Carved into that wall was the image of a door. Though it was depicted in crude, somewhat vague lines, one could just make out a rocky landscape beyond, lit by a large and ominous pair of suns.
Garrideb Grub ran to the central depression in this strange arrangement and sat down in it. With visible relief, he drew several deep breaths as his fingers traced the lines on either side of him and all the strange words within his reach. By the practiced, yet unconscious expertise of his movements, I could tell this was a ritual long rehearsed.
“Okay. Right,” I noted to myself. “Not normal.”
I walked up in front of my host, knelt down, placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Mr. Grub, your case has captured my interest.”
“Hmmm?” he asked, barely willing to look up from his beloved sigils. “What case?”
“Oh… I mean… your rather unique circumstances. I want to know the next time Mr. Winter contacts you. Will you do that for me? Will you tell me?”
He made no answer.
“May I call on you, to inquire?”
But he was beyond my words. He was at that strange tipping point in the human psyche where relief turns into exhaustion. His voice became heavy and slow. “Eh? Inquire? I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but… such an hour, you know? I think I shall sleep here tonight. Yes. Just here.”
He patted his beloved runes, then got clumsily up. In one corner of the room, partly obscured behind a few racks of curios, stood an old bed with a cheaply made metal frame. It bore a thin mattress, a single threadbare blanket and a pillow that looked as if any benefit to human comfort it had ever possessed must have been exhausted at least a decade before. Garrideb Grub began feebly tugging at the bed in an attempt to move it towards the center of the room. It budged only a few inches. Grudgingly—wondering if it was wise—I went and helped him pull it over his beloved sigils. This accomplished, he fell down into it with a satisfied sigh.
As I tucked his blanket down around him, a strange feeling began to overtake me. Jealousy. Here I was, getting Garrideb Grub into his right place, but that meant I was away from mine. A horrible, gnawing emptiness began to grow in me. I needed to be with Mary. I needed to rush home and tell her to kick all of her friends out and just come upstairs and hold me. I knew she would do it, too, for the curse seemed always to affect us equally. Oh, I was sure she would properly castigate me for intruding on the evening’s festivities, but what did I care for that? I would endure it. I would endure anything. I had to.
The spell pulled so heavily that night I was staggering when I left Grub’s room. My hand shook as I raised it. My voice cracked as I shouted for a cab.
* * *
I worried about Garrideb Grub all the next day. I had a very busy caseload, but my mind kept returning to him. Most reasonable men, I realized, would simply dismiss him as an old quack. Anyone who did investigate would assume some kind of confidence scheme—the unsubstantiated story of riches somehow being promised by joining three men of the same rare name smacked of fraud. But that is not what I thought. Perhaps my time with Holmes had transformed my worldview more acutely than I’d realized.
Because, for the life of me, I was certain James Winter was going to feed Garridebs Grub, Treat and Chow to a demon named the True Garrideb.
Certain.
I did not call on Mr. Grub that day, but I went to bed thinking of him and hoping nothing untoward had happened in my moment of indecision.
The next day, I resolved to check in on him. I fabricated an excuse: I’d decided to purchase an Imperial Roman denarius and needed an expert’s guidance. This, however, proved unnecessary. The very moment I arrived home for lunch, Joachim told me, “Thir rethieved a methage earlier.”
“All right,” I said, my hand on my brow, “we need to do something about that accent. Please tell me it is an easily dropped affectation.”
“I’m afraid not, thir.”
“Damn. Well, what was the message, anyway?”
“Winter ith coming.”
“What? But that makes no… Oh! Give me back that coat, please. Tell Mary I shan’t be joining her for lunch. If any of my patients ask, say I have been called away on an emergency.”
“It didn’t theem tho,” Joaquim mused. “That old gentleman ith having a medical emergenthy?”
“If I’m not careful—yes.”
* * *
One cab ride later, I was in Little Ryder Street, hurrying into the shabby building Garrideb Grub called home. Being as the hour was not so late this time and the building—as I said—rather bohemian, the outside door was not locked or even properly closed. I let myself in and walked down the hall to the little stair that led to Grub’s cellar. With the head of my cane, I rapped upon his door and called, “Mr. Grub? Are you in, sir?”
