The Finality Problem

by G. S. Denning

  But Holmes cut me off. “Pay him no heed, gentlemen. Watson is merely having trouble adjusting to his new life. He is not to assist in the solution of this or any other crime, or he will get himself all doomed again.”

  Grogsson and Lestrade gave heavy sighs and made “Remember? We promised” eyes at me. I felt I was losing my chance. Luckily the stationmaster was only a few paces away. I ran to him, calling, “Excuse me, sir, excuse me. Do you know Colonel Stark?”

  “Who?” the man replied.

  “German fellow, incredibly skinny.”

  “Oh! Dr. Becher?”

  “Quite possibly the man I’m looking for,” I told him. “Odd sort of fellow?”

  “Oh, I should say.”

  “Came here last night?”

  “That he did.”

  “Spent an hour or two driving his carriage counterclockwise around the village square?”

  “Ah, well, he often does that,” the stationmaster confirmed. “Whenever he’s got an out-of-town guest. Says it wards off bad luck for the visit.”

  “Hmph!” I scoffed. “So, you’ve seen him pick up several ‘guests’ from this station! I wonder, have any of those people returned this way?”

  “Er… now that I come to put my mind to it… no.”

  “Ha, ha!” I shouted and turned to my friends in triumph. Yet when I beheld them, my features fell. They seemed to have been paying little attention to my revelations, but were instead concentrating on a subject I cared for less.

  “…do not intend to wait for the next train,” Holmes was saying. “We need to make sure he is on this one and I’m not above using a bit of force to accomplish it.”

  Grogsson stepped towards me with a grim little “Sorry, Watson-man” smile on his face, clenching and unclenching his hands.

  “But wait!” I cried. “Don’t you see? I can help you!”

  “Nope,” said Holmes. “You’ll die. Grogsson? If you’d be so kind…”

  And my friend Torg took two steps forward, closed his hands around my waist, and hoisted me into the air. I had just a moment of hope when I heard the stationmaster cry, “Hey! You can’t do that! Help! Help! Police!”

  But on that last word, my hopes fell. Sure enough, Lestrade’s hand disappeared into his coat and re-emerged holding his badge.

  “Oh,” said the surprised stationmaster. “Then… you actually can do that?”

  “So it would seem,” said Lestrade smugly. “Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I believe my friends and I would like to purchase one ticket to wherever that train is heading.”

  * * *

  Three minutes later, I sat in my seat with my arms crossed, staring glumly out the window at the three friends whose adventures I had so often shared. Torg, to his credit, looked a bit guilty about shutting me out. Lestrade looked as if he found the whole thing irresistibly entertaining. Holmes’s look was sad but resolved and Victor Hatherley made the face of a man reflecting that, not even twenty-four hours previously, he’d owned two thumbs and never had to endure such bizarre social circumstances. Holmes, no fool—

  Or… Wait, let me start that sentence again.

  Holmes, accustomed to my stubbornness, was taking no chances. He remained just on the other side of my window, arms crossed against his chest staring masterfully at me through the glass. There he stayed until the whistle blew, the pistons chugged, and the train began to pull slowly forward. I stared dejectedly back as the train gathered speed. I would swear I could see Holmes’s lips form the words “Well, gentlemen, that’s that, eh?” before he turned his back on me and headed off down the platform in search of a carriage to hire.

  At which point, I jumped off a moving train.

  I know it was foolish. Up until that moment, if anybody had asked me if such an action was advisable, I’d have had to say, “As a doctor, I recommend against it.”

  Ever since that moment, I would have to say, “As a doctor who has jumped off a moving train, I strongly recommend against it.”

  I mean, it didn’t look like we were moving much faster than a run. And as we went around the first bend, I reflected that the hill that sloped away from us on the far side of the train from the station looked rather soft and loamy. And would not the body of the train hide me long enough for me to conceal myself from the platform by lying down along the slope? The conductor was one car ahead of me, so what was the chance he’d even notice? I got up as calmly as I could, tipped my hat to the lady across from me, went to the door, opened it, stepped out onto the platform between my car and the next, and threw myself off.

