CONTENTS
Cover
Also by G.S. Denning and Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Adventure of the Noble Arse-Face
The Toymaker
The Adventure of Beppo vs. Napoleon (A Fight in Six Rounds)
The Devil and the Neophyte
The Adventure of Black Peter Blackguard McNotVeryNice
The Gang
The Adventure of the Ring of Red Faction
The Detective
The Sign of Nine
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By G. S. Denning and available from Titan Books
WARLOCK HOLMES
A Study in Brimstone
The Hell-hound of the Baskervilles
My Grave Ritual
The Sign of Nine
The Finality Problem (April 2020)
TITAN BOOKS
Warlock Holmes: The Sign of Nine
Print edition ISBN: 9781785659362
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785659379
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: May 2019
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2019 G. S. Denning Illustrations © 2019 Sean Patella-Buckley
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
To Jill and Clifford McCloe
whose kindness I have repaid by ruining
Cliff ’s name forever.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE ARSE-FACE
DEAR READER, HOW LONG HAVE YOU KNOWN ME?
If you have followed this dreary tale from its start, you have now consumed the volume wherein my strange adventure began. Thence on to the volume in which I came into my own as an adventurer and detective (and learned something of the nature of the man who had started me upon my path). Most recently came the volume dominated by our foes—when Moriarty and Adler came back into our lives to bring us defeat upon defeat.
And now?
What fresh apocalyptic treat have I for you now?
This is the volume of my shame. Perhaps my own sun has never reached a very high zenith, but in this volume, it is at its dimmest and most flickering. So close to failure, personal defeat, degradation and dishonor. There is nobody to blame but myself. Nobody to thank for my deliverance except Holmes and—oh, I shudder to say it—the hated Mary Morstan. Part of this volume is not even the chronicle of my actions, but merely of my dreams. A strange inclusion, to be sure, but I would not have bothered you with them had they been at all… natural.
How this volume commences depends upon one’s point of view. I suppose it could be said that it starts with me, poisoned by a kiss, splayed unconscious across the sweat-reeking sheets of my bed at 221B Baker Street. Yet, that is not how it seemed to me.
To me, it seemed, I was on a ship. And not just any ship, but the one Britain loved best: HMS Victory, on the finest hour of our nation’s finest day.
Drawing a breath of the clear salt air, I raised the spyglass to my eye and squinted at the wall of wood, guns and sail that lay before me—the entire combined French and Spanish fleet. Poor bastards… I had them right where I wanted them.
“We should turn,” said a miserable little voice from behind me.
“I will not!” I said, with a grim laugh. “You know the plan: we go straight at them. We break their line of battle. This is a new kind of tactic—one designed to guarantee a decisive engagement.”
“But… we’ll all be killed!”
“Your opinion has already been noted, Mr. Lestrade.”
Through my glass, I could see my target clearly: the French flagship Bucentaure. I smiled. “Able Seaman Holmes?”
“Aye, Watson?”
I turned to the tall figure beside me, lowered my voice and said, “You are supposed to address me as ‘Vice Admiral’.”
“Aye, Vice Admiral?”
“Give me seven degrees starboard rudder; I want to come through just behind their flagship.”
“Eh? Seven whats of what, what?”
“Look, just turn the helm that way a little bit,” I said, pointing to my right. “See the big pretty ship over there?”
Able Seaman Holmes’s reverent “Oooooooooooh” gave me to know he did.
“I want to come in right behind it. Her stern is weakest. She is commanding the entire enemy fleet. We’re going to hit them right in the admiral.”
“Aye, aye, Watson!”
Close enough. Scanning the deck for a moment, I located my over-aged, oversized cabin boy and shouted, “Mr. Grogsson!”
“Whut?”
“I know it is not your area of expertise, but I am placing you in charge of the gun crews. The ideal commander for this engagement, I feel, will have exactly your level of discretion.”
“Disc-whut?”
“Exactly. Just down that hatch, if you please. Make ready the guns and await my order.”
“M’kay.”
He jumped down the hatch I indicated and assumed command with a few well-chosen words. “All right, boys! Dis is gonna be great! Stick da guns out!”
The bangs of the wooden gun-ports slamming open told me Victory was ready for battle. And just in time. Since our bow was to the enemies’ broadsides, they were able to fire well before us. I grinned to see how disorganized and ineffective their fire was. Their fleet was already in disarray as individual commanders lowered sail or turned, trying to decide how best to cope with my novel tactic.
My drooping bosun gave a deep sigh from beneath his preposterously large sunhat. “You know,” he said, “there may still be time to turn…”
“Mr. Lestrade!” I thundered. “This is not the hour for cowards! Now for England! Now for Victory!”
“Sure… But I’m just not comfortable—”
“Then here is a task that might suit you better. Get to the signal flags, Mr. Lestrade, and send the fleet the following message: England Expects Every Man to Kick a Fat Load of Arse!”
He paused. Blinked. Muttered, “I’m just not sure we have the proper flags to express that exact sentiment.”