From within, I heard him start in surprise, then his eager voice came to my ears. “Mr. Winter? Mr. Winter, is it you?”
“No, it’s John Watson. We met the other day.”
“Oh, yes of course. How silly. Yes, I spoke to your butler…” Shortly, there came the shuffling, rattling noises of Garrideb Grub trying to figure out his door latch. Finally, the door opened to reveal the old fellow clutching a wrinkled letter. “Look what I’ve got! Word from France! Mr. Winter has collected the other two Garridebs and shall be arriving here tomorrow!”
“But then wouldn’t you have known it was not him knocking on your door just now?” I asked.
Mr. Grub waved away the question. “Oh, I got excited, is all. Just think: tomorrow! Tomorrow!”
“Yes, I might try not to get too thrilled about it,” I muttered.
He was hardly listening. Indeed, I think he only came to tell me of the news because he needed somebody to crow to. By the state of the paper it looked as if he had not let go of the telegram since the moment he’d received it. Rapturously, he declared, “I shall go tomorrow afternoon, at four, to the Southampton docks to receive them. And by evening we shall all be met, right here! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Indeed, but I wonder, Mr. Grub, might I be allowed to meet Mr. Winter and the other Garridebs? And, um… before you bring them to these rather worrisome sigils?”
Grub instantly recoiled. “Why, Mr. Watson! No! I mean… I do not wish to be rude, of course, but this is a private matter. A long-awaited turn of fortune. No, no. This is my purpose, sir! It always has been! Tomorrow I shall know my destiny; I can feel it!”
Though I wheedled and cajoled, Mr. Grub would not be swayed. Still, I became evermore certain that ill deeds were afoot and that it would be unconscionable of me to leave matters to their course. But how could I effect to intrude myself? As I turned to leave, an opportunity presented. There, on the pedestal near the door, sat Mr. Grub’s oft-forgotten keys. As I left, I casually swept them into my pocket.
It was one of two guilts that gnawed upon my conscience as I walked towards home. The other was this: I knew Holmes would not approve of me involving myself in such matters. But come! The man was not my keeper! I was an adult, was I not? Bound and responsible to plot my own course through life.
Still…
He was going to be mad when he found out.
If he found out.
Perhaps he would only know because word might reach his ears in some future day that his old chum Watson had gone and done something inadvisable and gotten himself eaten by a demon.
Was there any danger of that? I had my pistol, which might be of use against human antagonists, or poor demonic ones, such as Bannister or Staples. But what might I be facing?
My hope was to stop things before any demons became involved, yet I had to admit, my expertise in such areas was slight.
Ought I to tell Holmes? Was it simply weakness to think so? Or was it foolhardy to go into danger, ignoring my mightiest ally? I dithered. I wondered. I wandered. Finally, I stepped into the local telegraph office and sent a quick note.
Holmes
Have become convinced that Mr. Garrideb Grub of 136 Little Ryder St W. is going to be fed to
a demon tomorrow night. Will be sneaking into his home around 5pm. Come if you wish.
—Watson
* * *
At 5:12 the next evening, with my patients all attended to and my revolver in my pocket, I slid the larger of Mr. Grub’s two keys into the street door of 136 and slipped inside. As I walked the hall, I fired nervous glances at every stair and corridor I passed. I knew Mr. Grub could not have made it back so soon, but was Holmes nearby? Was the landlady? If I should encounter her, would she recognize me? At last I reached Garrideb’s rooms, inserted his other key, swept open his door and stepped inside.
Or I would have, if the doorway hadn’t been filled with Angry Holmes, his arms crossed over his chest, staring down vengefully at me.
“Watson! What on earth are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are, I suspect,” I spluttered, “breaking and entering. So perhaps we could keep our voices down? Or have this discussion inside?”
He grabbed me by the front of my jacket, pulled me in, and slammed the door behind me.
“You know what I mean, John! By the Twelve Gods, after all the trouble I’ve taken to keep you safe… and the very moment I look in on you, what do I find? You’ve been scouring London for every piece of magical mischief you can possibly get yourself into!”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Ha! These occurrences are rare, John! Very rare! It is beyond the scope of probability that you should find yourself entangled in so many such events, merely by chance.”
“But I have.”
“You just happened to stumble into ‘The Adventure of the Man with the Twisted… Everything’?”
