General Watson shook his head. “You will accompany Holmes to London.”
“I couldn’t possibly, sir. The patients. My staff—”
“I left my mage in the Discovery Dream back at Sannah’s Post. You have my word that once he awakens, I will have him brought here to put things right. To London, now; the both of you. I will prepare the necessary orders. Quickly, while there’s still a prayer.”
The ensuing hours proceeded pell-mell in a maelstrom of activity. Outfitted with horses and supplies, we were off through the town gates. The next two days and nights passed with a mad dash across the muddy wastes. Finally, Cape Town docks was before us with all its crisscrossing rail lines and Table Mountain at our backs. The SS Briton sat at anchor as stores were brought aboard. She was to depart in two days’ time, which frustrated us no end. The Londoner assigned to carry the Colonel’s men home had been in readiness and had set sail the moment the troops were aboard.
A change came over Holmes at this news as he succumbed to a singular brooding, with eyes half-lidded as if slipping into slumber. Yet his body remained rigid, motionless in his seat by the open window of his room at the Mount Nelson Hotel. He took only water during this period.
As Holmes was not forthcoming, I took it upon myself to be useful while we awaited our sailing. I contacted the neighbouring hotels to ascertain whether or not a man matching Von Reichenbach’s description had passed through Cape Town. Tall, spidery, bearded, with hooded eyes and the black, lifeless stare of the cobra, our quarry cut a memorable figure and I soon had confirmation that not only had he reached Cape Town, he had sailed for England on the same ship as Stevens’s men.
I brought this information to Holmes and received his embittered reply.
“Of course he was here,” he snapped. “Any fool knows that.”
This ended any future interaction between us on African soil. I took to my rooms and my work. The Secret Agent Holmes tale I had been working on at the field hospital was finished but I burned it in the wastebasket. The book chronicling my war adventures required my attention and there was my ending to Drood to while away the time with aboard ship. And yet my hand kept reaching for the books on magic I had brought with me. Having restricted myself to healing spells, the ominous warning Holmes had uttered had me thinking the time had come to expand my knowledge of the mystic arts and many an hour I passed in deep study.
The gloomy, drizzly day we departed was apropos and we left Africa behind to fade into the mist. London in June was not without its fog but the land would be in bloom, the sun would be shining and all about would be life sprung anew. A more welcome environment I could not imagine. With my work before me and home as journey’s end, I forgot all about Sherlock Holmes and his missions of espionage.
My hope of summer rejuvenation was dashed when we caught sight of England. Dark clouds brooded over all and the London dock seemed half-submerged in rain when we stepped down once more on British soil. I supervised the off-loading of my bags as they contained some objects of a fragile nature. Holmes suddenly appeared at my side. He seemed rested, refreshed, his eyes blazing from his wet face.
“Returned to the land of the living, have you?” asked I, coldly.
“If we do not act swiftly and decisively, nothing will be alive for long. Come, Doyle!”
“Holmes, it is pouring with rain and I am tired from the trip. I should like to check in at home before I resume my duties.”
“I’m afraid that is quite impossible,” said Holmes. “I have been questioning the dock workers while you dawdled with the luggage. What I have learned is most disturbing and I have sent for the police in the hopes of learning more. It has begun, Doyle.”
“What has begun?”
“The end.”
I opened my mouth to demand elaboration but Holmes turned smartly and strode off. Rain streaming off my hat brim, feet squelching in my sodden shoes, I recalled my duty and, after a moment’s wrestling with the irritation Holmes generated within me, I drove my hands into my overcoat and followed in his wake. A police wagon parted the teeming throng around the docked ships and Holmes made for it with haste. He had climbed aboard by the time I had pushed my way through the crowd. The bench was ample and I took my seat reluctantly beside Holmes. I knew better than to engage in conversation and we made our journey in silence.
Our destination was Whitehall and before us stood the skeleton of the new edifice being erected for Scotland Yard. Holmes sprang from the wagon before it had come to a halt and I lost sight of him as I climbed down.
“You’ll be wanting to go that way, Doctor,” the driver explained as he extended a long finger pointed over my shoulder to the left. “Inspector Lestrade is at the base of them poles. They’ve found another, they have.”
Clueless as to the man’s meanings, his directions were plain and I almost tumbled into the turbid Thames on the rain-slick boards leading down to the construction site.
“Ah, Doyle at last,” said Holmes as I flailed against the slimy poles to maintain my balance. “Do stop messing about. There is work before us.”
In defiance of Holmes, I took the time to dunk my hands at the river’s edge to wash off the slime. With my handkerchief sodden in my partially dried hands, I stooped beneath the beams and joined the two men on the other side of the platform.
Holmes stood with a short, rat-faced man fairly swallowed up in his rain slicker. Watery eyes regarded me for a moment as I stood next to the man, then he and Holmes returned their gaze to the ghastly sight before us.
The torso of a woman lay at the water’s edge. The remains were clad in a nightdress with more colour than the bloodless flesh. The figure’s head and arms had been removed, leaving ragged flesh at the neck and one visible shoulder.
