* * *
Upon my arrival at Pondicherry Lodge, I was surprised to find the place deserted. I had no idea what to do next, so I tied “Toby” up in the grounds and sat in the drawing room to wait for Holmes. I don’t think I’d been there for more than two or three minutes before I was fast asleep.
I was wakened some hours later by the sound of my new pet greeting my old friend.
“SKRAX! SKRAX! SKRAX!”
This was followed by Holmes’s happy voice, saying, “Toby? Why, hullo, old boy! I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age! Did you miss me? Did you?”
“SKRAX! SKRAX!”
“Ha ha! Down, boy! Down! What did we say about jumping up?”
“SKRAX!”
“Wait… Bix? Aaaaaigh! By the twelve gods! Look what you’ve done to Toby!”
“SKRAX! SKRAX!”
“Bad Bix! Very bad!”
I was out the door in a shot, waving my arms over my head and shouting, “Holmes! It’s all right! Don’t damage him, Holmes! We need the disguise!”
To say Warlock was pleased by the state of his old dog friend—or the clothing of his old demonic one—would be to strain the truth. Nevertheless, I convinced him that any misfortunes suffered by Old Toby were only the fault of nature, and any subsequent indignities must be laid at my door. Bix was entirely innocent.
“Ugh,” said Holmes, when I’d finished. “It sounds as if your morning was nearly as tiresome as my own.”
“Whatever do you mean, Holmes? And does it have anything to do with the fact there’s nobody here?”
“Hmm. The underlying cause, I fear,” he sighed. “We went to the local police station to report Bartholomew’s death. The matter was complicated, however, by the fact that the sergeant was being visited by one of Scotland Yard’s detective inspectors, Mr. Athelney Jones.”
“Athelney? What an unfortunate name. I don’t think we know the man, do we?”
“Only by reputation.”
“Which is?” I prompted.
“That he does not care for my reputation,” said Holmes, with a shake of his head. “Moreover, he is spoken of as an inspector whose impressive number of solved cases is somewhat buoyed by his disregard for whether or not he’s got the right fellow.”
“Oh dear…”
“Quite. I’m afraid Thaddeus was first to be arrested. Jones was very interested in his and his brother’s well-known difference of opinion about what ought to be done with their large fortune. Oh, he cried and meowed and made just terrible noises!”
“But, Holmes, we’ve got to help him!” I cried. “His hookah! I’m not sure he can survive without it!”
“Calm yourself, Watson, it’s already taken care of. I forged a prescription and convinced Jones it was a medicinal hookah. I’m not sure how much my forgery looked like the actual article, but even if it makes it back to the doctor who supposedly issued it—one John Watson of Baker Street—I hope my story will not be contradicted.”
“Well done, Holmes!” I cried.
“Thank you, Watson. Sadly, it was my only victory. Oh! Except for one other minor point: Mary got her wish!”
“Eh?”
“When she said she wanted everybody arrested.”
“What? Everybody?”
“Down to the scullery maid, I fear,” said Holmes. “You see, we protested to Jones that Thaddeus Sholto was perhaps a bit too frail to scale the side of a seventy-foot house unaided, and zap his brother in the back of the head with a blowgun. Sadly, Athelney Jones is one who can see conspiracy in every corner. More to the point, he also saw the pulley in the attic and reasoned that someone might easily have winched Thaddeus up there. He began looking for likely individuals and… well, I’m afraid he cast a bit of a wide net. Oh! That reminds me: is McMurdo here? McMurdo, can you hear me?”
Of course he could. One does not have two strangers in one’s inexplicably empty place of employment with a demon on a leash, then fail to eavesdrop. The big prizefighter emerged sheepishly from behind a garden shed and said, “Yes, sir?”
“Sorry to say it, old man, but you’re under arrest for murder. Do be a lamb and surrender yourself at the police station, won’t you?”
McMurdo made a strangled little noise and ducked back behind the shed.