“Yes! If you recall, Holmes, I was there to help Isa Whitney. I was quite surprised to find you there.”
“Oh… yes… but that man with his thumb off…”
“Came to me as a doctor, Holmes, because his thumb was off. I did not seek him out.”
“All right, but in the case of Culverton Smith—”
“You summoned me and tried to fool me. You did that.”
“Oh… right. But do you expect me to believe that you just happened to bump into a human sacrifice, wandering the streets of London?”
“No. He came to one of Mary’s parties and I could not help but realize something was wrong. Look here, I haven’t done anything dangerous yet, Holmes. And I made sure to inform you before I did. Though, I must say, you’re making me rather regret that decision.”
Consternation crossed his brow. For a moment it looked as if he could not decide whether to be angry, worried or confused. Finally, he asked, “Well then, why do you continue to come across these things? Remember how many magical events you encountered before you met me? None, probably, which is the average number for most fellows. Why so many now?”
To be honest, I hadn’t thought of that. Why, indeed? I let the question roll about my mind, in search of an answer. At last, I mused, “I don’t know, Holmes. Although… remember, long ago, you told me of the brimstone thread? How your life ran right along with it, and how you were therefore likely to encounter strangeness and mysticism? Perhaps in my time with you, my own life became closer to that thread, too.”
Holmes recoiled as if I’d struck him. “But… no, no, no! What do we do, Watson? How do we save you? Egads, what if simply living with me has doomed you beyond all repair?”
“Don’t worry about it, Holmes.”
“Don’t worry? How can you say that, John? Are you hearing yourself? Just look at that portal!” He thrust one finger towards the doorway, drawn upon the far wall.
“I know. It’s rather disconcert—Oh! Look! It’s changed! Holmes, it wasn’t like that before!”
Its basic shape was the same. And yet, somehow, it was more evident, more real, than it had been. The twin suns visible in the realm beyond had more warmth in the lines of their carving. A soft light radiated from them—one in purple, one in orange. The alien landscape seemed to have more depth to it. And if one stared too long, one began to get an idea of the wind that must have swept it—a xenogenic miasma of toxic gases in which nothing mortal might endure. I marveled a moment, then wondered aloud, “Why is it like that?”
Holmes rolled his eyes. “Because something bad is about to come through it, Watson. Something powerful. And something smart. I can feel the strength that’s been pushing from the other side—pushing to make that door real. And not recklessly. Not battering its way through. Whatever is coming has been exerting impossible pressure against that doorway for years. It is patient. It is calculating.”
“What is it?” I asked.
Holmes shook his head. “Something capable of causing the death of thousands, I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway, something capable of chewing through you and your little pistol pretty quick, and here you are, traipsing in to face it alone. Well done, by the way.”
I gave an uncomfortable little shift and mumbled, “I… er… I thought, if I could stop the summoning ritual…”
“No, you aren’t listening, John. Maybe there will be a ritual to feed it once it gets here—to keep it strong, or to keep that portal open—but there is no need to call it. It is coming. Nothing will prevent that.”
“What should we do?”
Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. “We? Nothing. I shall face it. You shall go home, where you belong.”
“Oh, come on, Holmes!”
“No. Nothing shall dissuade me!”
This latest prognostication proved to be false, as at that moment the doorknob rattled. In an instant, every vestige of the masterful commander was gone from Holmes’s features, replaced by the panic of a misbehaving schoolboy. “Agh! Quick! Hide!” he hissed. He disappeared behind one of Garrideb Grub’s larger curio cabinets.
I ran to join him, but had taken only two steps before I realized I had another deed I must accomplish first. I turned back to the very door that must momentarily open to reveal Winter and the three Garridebs. Drawing Mr. Grub’s keys from my pocket, I slipped them onto the pedestal, then hastened back to Holmes’s side. I threw my back up against the curio, reached into my pocket and withdrew my Webley-Pryse.
From beyond the door, I could just hear the tones of the housekeeper, who sounded fairly displeased to be called to this task for the second time in only three days. Finally, the door gave way and I could hear her saying, “—erfectly ridiculous! They shall be on the pedestal, where they always are!”
“But no,” came Mr. Grub’s voice. “I tell you, they were missing!”