Lestrade turned to Holmes. “All right, you’ve seen it. What do you have to say?”
Instead of replying, Holmes turned to me. “Lestrade tells me these remains were found not twenty minutes ago. How about it?”
“Twenty minutes?” said I, considering. “The poor woman was not killed here—that much is plain. The blood loss from these wounds would have been enormous and even a downpour like this would not wash the boards clean. Also, the torso is clad in the remains of a nightdress. She must have been taken from her bed, murdered, and brought here.”
“An excellent accounting of the obvious, Doyle,” said Holmes. “Can you add anything pertinent?”
“See here, you vagabond,” I began, furious.
Lestrade stopped me with a hand on my arm. “You’ll get used to such treatment if you plan to continue your association with the likes of him.”
“Believe me, officer, I have no intention of prolonging anything with Holmes.”
“Stop that, you two,” said Holmes.
“As to that, Holmes,” said I. “Why don’t you explain what I missed in my observation of the body?”
“There certainly isn’t time to cover all that eluded you so I shall confine myself to the vital points.”
I bristled but held my tongue.
“The woman was in her early twenties, married for the last two years. No children. She was no stranger to hard work but was not required to exhaust herself at it. Good nutrition means a husband who is not well off but does all right. Could be the wife of a civil servant, a policeman, soldier, mailman, iceman, milkman and the like. Blonde hair, five foot two or three.”
“You are indeed a sorcerer, sir,” said I with conviction. “Or a liar.”
“I merely observe.”
“It is impossible for you to deduce all that from mere observation. You made it up out of whole cloth or you have magic in you.”
“Yes, magic,” said Holmes. “I was hoping you would have the greater sensibility in that area and could shed some light on these matters. This is why I asked for your thoughts.”
“Magic? I see no magic here.”
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“If you’ll hazard a step forward to examine where the body was severed?”
“You might have suggested magic in the first place,” I countered.
“Now that I am aware of your limited abilities, I shall do so in the future,” said Holmes. “It is good to know the parameters of the brains assisting me.”
“Shut up, will you?” I bent at the waist to see the torso better.
“I will not,” said Holmes as I studied the remains. “I was called a liar and will explain my conclusions to you.”
I was in no mood for that and replied “I would prefer you didn’t.”
Holmes ignored my reply and went on calmly. “The woman has blonde hair because two strands of it remain on the collar of the night dress. Her height is an estimate based on the length of the remains. Developed muscles in the visible deltoid indicate physical labour. The smoothness of the skin cries youth. The absence of scars show that said labour had not taken a prolonged toll. Overall musculature speaks of good nutrition. The hair of at least two cats, Scottish Fold and Bengal, is also present on the garment. The animals are house cats or else the hairs would not be on the nightdress. Money to feed and house the cats means a dwelling large enough to accommodate the ensemble. The narrow aspect of the lower back and visible abdomen indicates a childless union, which itself suggests relative newlyweds as income and living quarters show that money is sufficient though not ample—more likely suited to someone in the service professions I listed earlier. The nightdress is made of an Egyptian linen found in the finer linen shops this couple could not afford, which tells me it was obtained abroad. Our search may now be confined to sailors, soldiers or merchant seamen. Is this explanation enough? Or shall I go on?”
My brain whirled as I considered all that Holmes had related. So convinced was I that sorcery was at the heart of these abilities Holmes delighted in showing off that I was speechless in the face of the cold facts he had related. I could see the evidence now of many of his points and I did not doubt the veracity of the rest.
However they were put aside for the moment. For, upon examining the truncated remains, I observed that the torso was cauterized over the surface area of the cut. A foul-smelling, blackened mass could not hide the precision of the cut, which was straight and fine. Despite the burned aspect of the flesh and internal organs, neither the skin around the cut or the nightdress was burned. Holmes was right; only magic could be behind this. Black magic.
Holmes took Lestrade by the elbow. “With your permission, Lestrade, I should like to examine the other victims.”
“Others?” asked I.
“A dozen, we reckon,” replied Lestrade. “Pieces, really. Arms, legs, trunks and such. We don’t hardly know if each comes from a separate victim.”
“Dear Lord, what is happening?”
“What is occurring is secondary just now,” said Holmes. “Stopping it is our priority. Accompany me to the Yard, Doyle.”
After the grisly examination of decaying body parts, all bearing the same clean cut at the main severance point, we found ourselves back at the last crime scene. Holmes was on hands and knees in the mud, pawing at the ground where the torso had been discovered and since removed.
“Holmes, what are you looking for?”
“The locket, of course.”
“What locket?”
“The one that had been around what remained of the victim’s neck.”
“I saw no such thing.”
“That does not surprise me. There was a faint red mark, just discernible below the ragged flesh of the neck.”
“Surely that occurred when the poor woman was beheaded. You are wasting your time.”
“This poor murdered woman is but a link in a chain of evidence with which I hope to prevent a catastrophe,” said Holmes, his eyes fixed on the water’s edge. “If we cannot uncover something about her attacker in time, all may be lost.”
“Then surely we should not tarry here, pawing through the mud in search of phantom jewellery.”