“No, no, no!” said Holmes, clucking his tongue. “I wouldn’t run! I really wouldn’t. Jones’s case is coming apart faster than he can weave it together and Watson and I have every intention of bringing the actual culprit in soon. Fear not, McMurdo, and tell the rest of our friends the same; your stay is likely to be a short one. That said, I suppose we should begin the sad task of chasing the murderers down.”
“Sad?” I wondered. “Why sad?”
“If you had to spend the morning leading one of your old friends around the streets of London dressed in the skin of one of your other old friends, do you not think you might get a bit melancholy?”
7
MELANCHOLY? HA! IN TWENTY MINUTES, HOLMES WAS perfectly joyful.
Though he gave a few tuts and a smattering of what-isthe-world-coming-to sighs as we led Bix to the spot where the treasure had left its dent upon the flowerbed, Holmes quickly warmed to the chase. When we showed our ill-concealed demon one of the peculiar, bear-like footprints, he gave an excited “SKRAX! SKRAX!” and set off on a straight line for the garden wall.
“He’s got something, Watson!” Holmes enthused. “Quick now! Quick! Get after him, Bix!”
We burst out onto the lane and from there the little dog-clad abomination led us on a merry chase! We took a strange circuitous route through Lambeth, down around the Oval by way of twisting side streets and onto Kennington Lane. It seems our quarry had taken the less traveled paths—much to my relief. I’m sure we would have had merry hell pushing through peak traffic with our curious little pet, but the luck of fools was with us: it happened to be Sunday. The more pious Londoners were still in church. So… let us say… three percent of the population. Happily, most of the other ninety-seven percent were having a lie-in and were not out and about to bother us. Well… the humans, anyway.
As we turned away from Kennington Lane towards the bend in the river, one of the local four-legged chiefs came to challenge the newcomer. He was a large German Shepherd and veteran of more than a few alleyway disagreements. One fang had been broken off—presumably in some canine unfortunate. One eye was crossed by a scar, which had left it milky and white. He had a territory to protect. He was boss. More than that, he was a shepherd, by God, and someone was astray. He stepped out in front of us and gave a deep basso, “Warf! Warf! Warf!”
To which Toby/Bix replied, “SKREEEXHA-KAIGHKAI-BREEEEEEGAH! RABBBLE!”
At this point, the grizzled old war-boss of not-quite-Kennington Lane decided, You know… it’s a free country, right? I’m clearly in the wrong here and… well… enjoy your day.
Thus we were free to continue down Bond Street and Miles Street, with Holmes and Bix sharing rather a happy mood. I suppose neither of them got out enough. Probably a fine treat for the pair of them. Yet where Miles Street turns into Knight’s Place, it all went sour. For the first time, Bix faltered. He stopped. He turned a circle. He wandered half a dozen feet up Knight’s Place to our right, but then doubled back and went just as far up our left. Just as I was about to voice my despair to Holmes, Bix got rather excited. He ran into the center of the street, took a moment to give off a violent vibration that shook the nearby windows—signifying exactly what, I shall never know—then “skraxed” enthusiastically and bounded off towards Nine Elms, with Holmes and I racing along behind.
“Must be close now, eh, Watson? I say! Look at the little bugger go!”
Bix pulled up short just outside Broderick and Nelson’s Timber Yard and began running in excited circles around a huge, steaming barrel of fresh creosote.
“Um… all right… What do you suppose that means, Holmes?”
My friend shrugged. “Perhaps the murderers have hidden themselves in creosote?”
/>
“If so, they have already met a fate far worse than the courts would have offered them. No, it can’t be that. There must be something I am missing…” I racked my brain for a few moments, then snapped my fingers. “Ah! Perhaps one of the murderers happened to step in some creosote at Pondicherry Lodge! Maybe Bix never was following the criminals, but has been tracking the smell of creosote all along! That would explain why he became confused at the Knight’s Place crossing! If someone wheeled this barrel across our quarry’s path, would Bix not follow the stronger scent?”
Holmes gave me a look of pity, as if I were a very simple child and sometimes things must be explained to me slowly and clearly. “He isn’t following their scent, Watson. He is following their essence—the very identity of them.”
“Preposterous, Holmes. That is not how tracking is accomplished.”