“We do,” I told him. “I sewed them myself. Now off with you, Mr. Lestrade. Hop to!”
To my south, I could see the second column, led by Collingwood’s Royal Sovereign, drawing near the enemy. He’d pulled well forward of the rest of his ships, straining to be first into the fight. Not before me, Collingwood. I looked behind me. Temeraire and Neptune were with me. England’s wooden killers bore down upon their prey.
Below me, I could hear Grogsson’s expansive bass, urging, “Steady, boys… steady…”
And, with a final swish of sail, we blew to our place. To our starboard, the middle section of the combined fleet, pulling up sail, desperate to avoid colli
sion. To our port, the vulnerable stern of Bucentaure.
“Mr. Grogsson! Now!”
From belowdecks came a thunderous “GRAAAAAAH!” By which, one supposes, he meant “fire”.
“G-doom!” went the first of our guns, followed by its fellows. The air filled with smoke and noise and flying embers. The French fleet were in utter disarray, cannonballs bouncing off them in every direction.
Yep.
Just…
Just bouncing right off.
Every single goddamned shot.
“Oh…” I said. “Oh, I see… erm… We’re sure about that, are we? No holes in anyone’s… No? No damage at all?”
My guns, now empty, fell silent. My sailors fell silent too, staring in disbelief at the perfectly intact fleet that faced us.
The French sailors were quiet as well, mouths agape at their good luck. But only for a moment—then their ships erupted with triumphant cheering, followed by an ominous creak as hundreds of cannons were aimed, pretty much, right at my face.
“I do think I warned you,” Bosun Lestrade noted.
“No!” I cried. “My plan was sound! How could…? I mean…? What kind of wood are they growing in France, nowadays?”
Lestrade shrugged. “Are there any further futile orders you would like me to convey?”
“Um… reload?”
Apparently I intended to lay a second row of non-holes in the French ships. Yet, even as I despaired at my lack of reasonable recourse, I felt a jaunty tap upon my shoulder. Turning, I beheld the smiling face of Able Seaman Holmes, who piped up, “You know, it might be better if you don’t. I know a little trick! Watch…”
Dragging me to the rail, he directed my attention down towards my useless, smoking cannons. He pointed his finger at the nearest of these and said, “Pop.”
Instantly, the empty cannon jerked backwards, emitting a terrible squeal as if somebody were twisting 10,000 nails in half, just beside my ear. A brilliant bolt of purple fire shot forth, catching Bucentaure just above her rudder. The bolt tore through, into the interior of the ship, from which issued cries of dismay and pain.
“Pop, pop, pop!” Holmes added, joyfully. Three more of my guns sent howling purple hellfire tearing into the French vessel. I couldn’t see exactly what happened inside, but it must have been bad, for we could see purple flashes of secondary and tertiary explosions through the remaining windows of her stern gallery. Sailors poured out, jumping from every deck and gun-port. A second later, her magazine went up and the great flagship sagged into the sea.
Holmes paid no attention. Looking down at two of my port guns, he said, “Frip, frip!” and the three-ton cannons effortlessly swung their muzzles, one fore, one aft. “Pop, pop!” Holmes added and both discharged a screaming hellshot. One hit a hapless frigate, just off our port stern. The other arched up and across the battlefield, screaming past fifteen or twenty targets, until it smashed into the very first ship in the French line.
And so it went. “Pop, pop! Frip-pop! Frip, frip, frip, poppity-pop!” until all fifty-two guns on the Victory’s port side were empty. Or… re-empty. Then he traipsed over to the starboard side and did it again.
It took less than two minutes, I am sure. A hundred and four shots. A hundred and four hits. Ship after ship, burning with demonic fires while their crews screamed and threw themselves into the sea.
Able Seaman Holmes had just laid waste to the entirety of the combined French and Spanish fleet. Only one ship remained to them, Redoutable—a notable omission, since it was right off our starboard bow and bearing straight for us. Why she did not run, or strike her colors, I will never know. Perhaps she was commanded by some kind of French Grogsson. As she neared, I could see that her captain had lined her decks and rigging with musketeers—not a bad strategy, at such close quarters.
And, from somewhere far outside my dream, certain thoughts started to intrude. I was meant to be Nelson, wasn’t I? But Nelson hadn’t actually survived the Battle of Trafalgar, had he? No, I seemed to recall he’d been felled by a marksman sat in the rigging of… Oh! Redoutable, wasn’t it? If memory served, he’d been shot in the shoulder. Just like me, in Afghanistan. However, unlike me, he’d also had his spine severed. So, I guess there was that to look forward to.
I believe I began to perspire.
“Um… Holmes?” I said, pulling at the helmsman’s sleeve.
“Yes, Vice Admiral?” he asked.
“Er…” I pointed up at the big French warship.
