Sherlock Holmes: Work Capitol (Fight Card Sherlock Holmes Book 1)

by Jack Tunney

  "You mean to tell you can identify former knots from the creases in a straightened rope?"

  "They are as plain as day. Quite elementary."

  "Holmes, you astound me."

  He ignored my comment and proceeded with his investigation. The noise from across the way waxed and waned. With so many people moving freely about the pub and courtyard, the risk of discovery was great and I made this clear to Holmes, which made him pause.

  "Everything we need is right here." Holmes spread his arms to encompass the ring. "My examination is of paramount importance."

  Head down, he threw his gaze about, an incessant murmuring issued past his lips. "They would have begun at the far wall," said he to himself. One hand gestured off to the side. "Cart here. Working toward the point between the crates. Yes, that makes the most sense."

  He sprang toward the darkened corner furthest from the spectator area. Upon reaching it, he hurriedly dropped to his knees and began tugging at the last board – or the first, if one followed his reasoning.

  "You were quite right in your assessment of the risk we are undertaking in remaining here," said he between yanks at the board nailed fast to its mates. "Perhaps you might wish to assist me, so the work will go more quickly?"

  I stepped into the ring careful to avoid the blood spattered about. I went to one knee at my friend's side and, together, we got the board loose. The screech of protest from the nails froze our blood, and we glanced back towards the door to the courtyard, wincing. The cadence of the revelry had not changed.

  Holmes turned the board in his hands, angling it toward the penumbra of dim candle light. "Not this one."

  He set it aside and we hastily loosened another. His inspection yielded the same disappointing result and the procedure was repeated again with a similar result. The fourth board was the charm.

  "Behold, Watson," said Holmes, thrusting the board at me. "The mark of the sawmill that constructed the ring floor."

  There it was in blue ink stamped upon the underside of the plank amidst dried earth and a touch of rot. Imperial Sawmill, Wenlock Road.

  Holmes spoke as he hastily replaced the boards. "I reasoned the workmen would start at the farthest point and work from there toward the entrance, so as not to tread needlessly on the fresh wood they had laid. A wagon of wood boards from a lumber mill must always beat the mark of the firm stamped upon one or more of the top planks for easy identification."

  "We know who laid the floor. What of it?"

  "You disappoint me. I'll put it down to your emotional state due to the demise of Fred Mathews."

  "In that case, I am happy to disappoint."

  "Come! Don't be cross. Mark down the name and address of the firm in your notebook then please join me in the corner where Mathews fell."

  I did so and came to stand by my friend at the deadly spot. Holmes was bent at the waist studying the angle made by the turn of the ropes at the ring post. The turn of the angle had been vulcanized to strengthen it. The bottom string held his attention for only a moment.

  "Too low," said he. His gaze slid to the upper strand. "Yes! As I suspected. There could be no other explanation."

  I saw nothing out of the ordinary. The rubber had thinned over time and the tacks holding it in place poked through here and there. "What have you found, Holmes?"

  Holmes swiped at the corner with his handkerchief, folded it neatly and returned it to his pocket. "The answer. But we've been absent long enough to arouse suspicion. We must get out of here. As I took pains to plant the seed of pending extortion in Tanner's mind regarding the counterfeit notes we appropriated from his coat pocket. He will hear our demands, then endeavour to retrieve the notes or ensure are silence. There is danger here."

  "Counterfeit?"

  "Later, Watson. Back to Baker Street."

  I could not stand to be put off any longer and, against my better judgment, tried to restrain Holmes to demand an explanation. It was foolish under the circumstances, but it was no small thing to watch a defenseless man get beaten to death. Holmes eluded my grasp and sprang from the ring.

  SEVENTH SCRATCH

  I was at his heels when he reached the door. Stepping lightly, we exited into the frigid night. The door to the Bald-faced Stag was unattended. Loud shouts and laughter were clear to us as shadows moved across the closed blinds. We were no doubt missed by now, and I knew as well as Holmes did that Tanner wanted us under his control. Holmes paused a moment to consider our next move.

