by Eric Brown
“Dear Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” Holmes read. “Developments. Would you meet me at the cafe in Regent’s Park at eleven? Failing that, the Euston Lyons’ at five? Ever yours, Freya Hamilton-Bell.”
“Developments?” I said. “I wonder if what Miss Hamilton-Bell has to report can match our news?”
“I hope it is of a more sanguine nature than our intelligence,” Holmes said. “We could set off immediately and take tea in the park before her arrival.”
“Capital! I’m famished.”
Holmes cast me a wry glance as we left the house. “I never fail to be amazed at your unabated appetite, Watson, even in the direst of circumstances.”
“One must keep body and soul together, old man. No good has ever come of stinting in the victuals department. I take it, therefore, that you will not be eating?”
“I might take a Chelsea bun with my tea,” he allowed.
We strolled through the park, together with a host of citizens enjoying the clement weather. Ahead, looming over the oak trees, was a stationary tripod, a towering monument to the implacable might of the Martians. We gave it a wide berth and arrived at the kiosk some thirty minutes before our rendezvous with Miss Hamilton-Bell.
Holmes was as good as his word regarding his choice of refreshment, and while he absentmindedly bit into a Chelsea bun, I devoured a very passable Welsh rarebit. We sat outside in the sun and, but for the events of the morning, I might have considered the light meal a pleasant one.
“We must proceed to Woking once we have concluded our business with Miss Hamilton-Bell,” Holmes said. “There is a train at twelve-fifteen, and we should go armed with the electrical guns and your service revolver.”
“What do you think Moriarty might be doing in Woking, Holmes?” I asked between mouthfuls.
“No doubt he is on some errand at the behest of the Martians,” Holmes replied. “That can be the only answer. As for what he might want with Miss Fairfield…”
“You don’t think it might simply be a case of” – I hesitated – “of an older man desiring the fruits of youth, as it were?”
“It might very well be,” Holmes said, “though I suspect that aside from this there is an ulterior motive. Also…”
“Go on.”
His sweetmeat consumed, he filled his cherrywood pipe and puffed it into life. “Also, I am perplexed as to his need to disguise himself so thoroughly. Recall Wells’s assertion that Mr Smith wore a facemask?”
I shrugged. “He’s a notorious villain,” I said. “A wanted criminal sought after from London to New York, Moscow to Melbourne. He obviously does not want to be recognised.”
Holmes shook his head. “A cloak and fedora would suffice,” he said. “A facemask is taking disguise to an extreme – indeed, it would attract attention, not deflect it. I suspect there is a reason for the mask that I have yet to fathom.”
I looked along the curving path that approached the cafe as a familiar figure came into sight. Despite the travails of the day, my heart quickened at the sight of Miss Hamilton-Bell.
She was dressed in a jade-green crinoline dress, cinched becomingly at the waist, the get-up set off by a large sun hat of the same verdant shade. She turned not a few heads as she joined us at our table.
“Gentlemen, it is reassuring to see your friendly faces once again.” She ordered Darjeeling with lemon from the waiter, then leaned towards us. “I have had a somewhat stressful morning.”
“Then we have not been alone in facing adversity,” Holmes said.
She looked curiously from Holmes to me. “I met a certain foreign contact at Marble Arch this morning. This gentleman hails from Paris, and liaises with agents in the Middle East and Africa. He bore disturbing news.”
“No doubt concerning the Martian presence?” Holmes surmised.
“Just so. I will not beat about the bush. He informed me that he had received intelligence from agents on the ground in Kenya and Mesopotamia. They report that following the increased activity of Martian interplanetary ships arriving at Nairobi and Baghdad, a great army of tripods – of the military variety – have been clearing tribal peoples from vast swathes of land in central Kenya, and citizens from the plains east of the Euphrates. Also, tripods have been observed transporting building materials – sections of Martian geodesic domes and panels of their great curving towers – into these cleared areas. Their motives appear obvious.”