  I think I was airborne when the first truth revealed itself to me: I was rather a poor judge of speed. I remember looking down at the ground as it traversed beneath me and thinking, Wait now… Does it ever seem to be going by quite so fast when I’m running across it?

  No, I realized. No, it does not.

  The second truth I learned this day was as follows: there is an important difference between “soft to the touch” and “soft enough to throw your whole body onto at twenty miles per hour”. Though that welcoming, loamy bank surely fulfilled the first condition, it left something to be desired in the second. I hit the ground running.

  But not—and it turns out this was rather important—running at a full twenty miles per hour. My right ankle barely had time to twist terribly before my feet were out from under me and I plunged forward into the bank. I felt my body plough down through the wet grass into the soil below, then my feet came up over my head and I was airborne once more.

  From there, the situation was completely beyond my control. Feet into the grass. Face into the grass. Feet into the grass. Face into the grass. Slide to a halt. Roll unceremoniously to the base of the hill and groan for a few minutes. My right ankle burned with a hot, dull pain. And as I lay there, I began to realize something was wrong with my opposite shoulder, too. I couldn’t move it. And, when I turned to look at it, my chin bumped into the head of my humerus in a location I did not expect it to be. With shock, I realized it was dislocated. I recoiled in surprise—which may have been lucky, actually—for as I jerked my body, my shoulder slid back into place. I experienced a wall of blinding pain that left me unable to even scream, combined with the strange relief of having my body returned to its right shape. Only people who have ever been conscious for a relocation of a limb will know what I’m speaking of.

  So there I lay, slowly regathering my thoughts. After a while, I realized I had to move. Because what is worse than jumping off a train and getting hurt? Jumping off a train and getting hurt for no reason. My military experience had taught me well what rest does for injuries. It heals them. But first, it makes them intolerable. One does not stiffen up until one rests. Grunting and moaning, I rose to my feet and began dragging myself back towards the station. So slow was my progress, and so steep the slope I’d fallen down, that Holmes and company were gone by the time I staggered across the tracks to the platform.

  “Oh! You’re back!” the surprised stationmaster said, then made a bit of a face and added to himself, “That can’t be right…”

  “Never mind that,” I told him. “That house I can just see, through the forest behind the station. That’s where the skinny German lives?”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you know about him? Anything? Anything I might use to make my approach to him? Do you know his job? His interests?”

  The stationmaster thought about that. “I know how he makes his money. He sells some sort of health tonic to those… er… what’s that word… you know, for a crazy person, but they’ve got so much money it’s not right to call ’em crazy?”

  “Eccentric.”

  “That’s right! He sells health tonics to rich eccentrics.”

  “Thank you. I believe that will suffice,” I said, and stumbled off behind the station. I made it through the rose bushes without difficulty and began the laborious process of picking my way up the hill. My breathing was ragged and my head buzzing dully when I at last ma
de it to the top, around to the stately drive, and up the path to House Stark—or Becher—or whatever.

  There was a bell. I rang it.

  A few moments later I heard footsteps (rather light footsteps), the doorknob rattled, and the door swung open. Behind it stood an impossibly thin Scotsman with the most threadbare red mustache I think I have ever seen. Ferguson, no doubt. He looked utterly stunned to have a visitor. Then, after taking a moment to scan my person, he looked even more stunned than that.

  Right. I hadn’t stopped to think what the state of my appearance must be.

  Or how badly I wanted to lie down, have a little cry, and sleep for two days.

  Instead, I cleared my throat and said, “Hello. I am a wealthy eccentric who has recently had reason to worry for my health. I was told you might be able to help. For the correct result, money would be no object.”

  Ferguson broke into a hopeful smile. “Oh, yes. Please. Step inside, won’t you. I fear we were not prepared to receive visitors. Nevertheless, I believe the colonel may be able to see you. Would you care for tea while you wait?”

  “Yes, tea would be wonderful,” I told him.