  In the end the decision was made for us. The pub door flew open and framed in the doorway stood three of Tanner's men. Whether they had been sent by the barman or had stepped out merely for a breath of fresh air, it made little difference. The one on the right gave a warning cry that lifted momentarily over the noise of revelry.

  "That's done it," said Holmes, and we made for the waiting carriages like gazelles seeking the high grass.

  The scrape of boots behind us confirmed the intentions of Tanner's men, and I shall never forget the cold click of a revolver's hammer being pulled behind us as the sound carried across the wintry night. My revolver was in my hand. The use of it was not immediately possible.

  Coaches and carriages of varying sizes were gathered out of the wind awaiting the moment they would convey Tanner's visitors away. A hansom, the speediest of the lot, lay dead ahead. Holmes bounded up into it. I paused on the iron step to level my revolver at the driver.

  "Get this thing moving or you are a dead man."

  The driver hesitated and I caught indecision in his wide eyes. Then a shot from the rapidly gaining trio tore a chunk of wood an inch from where he sat upon the sprung seat making up his mind. With a snap of the reins, we were off and I almost tumbled free as the cab slid in the snow and ice in a tight turn. I fell up against Holmes and the wooden doors banged against our legs.

  Like a miniature locomotive, the wheels slipped and caught then slipped again. The shot had panicked the horse and it was desperate for flight which meant for some jostling. Shortly, animal and machine worked in conjunction and the pub began to recede as we started south down Mornington Road. A quick look through the window of the cab showed Tanner, arms gesticulating jerkily, barking instruction to his men, who dashed for a carriage house. The cab swept gingerly around an icy corner and we had a moment's reprieve.

  "They'll be coming," I told Holmes.

  He accepted the news by grimly jamming his fountain pen into the door jamb to lock open the door on his side. I did likewise and hoped the panels would stop any fire directed at us. Our progress was painfully slow as the snow piled high on the roadway had a veritable spider's web of furrows cut deep into it by the endless passage of traffic. The cab wheels continuously tumbled into and followed these interfering channels, jerking us first one way then another.

  "Whot the bleedin' 'ell 'ave you lot dragged me into?" demanded the driver, icicles hanging from his walrus mustache.

  Holmes turned and spoke through the hatch at the rear of the roof. "As it falls to you to get us out of it and save all our lives, perhaps your attention is better suited there at present."

  This brought an oath from the driver ending the conversation. Our speed increased. The winter wind cleaved through our clothes. It made our eyes water and roared in our ears. My fingers were numb around the handgrip of my pistol.

  Instantly, the sound of ten thousand hummingbirds reached our ears. I turned my gaze to Holmes whose look of confusion matched how I felt. Then his eyes widened knowingly.

  "Stand ready, Watson!"

  I thrust my head out to look back and was dumbfounded by what I saw.

  A horseless carriage slithered towards us across the mashed snow. In place of the thunder of horses was the ever-growing hum. I had never seen such a contraption in my life. Had some portion of my brain not recognized Tanner's men aboard the machine, I would have leaned out until one of their pistols put a bullet through my head. Instead I hastily withdrew as the first shot rang out.

  Holmes calmly
opened the hatch again to speak to the driver. "Do get down, my good man. It's unlikely they will hit anything at that distance upon this abysmal roadway – still caution should be observed. If we're to outrun the future we'll need more speed, if she'll stand it."

  He banged the hatch shut and turned to me. "Ellwell-Parker electric motor carriage. If we cannot elude them, our play is to drain the power cells which are of small capacity. That is if we can maintain our distance."

  I took an instant to hazard a peek around the cab wall. Tanner's machine had closed the gap.

  Another shot and the driver yelped. However this was from fear not injury. The nimble hansom with its low center of gravity and compact design was made to navigate the miniscule channels amidst the morass of London traffic. Because of this, maneuverability was on our side as the four-wheeled electric carriage possessed a wider body in line with a road coach.