“They are constructing cities for their own kind,” Holmes said.
Miss Hamilton-Bell nodded. “If this were not bad enough, the Martians are using human slave labour to build these cities.”
“Do you have any intelligence as to when the relocation might begin in earnest?” I asked.
“Sadly, no. But the day cannot be very far off. Among the Resistance, the feeling is that they will establish bridgeheads in these desert regions, and when these are occupied they will take over more densely populated areas.”
“And the dispiriting fact,” Holmes said, “is that the armies of Earth – the once mighty armies of Great Britain, Germany, France and China – have been greatly reduced in number by the simulacra stooges of their leaders, politicians and generals. We know that Asquith has been replaced, and Lord Kitchener.”
“Among the military,” she said, “more than a dozen senior officers have been duplicated. And these are the ones we know about for certain. There are doubtless many others.”
“You present a bleak scenario,” I said.
“There are more dire tidings, my friends. A spy in the Martians’ ranks has confirmed what we feared: the Arkana have brought their duplication machines to Earth. Formerly, these devices were made at great expense and used only on Mars. But recently, in the past few days, due to advances in their manufacture, they have been distributed beyond their place of origin – the easier to copy the great and good of Earth, rather than have them travel to the red planet.”
“Good God,” I said. “The battle has just become almost impossible!”
“But all is not lost,” Miss Hamilton-Bell went on. “At least we know what the Martians are planning.” She sipped her tea. “But what of your news? Did you manage to contact Mr Wells?”
“On that front,” Holmes said, “the news is good. Not only did we contact him, but we succeeded in persuading him to work with us – not that he took much persuading. You see, there is little love lost between Mr Wells and the Martians.”
He went on to detail his investigation into the death of the Martian ambassador two years ago, and Wells’s and Miss Fairfield’s involvement in the affair.
“I heard about the former ambassador’s death, but accepted the reported version of events, that the Martian had taken his own life. Three cheers for Miss Fairfield, I say.”
Holmes gave a mirthless smile. “I wish I could report happier tidings regarding that worthy,” he said. “But my suspicions are that not only has the greatest criminal mastermind in human history sided with the Martians, but he has abducted the young woman into the bargain.”
He proceeded to outline the events of the morning, and what we had discovered in Chelsea, in minute detail.
Miss Hamilton-Bell stared into her tea, unmoving, and only when Holmes ceased speaking did she look up and say, “But what can he want with Miss Fairfield?”
“I suggested his motives were no more than carnal,” I said, “if you will excuse my saying so. But Holmes thinks otherwise.”
“In my dealings with Professor Moriarty,” Holmes said, “I have never heard, nor experienced at first hand, anything to suggest that he possesses what might be called a romantic nature. His affairs with his fellow humans are exclusively cerebral – or else sadistic. I fear that Watson might in part be right in imputing carnal motivations to Moriarty’s abduction of the young woman – albeit desires tainted by the man’s inveterate sadism, which thought is frightful – but I suspect that there is more to it than that.”
“Might his interest,” Miss Hamilton-Bell suggested, “be merely of t
he mind? Miss Fairfield is, after all, a highly regarded intellectual.”
Holmes nodded. “And that,” he said, “is what I fear.”
In due course Holmes consulted his pocket watch and said that it was high time we were returning to Baker Street. We had to arm ourselves before taking the train to Woking.
“It is imperative that we do everything possible to find Miss Fairfield,” said Holmes, “and, also, to prevent whatever Moriarty is planning.”
Miss Hamilton-Bell looked from me to Holmes. “You realise, of course, the highly dangerous nature of your mission? If you were to be apprehended…”
“We will do all within our power to prevent that occurrence,” said Holmes.
“I would advise against such rash action, at least for the time being,” she said. “Allow me a little time to contact an agent who might assist you on the ground in Woking.”
“I am afraid that time is of the essence,” Holmes insisted. “I appreciate your concern, but I must stress that Miss Fairfield is in grave danger. And I assure you that we will go about our business with the utmost circumspection.”