Yet his protestations were cut short by his landlady’s triumphant “Ha! Ha! Look! Just there!”
No doubt she had just beheld my latest handiwork: Mr. Grub’s keys, returned to their right place. Grub spluttered his disbelief. “How is this possible?”
“It hardly seems to matter,” said a calm, commanding voice. His accent was American, yet I found he chose his words more like an Englishman. “We are in. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Swann.”
I could practically feel the landlady’s suspicious glare burning its way through the curio behind me. “Just who did you say you gentlemen were, again?” she demanded.
“Not that it’s any particular business of yours, but we are friends of Mr. Grub,” said the American.
“Mr. Grub ain’t got no friends!”
“And yet, here we stand. It would seem you have underestimated your lodger. Now good day, Mrs. Swann.”
As soon as the door closed, the three Garridebs broke into excited titters. At first, I thought this was in salute for Mr. Winter’s handling of Mrs. Swann—and perhaps some of it was—but the majority rose from another source.
“Oh, oh, look! It’s marvelous!” said a strangely accented voice—tinged with both French and Chinese influence. “This is it! This is where I’m meant to be!”
I could hear Grub, Chow, Treat and Winter spreading out into the room. It sounded as if the three Garridebs were each hovering near one of the bowl-like depressions in the floor and one man—who must have been Winter—w
as standing by the hewn wall, near the carved portal door. Holmes looked over at me with panic in his eyes. I think his main concern was that there were now several men spread out between us and the only exit. I still find it funny when I reflect how impossibly powerful Holmes was and yet how often his natural inclination was to run, hide, or escape.
Silently, he mouthed, “What do we do?”
I gave a smug little grin, stepped out from behind the curio, leveled my revolver, and said, “James Winter? I’m afraid I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.”
It was perfect. I was behind him. I had the drop on him. He was unawares, unprepared, and had a pistol pointed at his back. And what was the outcome?
The little bastard shot me!
By God, he was quick. Hardly had the first word left my lips than he was spinning towards me. As his right arm shot forward, from within the sleeve of his coat a glint of silver metal sprang forward also—a derringer! A tongue of flame leapt forth from Winter’s pistol, the air filled with the smell of burning powder, and I felt that familiar, searing heat of a bullet tearing into my flesh.
“Agh! I’m shot!”
“Watson! No!” Warlock cried, springing from behind the curio, right for James Winter. The look in his eye was that of a man unhinged. And if there was any doubt as to the depth of his concern, the next instant removed it.
Warlock completely lost control.
Never had I seen Holmes’s demonic alterations come all at once. Green fires lit his eyes. Dark, curling horns exploded forth from his brow with such violence that they coated the room before him in a spray of blood, the drops of which sizzled and smoked where they fell. Holmes’s charge came in irregular jerks, for no sooner had he begun it than the bones of his legs began to elongate and shift, yanking themselves into that goat-like shape I’d first seen at Baskerville Hall. The black blade, Melfrizoth, appeared unbidden in his left hand, burning with demonic fire. This, no doubt, caused his right hand to feel that left hands got to have all the fun in situations like this and that—upon further reflection—it had decided to be a left hand, too. The bones began to shift about with enthusiastic autonomy beneath his skin, until all his fingers bent the wrong way. This accomplished, Holmes leveled his new left hand at James Winter’s chest, gave a roar much more demon-ish than human-ish, and snapped his fingers shut. In the wrong direction, over what had been the back of his hand just moments before. The image was—shall we say—unsettling. But if this was not enough to turn one’s stomach, the effect it had on Winter must have been. Every bone in his body contorted and deformed. His arms and legs wrenched themselves into impossible new shapes. His spine twisted. His jaw yanked itself down and to the right, as if it were trying to leap straight off his face. His ribs curled and elongated, spearing out through the skin of his torso at all angles. I was sure a number of them must have pierced his lungs and heart on the way. I think he tried to scream, yet he never got the chance. Holmes’s true left hand shot forward, driving Melfrizoth through James Winter’s open mouth, out the back of his skull, and deep into the stone of the wall behind him, pinning him in place beside the demonic portal. The blade’s green hellfire flickered and cracked eagerly, licking up either side of Winter’s face to scorch away his flesh.
The Finality Problem Page 21