  Our superiority in this regard was demonstrated when the hansom arced around the corner onto Crest Street like a skater executing a turn. Tanner's machine skidded up over the curb and toppled a letterbox much to the shock of a caroling trio paused to entertain pedestrians. I surmised our driver hoped to reach the wide avenue of Hampstead Road where the traffic would have room to spread out.

  The reprieve was short-lived as the driver of the electric vehicle knew what he was about. He got his monstrous thing righted and racing toward us once more. Hampstead Road was to our advantage – if we could reach it.

  When we did, it was at once evident the wide road would enable our cab to dart about. For that advantage, we had to resign ourselves to the knowledge the stretch was straight as an arrow and the ceaseless traffic had tamped down the snow.

  The straightaway allowed the motor carriage to close the gap smartl,y even though our driver had the cab performing like a honey bee flitting into every opening between wagons, omnibuses, growlers and coaches.

  A shot tore through the grey upholstery over my right shoulder and I knew it was essential to return fire.

  Bending low to use the spinning wheel as cover, I stuck my head out and leveled my pistol. A gust of wind snatched my bowler as I fired. I heard the bullet strike a fender of the electric carriage. Shouts of surprise followed and were most welcome to my ears.

  A barrage of fire was directed at us and I was forced to withdraw.

  "Three men, including the driver" said I to Holmes. "One armed, as far as I can tell."

  Holmes opened the hatch and kept it open. "Close them off on the left," said he to the driver. "Make them come on the right."

  Holmes hoped to direct them within my range of fire. The cab lurched to the left around a growler and a cloud of powdered snow billowed out behind us.

  When it had cleared, I saw the motor carriage rolling up gingerly on my side. The seats were higher placed than ours, level with our driver's. One man at the vertical steering column, the others held on as best they could as they squinted into the freezing wind.

  The gunman sat at the back. His was a rear-facing seat and he squatted upon the cushions, clutching a handrail to steady himself. Their speed perilous, they drew abreast, but the shooter wasted an instant in shifting to account for the angle.

  Not hampered in any way, I fired at him point blank. The first shot clipped his shoulder, the next, a heartbeat later, bore into his throat and his head snapped back. His body fell from view until I saw it tumble into a mound of snow behind us.

  The motor carriage withdrew. Hampstead became Tottenham Court Road. Then the much narrower Crown Street loomed with its threat of confinement. However, there was a police station somewhere along the road.

  Their next approach displayed singular cunning. We heard the hum increase in volume and this signaled the charge. Holmes and I leaned out as much as we dared. I could not see our pursuers and Holmes confirmed they were invisible to him as well.

  A thump behind us rocked the cab. This was followed by a shriek from the driver.

  "They've mounted at the rear," said Holmes.

  The bold move was inspired. As the driver had his attention fixed on keeping the cab on the road, he was defenseless as a result and therefore easy prey.

  A spray of arterial blood rained down through the open hatch, and the driver's gloved hand appeared in the opening as though entreating our aid. There was nothing we could do for the poor soul, whose throat had been slit.

  We flung our gaze about, ready for attack from any angle. If the man got hold of the reins, he could stop the cab or crash us. Neither alternative was appealing. The doors at our feet jerked. The man was working the lever on the roof in an attempt to lock us in so he could finish us off. Our pens in the jambs prevented this move. I put a bullet through the roof to discourage a second attempt.

  The murderer swung down onto the runner, a dripping cane dagger in his hand. He landed on Holmes's side and, gripping the handrail in one fist, swung the blade at Holmes with the other.

  Holmes checked the swing with his right forearm, then pummeled the man with three stout jabs. The blows flattened the assailant’s pointy nose, loosened his large teeth, and made his jaundiced eyes turn up his head. By twisting the man’s knife hand inward, Holmes had the weapon in an instant and brought it down on the fingers gripping the rail. The digits flew like diced carrots and the man howled as he fell from the cab.