“In future it might become necessary,” she said, “to avail yourself of the safe house in Barnes.” And so saying, she passed a spare key to Holmes.
We bade a muted farewell with promises to contact her in due course with news of our exploits.
We hurried back to Baker Street, the young woman’s scent stirring my senses, and the warmth of her hand – which I had gripped as she entreated us to take care – still lingering on mine.
Mrs Hudson apprehended us in the hallway before we ascended to our rooms. “Mr Wells – the gentleman who visited last night – he came knocking again just ten minutes ago and said he needed to see you urgently. I showed him upstairs and said you’d be back presently. I hope I did the right thing, Mr Holmes?”
“You certainly did,” Holmes assured her, and hurried up the staircase.
We found Wells pacing the sitting room in a febrile state. “Holmes, Watson! I am delighted to see you.”
I urged him to take a seat. “And you’ll have a drink – you look as though you need one.”
“Thank you. I don’t know where to begin…”
I poured him a brandy. Wells slumped onto the chaise longue, and Holmes and I took our chairs to either side of the hearth.
“Allow me to hazard a guess,” Holmes said. “You attempted to contact Miss Fairfield last night, and failed to do so. Moreover, you visited her apartment but an hour ago—”
“That’s right, I did. But there was no sign of Cicely. How the blazes do you know?”
“Yesterday you mentioned that you and Miss Fairfield dined from time to time at the Moulin Bleu on Wednesday evenings. It is therefore reasonable to assume that you attempted to phone her last night, a Wednesday, and received no reply. Understandably concerned, you made a trip to Chelsea one hour ago.” Holmes pointed to the man’s breast pocket. “I spy the corner of an electrical cab ticket, zone one, with the printed time of your journey clearly discernible.”
Wells knocked back his brandy. “And as I said, there was no sign of Cicely… What the deuce is going on, Holmes?”
I regarded my hands awkwardly, then looked up at Holmes who said, “We have discovered that yesterday Miss Fairfield went to Woking with Mr Smith.”
“To Woking, with Smith? Why the blazes were they going to Woking, of all places?”
“That, sir, we have yet to discover.”
“Did you learn anything else in Chelsea,” Wells asked, “other than that Smith dragged Cicely off to Woking?”
Holmes hesitated. I could see that he was considering the wisdom of informing Wells – already in a distraught state – that his ex-fiancée had been abducted by none other than the archcriminal Professor Moriarty.
At last, deciding that the truth was paramount, he said, “We discovered the identity of the mysterious Mr Smith.”
He rose to his feet and crossed to the crammed bookshelves on the far side of the room. He pulled out a fat volume – a history of criminality, I noted – and riffled through it until he found a small photograph lodged between the pages.
He returned to the hearth and passed the picture to Wells.
“The only extant photograph of Professor James Moriarty, a daguerreotype taken when he was arrested twenty-five years ago and held at Bow Street station – before he effected an ingenious escape.”
Wells was staring down at the photograph with frank incredulity. “Moriarty?” he said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “But…” He looked up and regarded Holmes. “But this isn’t Moriarty… It’s one of the Jones twins, either the elder or younger, I can’t be sure.”
Holmes turned pale. “The Jones twins? And who might they be? No, don’t tell me, they worked for the Martians at the embassy, am I correct?”
Wells nodded. “That’s right, they did. And a pretty secretive pair they were, too. Had an office to themselves on the third floor, and weren’t to be disturbed. They left the employ of the embassy perhaps a month ago, so I understand.”
Holmes all but groaned and turned to me. “Well, Watson, that explains why our ‘Mr Smith’ went to such pains to disguise himself while in the embassy.”
“I don’t quite follow, old chap…” I began.
“You see, Watson, ‘Smith’ couldn’t be seen around the place as himself when the ‘Jones twins’ were also at the embassy – or Wells here and the other human staff might have started asking questions.”