  “I shall return with some,” he assured me. “And I shall inform Colonel Stark of your arrival. Just a moment, please.”

  By “a moment” he must have meant “look out, I walk a bit slower than most glaciers”. I’ll never forget how he stared with transparent dread at the flight of stairs he was going to have to climb. This gave me a needed boost of confidence. Had I just entered into the realm of three dangerous murderers alone, unarmed and badly hurt? Yes. Yet it is much easier walking into the lions’ den when you realize that all the lions present would be unable to rise again, should you choose to place a finger or two against their chest and push them over. I settled in to wait, content that, despite my wretched shape, my situation was not dire. I adjusted myself in my chair constantly. It was best not to allow myself to rest too much. Best not to allow my limbs to stiffen. I tested and retested my left shoulder, and waited.

  Presently, I became aware of a light scraping noise behind me. Turning, I beheld the second of my foes: Colonel Stark’s daughter, Magerzart. She stood just behind an ornate globe, looking at me with wide, hungry eyes. To say some patches of her long blonde hair were missing would be somewhat misleading. Better to say some patches were left. There was a quality of desperation in her stare. Clearly, the loss of yesterday’s meal had done her no good.

  “Ah! Good afternoon,” I said.

  Her parched lips parted and—just at the edge of hearing—a single word hissed forth.

  “Jooooooooose…”

  “Um… yes. Quite right. I am here to inquire after some of your father’s juice. His, ah, his health tonic. Yes.”

  “Joooooooooooooooooooooooose…”

  “Indeed.”

  This pleasant drawing-room banter was at last interrupted by Ferguson. The rattle of cups alerted me to his return. Or rather, the rattle of cup. The silver tray he carried bore one teapot, a creamer of milk, a dish of sugar cubes and a single cup. Judging from the trembling of his limbs, two cups would have been too heavy a load for him to bear.

  “Oh,” I said. “Will neither of you be joining me?”

  “I fear not. Everybody in this house strictly adheres to Colonel Stark’s miracle diet.” Ferguson’s eyes flicked over to Magerzart, who was staring in rapt fascination at the small pile of sugar cubes. “Strict adherence!” he added. She gave a sad little moan.

  “An admirable resolve,” I said. As Ferguson seemed to be exhausted, I leaned forward and begin fixing myself a cup of tea, with a splash of cream and—much to Magerzart’s chagrin, I think—two lumps of sugar. Just as I began to savor my first sip, a door opened at the top of the stairs and the man of the house appeared. Colonel Stark was every bit as thin as his fellows, yet his eyes were alight with a merciless energy—the spark of intelligence, bereft of pity. When he spoke it was with just a touch of accent, yet the care with which he both chose and pronounced his words showed that his was a mind accustomed to rigorous study.

  “Ah! My honored guest,” he said. “I do hope you will forgive the delay, but I was not in a condition to receive company, Mr. ah…?”

  “Doctor John Watson, at your service,” I told him. I had no prevarication ready, but did I need one?

  “Hmm… your name is familiar, I think,” said my host.

  “I’ve been in the papers of late. I recently sold a pearl of great value to the Russian czar.”

  “Ah, yes. That was it.”

  “As a doctor who spends his days helping his patients retain their health in the face of advancing age, I have been unable to help but notice: I never actually manage to succeed at it. I have long dreaded the decline in my own health. Yet I have heard, sir, that for those with sufficient funds, you might have an alternative. Is that correct?”

  “I do,” he said, with a little smile. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a simple glass bottle, its cork sealed with a splash of white wax. “Would you like to see?”

  “Very much.”

  He glided down the stairs towards me. I took another sip of tea, striving to seem as calm and unconcerned as I could. He cradled the bottle in both hands and presented it gently to me. I took it and turned it appraisingly about. After a few moments I said, “It seems as if the base is made of multiple liquids.”

  “Very astute. The primary base is pure rainwater. At the top you must have noticed the thin layer of corn oil we employ. This is used purely for its properties as a sealant. It stops air from touching the surface of the water and mingling with the precious cargo therein.”