“Oh? And tell me, oh master of deduction: when you were putting that disguise on Bix, did you happen to find a nose?”
“Er… now that you mention it… no. I mean, aside from the one I was tying onto him, of course.”
“So there must be some other explanation for his behavior, don’t you think?”
“I cannot fathom what it might be,” I said.
Then again, I did not have to. The missing motive was—at that very moment—elaborated upon by Bix himself. He reared up on his two back spike-legs, extended a hidden row of blade-like spines from his front ones, violently scythed the top off the barrel, then ran forward and dunked his head into the black, tarry liquid.
“Awwwwwwww! Poor little fellow! He was thirsty! That was all!” said Holmes. “Did Watson forget to feed you? Did he?”
I was forced to admit: I rather had.
Bix was, by then, shoulder deep in creosote and had attracted no small amount of attention from the local workmen. Being Sunday, there were few of them about, yet I did notice one particularly surly example approaching me with an expression on his face that strongly implied he might recently have been the owner of one barrel of fresh creosote and that he’d just love to hear any explanation I might have.
I cleared my throat. “Ah. Well. Good morning. My… um… dog was thirsty and… I probably should have mentioned this before, but… how much do you want for the creosote?”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“And the barrel, of course.”
Behind me, Bix finally succeeded in overturning his new treasure, sending a splash of pungent black liquid all across what was left of his disguise and a good proportion of the lumberyard, too. Apparently rolling about in creosote-soaked sawdust was just as important to Bix’s mental well-being as drinking it was to his physical.
“And the cleanup. And the act of just… not mentioning this to anybody. Ten pounds, I should think. Yes? Ten sound fair?”
“Twenty.”
“God damn it! Fine! Here! Holmes, grab Old Toby, won’t you? We’ve got to track down our murderers before the little bastard bankrupts us!”
As we backtracked to Knight’s Place—and our actual trail—Holmes and Bix seemed mightily pleased with themselves. Bix was refreshed and renewed. Holmes started humming a little walk-along song. To my horror, it was Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”—an uncomfortable reminder of yesterday. Though I should have been concerned with the memory of thousands of demons focusing their attention on my delicious little world, what really bothered me most was the reminder that Holmes intended to dismiss me as his companion—that this was to be our last adventure together. How I hoped Holmes might forget the whole thing. He forgot a lot of things, didn’t he? And he looked perfectly satisfied with his creosote-soaked monster and the fresh Sunday air. He even began to sing the words to “Ode to Joy”. Not the proper ones, of course, but just whatever his happy little mind concocted.
I am going out tonight!
I’m going to fight the min-o-taur!
I don’t think that I’ll survive
But, who knows? Maybe I’ll get far.
He’s got those hooves and
He’s got those horns and
All that I have is
This big gun.
I will fight the min-o-taur! And
I expect that
I’ll have fun!
And off we went, down Belmont Place and Prince’s Street. Despite my companions’ mood, I was suffering serious misgivings. Not only about my fate with Holmes, but with the attention of my fellow Londoners. Bix’s disguise, you see, had not fared well. I mean, in some ways it was better. It was somewhat harder to tell which parts of “Toby” were dog and which were demon, now that it was all covered in thick, sticky tar-derivative. For a few moments, Holmes and I could be said to resemble nothing more than two gentleman friends who had just dipped their dog in creosote and were now out enjoying a fine morning’s walk. Yet the tar-sodden fur of Original Toby was now too heavy for the string I’d used to tie it in place. Some bits of twine worked themselves loose and others began fraying. Significant portions of Original Toby began to slough away from New Toby. So significant, in fact, that Holmes and I could soon be said to resemble two gentleman friends who had just boiled their dog in creosote and were now out enjoying a fine morning’s walk while the old fellow fell apart.
People were beginning to notice. People were beginning to point and stare. A few of them were even beginning to follow us, trying to comprehend exactly what they were looking at. To my great horror, two of them were police constables. Not any that Holmes or I knew personally, though I wasn’t convinced that would help in any case—not if we were caught in possession of a demon and roughly one-sixth of a trusty old hound.