  With the cabman dead and the terrified horse blundering about in a panic, the cab floundered amidst the slow moving traffic. All of this did not leave us much in the way of options.

  Holmes seized the hand rail, making to clamber up to the driver's seat. As he did, my eyes traced the trail of the loose reins, which hung down on my side. If I could but grasp them, we'd regain control of the horse. However, I was too late. With the sound of a whip crack, the loose, flapping reins suddenly tautened when they became ensnared in a wheel.

  I heard the neck of the horse snap as its head was yanked violently to the right and the animal collapsed, dead. The body of the cab collided with the prone beast and launched upward. Holmes and I were catapulted head first from the cab to tumble out on the roadway of white.

  We hit with sufficient force to render both of us senseless, and we knew no more.

  EIGHT SCRATCH

  I awoke with a start and the immediate familiarity of my surroundings only added to my disorientation. I was in a hospital bed. The reason for this lay beyond my mental grasp. I gazed about the room from the web of white pipes overhead to the metal bar of the privacy curtain and the rough linen turned the color of old bone by the weak sunlight through the frosted window.

  Daylight...

  Memory returned with the instancy of a thunderclap.

  The moonlit chase. The accident. Holmes!

  I sprang from the bed, the floor cold as a skating rink against my bare feet. Snatching up an empty chamber pot, I flung it out into the hall where it shattered against the wall most satisfactorily. The noise would bring them running.

  My shoulder protested the throw, and I vaguely recalled landing heavily upon it when the carriage had gone over. Where was Holmes?

  A wad of clothing landed at the foot of my bed. I recognized the items as being the garments I'd worn the previous night. Sherlock Holmes stood framed in the doorway.

  "A most ingenious way of summoning the nurse," said he. "I must remember it should circumstance such as these repeat themselves."

  I dashed forward and shook his hand. "You are well then? That was quite a tumble."

  "Such is fit punishment for our prideful attempt to push our luck with Tanner."

  Holmes made as if to enter and I stepped to one side to allow him to do so. He was dressed, his attire as much the worse for wear as mine. His cane had been lost and he used a simple stick to help take his weight on the right side. The professional gaze I cast over him did not escape notice.

  "Twisted knee," he explained. "Ankle like a plum pudding."

  "Broken bones?"

  "None. How is your shoulder faring?"

  "How?"
<
br />   Holmes held up a restraining hand. "No wonders of deduction here. I am not up to it at present. Our files are at the nurse's station. She has set her cap on one of the orderlies and this takes her away from her station for considerable periods. Reading, for me, is not too taxing at present – if you must know how I divined your injury."

  "I see. To answer your question, it pains me, and that side of my neck seems strung with iron cables in place of muscle. Otherwise, I am well."

  "Good. Pray, dress yourself and let us away from this dreary place before we are force-fed Bromangelon dessert jelly."

  We were discovered by the staff as I completed my hasty habiliment. I could sympathize with their protestations, as I had some experience with patients acting to their own detriment in not following instructions.

  Over the heated discourse which ensued, concerning, for the most part, my disruption of the peace, we learned it was nearly one in the afternoon. We had lost half a day. The staff at Charing Cross – for that was where we had been taken – had no choice in the end, but to yield to our desire to be released. The appropriate documents were put before us for our signatures and then we were free to go.

  "Our condition when we were admitted has placed us behind the game," said Holmes after extracting ourselves from the staff. "Tanner's men might be about lurking outside to finish the task begun last night. It would be prudent to cut through the waiting room downstairs and out the poor door."

  The cumulative debilitation of my minor aches and pains left me disinclined to confrontation and I readily accepted this idea.

  The waiting room was cavernous and chockablock with men, women and children suffering from every affliction known to medical science. A bloody jaw wrapped in a towel here, a wracking cough there. In one corner squatted a young boy with an iron frame upon one leg.