, I invite you to take a deep breath in, through the nose, and then tell me if you think what you smell could possibly be the result of very good fortune. Come with me.”

  The group of policemen outside Number 16 clustered as far from the door as they could get without abandoning their duty entirely. One unfortunate young constable had been assigned to guard the door, beside which he had vomited multiple times. As we stepped past him, it took all my courage and fortitude to enter that den of unbearable stench. Even Lestrade had to grit his terrible teeth.

  16 Godolphin Street was a well-appointed Westminster home (excepting the smell, of course). It was decorated in a style that spoke of adventure, with curios from the orient prominently displayed on every wall. Lestrade turned right and headed into the first room, which must have been a study of some sort. Grogsson was there; he offered us no greeting but turned and stared at us with rage. It seemed his natural desire to punch something to death weighed even more heavily on his mind that particular morning. Yet, I detected a subtle undertone of desperation to his unfocused fury, as if what he really wished to say was, “This smell is hurting my tummy. Help me.”