Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not

by Christopher Sequeira

  “Moriarty!” he said. “It can only be you. I don’t know how you did it, what drug you have managed to insinuate into my system, what hypnosis you have used to affect me so, but I will not be fooled. I will never give up my fight to put an end to you and your empire of evil, forever.”

  The words were rather grand but rang rather hollowly in the empty room. A sudden gust of wind outside rattled the windows and a chill ran up the detective’s spine. He had told Mabuse he was thinking of retiring; perhaps it was best to revisit that plan. It would be wise to consult his trusted friend, as Holmes still thought of him, for it was impossible to believe that the uncanny individual who had visited him was indeed his trusted confidant of so many years.

  Yet this course eventually turned out to be unavailable to the great detective, for, from that time forward, Doctor Hieronymus Mabuse was nevermore seen in this world.

  The Investigation into The Dawning Od: A Sherlock Holmes and Dr Arthur Conan Doyle Mystery

  Andrew Salmon

  My diary reveals that it was June of the year 1900, and I was stationed at Bloemfontein, South Africa with Dr Robert O’Callaghan’s field hospital. The Boer conflict had turned in England’s favour though we were ignorant of this at the time. Lord Frederick Roberts had taken Bloemfontein but had failed to seize the water supply at Sannah’s Post some thirty kilometres away. The result limited us to rain water. Thankfully, we were in the rainy season. Still, this meant sporadic bathing and drinking water was restricted to half a bottle per man per day.

  Dysentery ran rampant, and fever. The wounded were tended to by us doctors squelching through a layer of bloody, fetid filth at our feet. Flies swarmed in thick clouds about us. Thus you can imagine our reaction when Lord Roberts snatched the water supply from the Boers. However our instant elation cooled rapidly as the water did not flow immediately.

  We soon learned that the insufferable Colonel Bartlett Stevens sought to earn the adoration of his thousands of troops bivouacked outside the walls by securing the flow of water for their exclusive use. As the wells used by the local herdsmen filled, the soldiers were given leave to drink their fill, clean themselves in makeshift tubs and fill every canteen they could get their hands on while our parched throats could not manage so much as a croak of protest. Had I known a spell to bring forth water I’d have used it. But, alas, my magic capabilities were limited to healing the sick and injured.

  My writing had occupied my attention when the news of the water reached our hospital. I had spent that morning looking over my notes for the account of the Boer conflict I planned to finish upon returning to London and had lent the remainder of my creative energies to going over my latest Secret Agent Holmes adventure. These adventure tales had proved lucrative and an insatiable public had clamoured for more of them since I had first told the tall tales of this brilliant man of action whispered about in Whitehall in the months before we sailed for Africa.

  A clerk had been placed at my disposal as a cricket ball to the leg had given me a pronounced limp. And so I sent the man to gather others of his rank with instructions to collect water outside the gates and carry it in, so that the wounded, as well as the staff, might wet their whistles. The wait was agonizing though of short duration. Being an invalid amongst the tumult around me was the epitome of frustration. The soldiers outside had been within minutes of marching to ships for home when news broke of the restored water. The camp and its personnel was to follow on their heels within the next week or so. The war, for us, was over and I shared the longing for home with my comrades.

  The men returned, staggering under their burdens of clanking, glistening pots and bottles. We all but mobbed them. Of course, I could not push to the front of line due to my injury and instead watched the men drink deeply with one hand while holding bottles out to the patients with the other.

  I called out to my clerk, Mark, asking if he might bring me some water after the wounded had been seen to.

  “Sure thing, Dr Doyle,” the tow-headed youth croaked. “’Ang on a minute.”

  He ducked free with two bottles filled to the brim with cloudy water which to me appeared as if it had been freshly drawn from an Arctic lake. My tongue ran like sandpaper across my parched lips as the boy returned to my bedside.

  The thud of approaching hoofs outside reached me in my feverish state. A voice rang like a bell over the din, demanding the whereabouts of our commanding officer. Faint, muffled replies did not satisfy the speaker who flung back the netting at one door and strode boldly into the room.

  “Leave that water alone, lads!” he roared.

  Every head turned in his direction, for a moment. The urge to drink was simply too much for some in light of the dry weeks behind us and many continued to raise the bottles to their lips. Mark had been in the process of handing me a bottle prior to this interruption and my body’s burning need for water overcame my reason. I reached eagerly for the container.

  The tall, thin Major strode forward and slapped it out of Mark’s hand. The bottle crashed against the bed frame, soaking the blanket over my feet. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

  I looked the man up and down. Here was a tall, thin, cadaverous individual barely able to fill out the dusty uniform he wore, which was festooned with canteens. A gaunt, angular face with two small eyes set close together was thrust forward with intent.

  “Major,” said I as the man blinked heavily to aid his eyes in adjust­ing from the glare outside. “You can’t come in here and tell thirsty men not to drink.”

  His eyebrows arched upwards and his eyes widened with revelation.

  “You are that damnable Conan Doyle!” the man said as he regarded me angrily. “If we were not representatives of her Majesty’s army, I’d thrash you!”