“You mean…?” I began.
Holmes nodded. “I do. I do indeed mean, Watson. I mean that Mr Smith and the Jones twins are three of the same – they are all Professor James Moriarty. The question is,” he went on, “who is the real Moriarty, and which two are the simulacra? Not, I suppose, that it matters – the fact is that we now know that the Martians have, working on their side, the evil criminal mastermind Moriarty, plus two.”
“I think this,” I said, climbing rather unsteadily to my feet, “calls for a stiff brandy.”
Later, Wells learned that we were making for Woking and insisted on accompanying us.
“You will do nothing of the kind, sir,” Holmes said. “It would be foolhardy in the extreme to be seen with us in the very centre of Martian operations. Return home, and in the morning go to work at the embassy as if nothing untoward has occurred. We will be in contact at some point tomorrow.”
We armed ourselves with the electrical guns, ensured that we were wearing the batteries, and bade Wells good-day outside 221B.
Minutes later we boarded a cab bound for Waterloo Station.
Chapter Twenty
The Attractions of Woking
I must admit that, as our train pulled into Woking Station, I was feeling more than a little apprehensive at the thought of what lay ahead. We were entering enemy territory – an enemy that was not only merciless, but would not hesitate to bring about our end if our simulacra ruse was rumbled. Holmes had tried to reassure me that this was a reconnaissance mission only, but I was far from reassured as we stepped from the carriage and approached the ticket collector.
We passed through the barrier and entered the teeming concourse, and I stopped in my tracks and stared about me in wonder. All around were placards and notices advertising various attractions and exhibitions. One could visit Horsell Common, where the very first Martian cylinder had come to rest in ’94, and go on a walking tour of the still deserted villages, which the first wave of ravaging tripods had destroyed; one could take a guided tour of the Martian Museum in the town centre, where such artefacts as the Martian Handling-Machines were on display, or visit the tripod manufactory on the outskirts of town.
While I was goggling at these gaudy advertisements, Holmes was studying a map of Woking. “See here, Watson,” he said, pointing to a district to the south of the town centre. “This is the site of the tripod manufactory and the Martian Research Institute, situated in an old Victorian insane asylum. To the west is Horsell Common, and r
ound about it the devastated villages.”
“That’s all very well,” I said, “but how on earth are we going to go about locating Moriarty and Miss Fairfield? They might be anywhere.”
Holmes turned and pointed. “We will begin our search with an enquiry – always, I find, an efficacious method of finding out what one wants.”
The glass-roofed area was chock-a-block with a hundred hurrying citizens. “And whom might we ask?” I said.
Holmes nodded across the concourse. “How about that worthy, yonder?”
“A Salvation Army collector?” I said.
“In my experience I have found them eagle-eyed, Watson – always on the lookout for souls in need of salvation. And our friend Moriarty, with his suspicious eyes and shifty deportment, would easily qualify as such. If I couch my enquiry in a way that would trigger her piety and professional interest…”
So saying, he led me across to the diminutive, grey-haired, rosy-cheeked woman and slipped a shilling into her collection box.
“Why, thank you, sir. Most generous.”
“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Always glad to assist a worthy cause. I was wondering if I might solicit the Army’s professional service?”
“We’re ever eager to help those in need, sir.”
“I happen to be searching for my daughter. Here is her photograph,” he said, passing the woman a portrait of Miss Fairfield.
As she screwed up her eyes and studied the photograph, I murmured to Holmes, “How the devil did you…?”
“I borrowed it from Miss Fairfield’s apartment yesterday,” he whispered in reply.
“Pretty little thing,” said the woman.
“A runaway,” Holmes said in woebegone tones, ever the thespian laying it on thick. “Worse, I fear she might have been in the company of an older man.”
The old lady clucked in sympathy. Her face scrunched up in concentration so that it rather resembled a wizened apple. “I do believe…” she began.
“They would have passed through the station yesterday at around this time.”