  “Which seems to include a mint leaf and a twist of lemon?”

  “Merely as garnish,” he scoffed. “My companions and I do not partake of such frivolities, but for the distinguished palates of our patrons, we include them.”

  “I see. And what is this pulpy red mass, floating in the middle of the jar?”

  “The active ingredient,” said the colonel, with ill-concealed glee.

  “Which is…?” I prompted.

  “A trade secret.”

  “Yes, of course,” I demurred. I paused for another sip of tea—so warm and welcome—and then added, “Such a compelling appearance. As a doctor, I cannot help but reflect that it looks almost like pulverized connective tissue, holding an unidentifiable mash of flesh and… unless I miss my guess… half a tooth?”

  “Oh, you can spit that out,” he assured me. “The tooth is only a byproduct of our manufacturing process.”

  “And what benefish could I expect, from dringong this juice?”

  “Ah, but you misunderstand. The juice is not a single treatment; it is a process. Yes. You see, this is hardly a representative sample—too many solids, you know. You begin with fare such as this, and slowly advance to the pure juice.”

  “Joooooose…” Magerzart whispered reverently.

  “We are what sustains us,” Ferguson added.

  “Halbs,” I said, which was not the word I had intended. In fact, it was not a word at all, was it? I blinked, confused by my inability to express the thought I wanted. Or even to remember what that thought was. And why did my limbs feel so buzzy and distant?

  Colonel Stark reached over to retrieve his precious bottle before I had the chance to drop it. From the other side, Ferguson leaned in with a horrible, knowing smile to retrieve my tea.

  Oh god… my tea…

  “I think we are nearly ready to begin,” Stark opined. “Ferguson, why don’t you go see if the press is ready?”

  “Jooooooooooooose…” said Magerzart, as darkness claimed my sight.

  As if from the depths of a dream, I could hear Ferguson’s excited, “Juice! Juice! Juice!”

  “We are what sustains us,” Stark agreed.

  * * *

  I awoke sometime later with something cold, metallic, and discomfortingly serrated pressed against my cheek. What was it that had wakened me? The closing of a
door, wasn’t it? The harsh clicking of a lock. Beneath it all, I could hear the constant hiss of escaping steam. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I realized I was in a small chamber with featureless white metal walls. Beneath me was a floor of solid steel, corrugated with the familiar pyramids of a meat tenderizer. The ceiling above me was made of the same. From behind one of the walls, I heard Ferguson’s muffled tones.

  “He is still sleeping. Please, may we begin?”

  “No,” came Stark’s voice. “Fear makes The Juice sweeter. We must wait for him to waken.”

  “But I am so thirsty,” Ferguson complained. “It will be a poor batch, anyway. The ingredients have been drugged.”

  “Then we will all sleep deeply tonight!” Stark snapped. “Yet this does not change the fact that I intend to enjoy myself. Patience! We will wait for the sweetest juice!”

  With that, the full horror of my situation occurred to me and a wave of cold sobriety swept away the last effects of Ferguson’s tea.

  By God! What a fool I’d been! What a reckless fool! Was there any way to save myself? What could I do?

  In my panic, I nearly scrambled to my feet. But no! I stopped myself just in time. The one thing I must certainly not do was make any sort of noise. If Stark and Ferguson realized I was conscious, I knew they would activate their machine, and that ceiling would start to come down towards me. Struggling to master myself, I gazed around at my surroundings. The scant light came from a few cracks in the walls around me—that must be the where the doorways were. Yes, both sets of cracks defined rectangles and each featured a round gleam of light halfway up—a keyhole! There were no handles on the inside walls of the chamber—the falling ceiling would have sheared them off—but I had access to the keyholes. Then again, I had no key. If only I had a thin metal device I could insert into the lock! Might I perhaps succeed in picking it?

  But what had I? Nothing? Wait! My belt! I could use the central pin to… But no. Moving my hand as silently as I could to my waist, I realized I’d been stripped to nothing but my underclothes. This made sense, I supposed. Who wanted to drink herringbone-flavored juice, after all?