The only comfort was this: we’d gone as far as we could. As we came down to the end of Broad Street, Bix/Toby led us towards an old building at the edge of the river. It bore a sign that read: MORDECAI SMITH—BOATS TO HIRE BY THE HOUR OR DAY. By “boats” Mr. Smith must have meant “one scabby little dinghy”, for that was all that was moored to the pier. Then again, our quarry may well have taken his finer boat. And how were we to pursue them on the Thames?
How indeed, for at that moment, one of the two constables approached and called, “Hexcuse me, gentlemen! Just hwhat do you think you’re doin’ hwith that beast?”
We had no chance to answer, for Bix—either alarmed by the proximity of so many unfamiliar people, or annoyed to have been called “beast”—reared up on his hind legs, extended his demon-blades, clawed the air before the policeman’s face and hissed, “SHEEEERAXXAH!” The blades slashed away the last of my twine and Original Toby’s sad, tar-soaked hide slid free from Bix’s front half and slopped down onto the cobblestones.
To say the crowd looked a bit surprised may be something of an understatement.
“No!” I cried, lunging forward. “Toby! Or… Bix! No!”
But Holmes was faster. In a clear, commanding voice, he called out, “Bix! Go home!” There was a resounding boom and a generous explosion of swirling purple smoke. When it cleared, there was nothing left of Bix/Toby but a smear of creosote upon the street. As I knew Holmes and his ways, it was not hard for me to imagine that at that same moment, just a few miles off, there was probably a matching explosion underneath the shop counter of Sherman’s Menagerie, as Bix returned to his accustomed dwelling and Sherman returned to Holmes’s servitude.
The crowd of onlookers stared in disbelief. One of the constables began slowly moving his whistle up towards his quivering lip. I had no idea what to do.
Holmes had. Though I had been with him for the last few years, preventing exactly this sort of public exposure, Holmes had a long and clumsy history before my arrival. I ought to have known this was not the first time he had been caught out. And—as his facility as a liar was truly inspired—I should also have known he’d have a ready fix.
SHEEEERAXXAH!
“Tah-dah!” he cried, sweeping off his goofy paper hat and dropping into a deep bow. As he straightened, he flipped the hat onto the pavement, open side up, and added, “Now how about some applause? A
nd don’t forget to show your appreciation for Johnny Magnificent—street magician extraordinaire!”
Egad, it was brash.
But it was also perfect. It was that hat that did it. I’m sure the present multitude would have challenged the notion that this was nothing but a parlor trick if it were not for the hat sitting there, offering to relieve them of their hard-earned shillings. Instead the crowd began a general muttering and rolling-of-the-eyes, as if to say, “Oh, please! Think that’s worth tuppence, do you? The old disappearing-demon-dressed-as-a-dog routine? You’ll have to do a bit better than that. Why, we could all see the creosote! Everyone knows that’s how it’s done. It’s all down to the creosote. Um… somehow…”
The single voice of dissension belonged to one of the constables, who dropped three battered coppers into Holmes’s paper chapeau and breathed, “Amazin’! Bloody amazin’, that was!”
“Thank you, sir,” said Holmes, with a smile.
I think I held my breath the entire time it took the crowd to disperse. Only when they were gone did I dare to let it out in a combined explosion/exclamation. “Oh, by God, that was a close one!”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, brushed a non-existent speck of dust off one of his sleeves and said, “Not particularly.”
8
IF I THOUGHT MORDECAI SMITH’S BOAT RENTAL establishment looked a bit rundown and disregarded, I should have perhaps saved that assessment for my first view of Mrs. Smith. It seems that she was expected to mind the shop and mind the little ones and mind anything that was at all important while her old man ran about getting up to… whatever it was disreputable tradesmen got up to of an early Sunday afternoon.
She looked as if she’d had about enough of it.
She came at our second knock, swinging open the door to reveal a tousle-headed six-year-old standing beside her who looked as if he’d just done something perfectly horrible to her laundry. “C’n I help you gentlemen?” she asked, in the tone of one who absolutely does not care if they can help you.
Warlock Holmes--The Sign of Nine Page 23