“The straightness of that mark was incongruous with the other wounds,” said Holmes. “She wore a locket and we must find it.”
“If you are right I and do not concede that you are,” I replied. “Would not the thing have been torn off in the couple’s bedroom?”
“How did a woman and her attacker find themselves here at the water’s edge?” asked Holmes, evading my question.
“I do not know.”
“Neither do I,” said Holmes. “But the locket must be here.”
I could not fathom what Holmes meant by this and attempted to wrap my thoughts around all that had transpired since our return to London. The race against the homebound troops, the mystery of the cursed water, the human remains and now a locket—all of these swirled about in my mind until finally inspiration struck.
“You believe the murdered woman to be a soldier’s wife!”
Holmes leaned back on his heels and presented me with the first smile of genuine emotion I’d seen him direct at me. “Bravo, Doyle! And here is our evidence.”
He showed me a cheap, gold locket clutched in his fist. Holmes brushed away the sand and snapped it open to reveal a photo of a handsome army captain. Using his thumbnail, he slid the photo out and turned it over. In coarse script was the words Captain Arthur Burke, 26 years of age.
“We shall give this to the constable at the wagon.” Holmes closed the locket. “And he will give it to Lestrade. The inspector will contact Home District and present the locket along with General Watson’s report, which I have given him. There still may be time.”
Holmes flagged down a hansom after we had sent the constable on his way. He gave an address on Montague Street in Bloomsbury.
“What the devil is all this about, Holmes?” I demanded.
In reply, he removed a large map of London and opened it up to the point where it served as a blanket over our legs. The map was dotted here and there with red Xs.
“Lestrade and I pinpointed the locations where the remains of other murdered women were found while you examined the collected remains,” said he as he traced the red marks with one finger. “All along the Thames, do you see? Yet not exclusive to that waterway. See here, a foot found in the Serpentine at Hyde Park, an arm in Boating Lake, a torso near the Viaduct Pond of Hampstead Heath, two legs in the East Lake in Victoria Park, and so it goes. What is the common thread?”
“Water.”
“What was Von Reichenbach’s weapon of choice in Bloemfontein?”
“Water.”
He indicated the downpour outside. “What do we seem to have more about us now than the air itself?”
“The same.” I grasped at this thread. “You suggest there is a connection between him and this ceaseless rain?”
“I know it. It has rained every day since the ship carrying the returning troops docked.”
“Amazing! And you credit Von Reichenbach with cunning and guile. Does not this overt move run contrary to that nature?”
“The Od is his ultimate goal, Doyle.” Holmes nodded. “There is a larger game afoot. If we are able to stave off catastrophe tonight, there may be time to prevent Von Reichenbach from controlling this power.”
“Surely there are mages in London who are better equipped to deal with magic of this sort?”
“There are,” agreed Holmes. “And they are all engaged in defending the city from other threats. Their handlers require convincing before they may be diverted. I have sent Lestrade to them for that purpose. We shall see what is the outcome. Ah, my lodgings!” Holmes sprang from the cab, leaving me to pay the driver.
Inside the squalor of his rooms, Holmes set about donning dry clothing after tossing a bundle at me so that I might change out of my sodden attire. Under normal circumstances, I would have refused the offer but I was soaked to the skin and had no choice in the end.
Thirty minutes later Holmes received a telegram from Lestrade. That Home District had replied favourably was a wonder I believed had more to do with General Watson being behind Holmes rather than anything our flimsy evidence could relate. Be that as it may, the order had come down from the Commander-In-Chief of the Forces for soldiers and officers who had shipped aboard the Londoner to assemble at Regent’s Park.
“Herding them together may limit the damage,” said Holmes after I read the message to him. “But it brings us no closer to Von Reichenbach. How are you for wards?”
“Like any good physician, I possess a full retinue of ward spells. When the body is weakened by sickness, it is vulnerable to infection and must be protected during treatment. Wards are the best defence.”
“Come, then!”
“We go in search of Captain Burke?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
The rain had as much chance of washing the traffic from the roads as it would of washing one’s sins away. Our cabman fought for every inch of road as we weaved our way back to the river. A stone’s throw from our destination, the noise of a tremendous ruckus reached our ears. Holmes gripped my arm feverishly.
“Your wards!” he hissed. “Stand ready!”
It was our intention to proceed to Regent’s Park in the hope of determining once and for all what threat we faced. Our journey had hardly begun before the first signs of commotion became apparent.
Nearby screams pierced the cacophonous clatter of the traffic. Holmes urged our driver to stop at once and we had just alighted before more cries echoed from a block over. These were followed by the clatter of boots on the cobblestones, then a gunshot.
“We are too late!” Holmes hissed. “Damn him!”
“What is it?”
“Summon your wards but have your pistol ready,” replied he. “Noekken!”
I started at this. A water spirit! The mist surrounding our dilemma were whisked away. Holmes had already surmised the danger and the full implications of what Von Reichenbach had done at Bloemfontein descended upon me like a judgment. I broke into a run to keep pace with Holmes as he cut through a filthy alley towards the tumult.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Was Not Page 33