“Oh, that?” he scoffed. “Never mind that.” Stepping back along the rail, he took up the handle of one of the tiny starboard swivel-guns. Holmes tipped the barrel down towards the sea and began rhythmically spanking the side of the gun, humming a happy little sea-ditty as Redoutable neared. From within the swivel-gun came a soft, rolling, grinding noise as the glorified musket ball within her started to slide forward. At last it fell from the muzzle and plopped into the sea. “Ahha!” said Holmes, then swung the gun upwards and added, “Pop!”
“Pop!” agreed the gun, then “Scrreeeeeeeeeeee!” as a little ball of purple fire arched forth and caught the mighty French ship straight in the center of her bow. The tiny fire tore through and burst, somewhere deep inside. The entire forecastle of Redoutable sagged to one side and fell into the sea. On all three of her now-visible decks, we could see sailors running this way and that in confusion as purple flame ravaged every surface.
The day was ours. Unequivocally, completely, costlessly ours.
No cry of triumph broke from our ranks.
The air was swollen with the sound of five hundred and fifty mariners just gawping at each other.
Then a chipper voice called out, “Three cheers for Vice Admiral Watson!”
Nobody did. Instead, eleven hundred eyes turned to Able Seaman Holmes and silently wondered why anyone would suggest such a thing.
Yet Holmes’s spirits were never so easily dampened. He slapped me on the back and piped up, “Congratulations, Vice Admiral! An inspired tactical maneuver! They never stood a chance!”
“Er… no…” I managed through parched lips. “I suppose they never did.”
“Hurrah for Watson’s victory!” Holmes suggested, to renewed silence.
“Yes. Well… I’m not sure we can call it entirely my victory, can we?”
“Of course we can! And we do! Right, everybody? Watson! Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!” cheered Holmes, convincing absolutely nobody.
Through the foggy silence of my sailors, I heard a voice from far away, saying, “Watson, I need you!”
“Eh?” I said, turning to Able Seaman Holmes. “Did you say something?”
“Watson, yaaaaaaaaaaaaaay?”
“No, no, it sounded like…”
And again, across the great gulf came a voice that sounded just like Able Seaman Holmes, saying, “Watson! Watson! Watson! Watson! I’m sorry to wake you, but everybody with a brain knows you’re not dead. Now, I don’t mind letting you sleep away a defeat—you know I don’t—but a situation has arisen that requires diplomacy, and we both know I haven’t got any! Please, Watson, please! I need you!”
And the ship was gone. I threw aside the heavy veil of my dream and opened my eyes to find Warlock Holmes leaning over my bed, repeatedly slapping my forehead.
“Watson! Watson! Watson! Watson!”
“Ow! Holmes! What are you…?” My voice was weak and hoarse—a barely audible croak. “Oh, I just had the most wonderful, vivid dream!”
“Of course you did. Remember how weird your dreams were after you accidentally smoked part of that sorcerer’s mummy? Being exposed to great magic always causes prophetic dreams. Or shows great secrets. Or other stuff like that. And I don’t know if you know it, but you’ve been flat on your back in a magical coma. I’ve no idea what put you there.”
“Irene Adler,” I said. “She had poisoned lip-rouge.”
“Oh, did she now?” Holmes asked, raising his eyebrows. “Well done, you sly dog, you!”
“Not too we
ll done, I should think. She’s beaten me again,” I muttered. “Wait! Holmes, you said coma? How long have I been out?”
“Oh, two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
“But never mind that, Watson! Get up and help me!”
“Get up? Just like that? Certainly not, Holmes! If I have been lying here, unable to take food or water for two weeks, why I must be practically…”
“Dead” was the word I had intended, yet as I moved my limbs experimentally back and forth underneath the bedclothes, I found them to be… fine.
Just fine.
I was a bit thirsty, to be sure, but otherwise I had no complaint. Not even a headache. Gobstruck, I turned to Holmes and wondered, “How is this possible? What have you done to me?”
“Oh, do you want to see? It’s wonderful! Wait right here!”
With that, he ran out of my bedroom and into the corridor. I couldn’t see where he went, but a series of bangs and clatters testified to his energetic activity. Some moments later he returned, clutching a strange brass contraption and—bless him—a glass of water.
“Here,” he said, handing it to me. “Now, drink up and look at this: a real runcible amphigory!”
The device he gave me was queer in the extreme. It was an oblong brass pot, suspended over a single-candle burner. It had an opening at the top, like a teapot, and a handle like one as well. Yet, where one would have expected the spout, there was only a coil of copper piping, from which dangled a rubber tube. A queer set of scales was suspended over the open top, with one side cleverly hinged so as to allow the user to tip its contents easily into the body of the pot. As an instrument for mixing ingredients, I admired the ease with which it allowed its user to achieve precision—admirable in any scientific device. Clearly, no small amount of thought and clarity of design had gone into the creation of… whatever this was.
Holmes must have seen my consternation, for he proudly declared, “What you are holding in your hands, Watson, is the absolute peak of seventeenth-century Moldovan medical and alchemical technology!”
“Indeed? Well, that’s… erm… rather faint praise, isn’t it?”
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