  Furious at this attack, I sat up straighter in the bed and reached for my cane. “I’ll not stand that, sir. Fellow Spiritualist or not. Who the devil are you to speak to me this way?”

  “Major Sherlock Holmes,” replied he with an insolent inclin­­at­ion of the head. “The man whose livelihood you have destroyed.”

  I was struck speechless for a moment at this revelation. The tall tales related to me of incredible exploits had led me to conclude that Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a figment of the collective imaginations of staff officers with too much idle time back home, a rogue along the lines of Spring-Heeled Jack. To learn the man actually existed—it was extraordinary! Though I bristled at his ill manner towards me I now understood the cause. I settled back against the bed frame and returned my cane to its place.

  “It appears we have much to discuss,” I managed to croak. “Before we begin, I simply must trouble you for one of your canteens, if convenient.”

  Holmes flung one at me and it gurgled splendidly when it struck the blanket before me. He unburdened himself of the others, passing them to Mark with instructions that the contents be doled out amongst the wounded who, under no circumstances, must take the water flowing out of Sannah’s Post and to spread the word about the non-potable water running into the town.

  Mark dashed off with a nod from me and Holmes and I faced each other. Unfortunately fate was to postpone our discussion for the moment. A great ruckus outside heralded the arrival of Colonel Stevens who burst through the netting, flinging his gaze this way and that.

  “Where is that rascal?” he bellowed. “I’ll have his head!”

  A junior officer approached the Colonel, saluted smartly, and made inquiries we could not hear from our spot across the room.

  “I demand Holmes present himself immediately!” Stevens bellowed.

  At this the Colonel caught sight of Holmes whose gangly form rose above the supine patients.

  “Ah!” Stevens strode towards Holmes. Red-faced with rage, the mutton-chops he wore resembled vegetation from the surface of Mars. Stevens’s stout form fairly trembled with the depths of his emotion as he glared
at Holmes. “How dare you keep water from my men! I’ll have your guts for garters for it, mark me! Place this man under arrest!”

  With this last, he motioned angrily for the men at his heels to come forward and seize Holmes.

  “Begging the Colonel’s pardon,” I dared to interject, “but shouldn’t we hear the evidence upon which the Major based his rash action?”

  “It’s nonsense with no basis in fact.” Stevens seemed to be enjoying having Holmes at his mercy and, like a cat playing with a mouse, desired to stretch out the moment. “Come now, Major! Let’s hear it then. Why should we not drink this fine water? What is wrong with it?”

  The piercing gaze of Holmes fixed on the watery eyes of Stevens. “Colonel, I have no idea.”

  On the verge of a stroke, Stevens staggered back a step in his apoplexy.

  “I only know that my adversary was at Sannah’s Post. With the tide of the war turning in our favour, the enemy must employ more clandestine tactics. Surely the flow of water into a British garrison suffering from months of deprivation is too compelling a target for the likes of him to overlook.”

  “Disrupting army routine on whims and fancy!” Stevens had regained his speech. “No, Holmes. This is the end for you and your grandstanding. Orderly!”

  The man was at Stevens’ side in an instant. In his fist was one of the bottles drawn from a well outside. The colonel accepted the bottle and thrust the container at me.

  “Put an end to this, Doctor! Drink!”

  I took the bottle and stared longingly at the contents as I brought the opening closer to my cracked lips. At the last moment my eyes turned to Holmes. With his thin lips a hard line, white against his tanned face, he shook his head. There was something about that earnest look that conveyed sincere assurance and emphatic warning. I hesitated.

  “Doctor, I order you to drink that!”

  I lowered the bottle.

  “You refuse a direct order? We shall see about that!”

  He snatched the bottle from my hands and raised it to his own lips. Holmes leapt forward and dashed the bottle from his fist. It shattered on the bed frame and the contents drenched Stevens from the waist down.

  The stockade was a converted wine cellar and the cool, dark confines were excellent relief from the humid conditions outside. With nothing to do but while away the time while our fates were being decided, there was ample time to talk out our differences.

  “Did you really defy the Colonel based on mere whim?” asked I.

  Holmes propped himself up against an empty wine cask. In his pocket was a small flagon of water. He passed it to me and I drained it in two swallows.

  “Facts. I had none,” said he. “Only a conclusion based on experience. You must admit the resumption of water flow makes for an irresistible opportunity for our enemy.”

  “Granted.” I handed the bottle back. “You suspected contamination. Of what kind?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I cannot say. I know only that he was there. For me, that is enough.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “He is the Merlin of Crime! A man whose influence pervades all the free cities of the world, yet so few have heard of him. I refer to Dr Otto Von Reichenbach. I hunted him from the shadows these last few years, kept my existence from he and his minions. When I tracked him to South Africa, I enlisted as an army spy so that I might get close to him before he divined the secret powers of the Od.”

  “What is the Od?”

  “Black magic, forbidden knowledge and a gateway to another dimensional plane all rolled into one. Though I have dedicated years to learning its secrets, the full scope of the Od eludes me—as it does all who study it. It is believed Von Reichenbach uncovered some ancient secrets of the Od, studied them then destroyed them so none may follow in his footsteps. If he is not stopped, there is no telling the havoc he will wreak upon the earth.”

  My mind reeled at what Holmes related to me. “What would bring him here?”

  “What, indeed?”

  “You believe he applied magic to the water supply?”

  “I know it. However I cannot prove it.”

  “Surely your own magic is of some use to you.”

  “I possess no magic.”

  “Nonsense,” I retorted. “You discovered the taint to the water. You knew who I was, though we have never met. How do you account for that?”

  “I observe and analyse. That is all. Magic is but an arrow in a man’s quiver. However, it all too often becomes a crutch. For the mysteries the world holds; use the brain. To employ magic for such is a cheat.”

  “Is it not better to attack these mysteries with a full quiver at one’s disposal? Why handicap oneself?”

  “Magic has its uses, I’ll grant,” said Holmes reluctantly. “How­ever it has been my experience that over-dependence on it dulls the intellect of those who practice. Recent events have done nothing to alter my conclusion.”

  “You use insults to cover what you refuse to face: you have the makings of a wizard.”

  “It is foolish to discuss this further, given our situation. Lives are at risk, I remind you.”

  “I have not forgotten it. If what you say is true then thousands are in harm’s way. The men all but drowned themselves in the water flowing out of Sannah’s Post.”

  “Now you finally begin to understand my earnestness. Those men are bound for Cape Town and then England as we speak, carrying whatever that devil slipped them. Consider that.” Holmes threw up his hands in disgust. “It’s no use. Whatever scheme Von Reichenbach hatched will succeed now. Your blasted stories have exposed me to the world and, most certainly, to Von Reichenbach. He will be ever more on his guard.”

  Here I explained my error in assuming the tales I heard were, by their very outlandishness, mere fabrication, and offered my apologies for any harm they may have caused. He was not in a mood to receive my heartfelt expression of regret.

  “I hope the pieces of silver you earned from your stories bring you comfort,” said he, “for a dark time will come upon the world and all the gold in England will not buy our way out of the dawning Od.”

  An unscheduled rattle of the keys at our door stirred us from the reverie into which we had sunk over the last three days. Food and water was not due for an hour or more—though we touched neither—so we were at a loss to account for the clack of the bolt and the heavy door being flung open.

  A stout figured stopped and entered. Once the man’s face entered the faint penumbra of light from our small lantern, Holmes reacted instantly. He leapt to his feet and shook the man vigorously by the hand.

  “General Watson!” exclaimed Holmes. “At last!”

  I struggled to my feet and came to ragged attention.

  “None of that now,” said Holmes. “General Watson, I present to you Dr Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “Doctor, is it?” said Watson with genuine warmth. “I tried my hand at that in Afghanistan but lacked the talent for it. Those damned spells, I dare say!”

  Holmes clapped the man on the back. “Then it was the secret realm for you, eh? Doyle, the General here is my handler in the world of espionage.”

  “I see.”

  Watson turned to Holmes. “Conan Doyle? The very scoundrel who has been getting your name in every shop in London?”

  “Yes, General,” said Holmes. “However, grave matters are before us.”

  “Was it he?” asked General Watson. “Von Reichenbach?”

  “It was.”

  “Damn and blast! And that fool Stevens locks you up! It’s a three-day head start they have on you. I’ll have his hide for it. Come along!”

  The urgency that possessed General Watson was conveyed by the immediacy with which we found ourselves before Colonel Stevens in his office. We were given water from the General’s canteens and some food from Watson’s stores, but no
opportunity to make ourselves presentable.

  “General?” Stevens inquired in an ingratiating tone. “We had no idea you would be honouring us with your presence.”

  “My boots were cleaned before I set out and don’t require licking,” replied Watson. “Damn you, sir! By what right have you locked up my officer?”

  “He struck me, sir.” Stevens drew himself erect. “That is enough.”

  “I’ll knock your fool head off in a minute! And the Doctor?”

  “He refused to obey a direct order!”

  “What was the order?”

  “To drink the town’s water supply.”

  “Did he give a reason for disobeying?”

  “He sided with your Major who struck the bottle from my hand.”

  “In an attempt to prolong your miserable existence.”

  “General, I—

  “Be silent!” Here Watson snatched up the water carafe on the Colonel’s table and handed it to me. “Can you test this for magic?”

  “I’ll need a strip of paper.”

  One was obtained from a sheet on the desk. I infused the paper with a detector spell and inserted it into the bottle. The result was instantaneous. The entire contents turned black, bubbling and writhing as though the bottle were full of snakes. I almost dropped it in my sudden fright but managed to get a stopper into the neck.

  “What is this trickery?” Stevens asked, his face blanched.

  “Restrain the Colonel!” ordered Watson of the men closest to him. He whirled and faced the guards by the door. “No water for anyone in town! Effective immediately!”

  The men were off in a flash.

  “This confirms it, General,” said Holmes. “I’m for England.”

  “You both are,” confirmed Watson. “Doctor, do you know the nature of the enchantment?”

  “A day or so of study and I’ll have it.”