Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus

by P. C. Martin

  I looked at my friend askance as we limped painfully down the stairs, and I could only shake my head grimly in wonder.

  * * *

  My cab decanted me not an hour later before our apartments in Baker Street, and I mounted the steps slowly and painfully. I was surprised to see Holmes sitting comfortably by the fire, looking very much recovered from our recent adventures, though the shadows cast on his face by the firelight displayed a mottled disarray of unusual colors, and I noticed that a handkerchief had been clumsily wrapped about one hand in lieu of a proper bandage. Clad in his mouse-colored dressing gown and slippers, with his pipe at its usual angle between his lips, and a small pile of fly-leafs and newspaper cuttings in his lap, he looked the picture of casual comfort and relaxation. He glanced up as I entered, and chuckled at my woebegone appearance.

  “My dear Watson,” said he, “there is much to be said for a wind-sweeping drive after heavy physical exertion; I feel positively renewed after my short journey, while you stagger in as though you had not slept in days. Your face is an unwholesome shade, man; may I recommend a stout nightcap? Dear me, we must get that arm of yours looked at; if you leave it on the coffee table I shall try to repair it later. You may need it tomorrow.”

  I obediently poured myself a tumbler of whiskey, and sank into my chair opposite Holmes, while he facetiously proposed that fate must be utterly opposed to the idea that I should possess a right arm, for all its attempts to deprive me of that useful member. I declined to appreciate the humor of the thought, however, and when Holmes' chuckles died down, I gave myself up to mentally cataloging my injuries. Presently, however, I roused myself sufficiently to take notice of my friend's doings. He had risen to fetch his Persian slipper, bulging with tobacco, and a great bundle of newspapers, and had nestled once again in his chair, propping his feet up on the edge of the grate. Blue swirls issuing from his favorite pipe encompassed his thin, ascetic face, and disappeared into the shadowy corners of the ceiling beyond the firelight.

  “Holmes!” cried I with a reproving frown. “You are not going to stay up all night, are you?”

  “It is necessary, Watson,” came the laconic reply. “The case, as you are well aware, hinges on time. If we are sluggish in our attempts to recover the lost technical cards, chances are they shall pass forever out of our reach. We must act quickly, but what must our actions be? I have not stopped for a moment's quiet reflection all day, and once or twice in times past when dealing with timely matters, I have found that a silent night's vigil over an ounce or two of shag can do wonders for the reasoning faculties. I strongly advise you, however, to take to your bed as soon as I have shown you the results of our evening's foray. See what my sister has extracted from among Mr. von Oberon's affairs.”

  Holmes handed me a few of the papers I had observed him perusing when I had entered.

  “Cuttings,” said I, looking the leaves over.

  “From the agony column in the Daily Telegraph,” continued Holmes, coming forward to stand beside my armchair. “They are a sequence of correspondence between two individuals called 'Pierrot' and 'Sieg'. My guess is that these are the assumed names of von Oberon and his accomplice. They order themselves.”

  I read several aloud.

  “'Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Acquisition within fortnight. —Sieg.'

  “'Matter presses. Discovery imminent. No more letters at present address. Will confirm by advertisement. —Pierrot.'

  “'Stinking Wharf, care of same steward for PN. —Pierrot.'

  “'Confirm Monday night after nine, residence. Goods in possession by then. Two taps. Leave at once. —Sieg.'”

  “A cryptic record, to be sure,” said I.

  “Indeed,” replied Holmes, taking up the papers and receding into the comfortable depths of his armchair. “And yet I feel that there is, at the heart of this broth of mysteries, a very simple solution. We have, I believe, most of the threads in our possession. If, by careful tracing and inspection of these threads, we fail to reach the truth, it shall be entirely our fault. And now Watson, off with that derelict arm of yours, and then I shall say to you, good-night.”

  Chapter Four

  I awoke early the next morning to the sound of a low explosion somewhere very nearby, followed by a dreadful trembling of the walls about me, and the distant tinkling of glasses and crockery. Instantly recalled to my senses by this unheralded blast, reminiscent of my days on the battlefields of Afghanistan, I leaped precipitately from my bed, disregarding the stiff soreness of my battered body, and hastened to discover the source of the explosion.

  I reeled upon entering our sitting-room. An acrid smell distinctly familiar to my military nose mingled with the dense clouds of tobacco smoke; my stinging eyes searched the fog for any sign of Holmes, for I greatly feared that, in the course of some ghastly chemical experiment, which it was his frequent habit to perform during his leisure moments, he had at last blown himself to bits.

  A heady chuckle met my ears, and I located Holmes at last, crouched not far from the shuttered window, apparently inspecting with enormous amusement a great gaping hole in the wall, blackened all about the edges, through which could be faintly seen the gray sky beyond.

  “Holmes!” I shouted furiously. “What on earth is going on? What is the meaning of this outrageous mess?”

  Holmes held aloft my mechanical arm in a triumphant gesture, but a loud knock pounded outside our door just as he seemed poised to launch into speech. All expression vanished from his countenance and, hastily pushing a chair against the drafty gap in our wall in an attempt to conceal its presence, he went to the door and opened it.

  “Why, good morning, Mrs. Hudson. I trust you had a pleasant night? Excellent! Pray, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Holmes,” said our housekeeper in an agitated voice, her face contorted into a grimace, doubtless at the fouled atmosphere which escaped the open door of our sitting-room, “did you hear that dreadful explosion?”

  “I believe I did hear a noise of some sort a few minutes ago,” replied Holmes, vaguely. “I imagined that your furnace below had done itself a mischief.”

  “Nothing of the kind, Mr Holmes! I thought the noise came from this apartment. And what is that dreadful smell?”

  Holmes turned his head and looked reprovingly at me. “Your senses are uncommonly sharp, Mrs Hudson. Perhaps my friend Watson and I do smoke a little too much. When will breakfast be ready?”

  “As soon as you desire, Mr Holmes,” said our landlady, consternation still apparent in her tone.

  “Good, good. Watson and I shall want breakfast immediately. I wish you the finest of days, Mrs Hudson.”

  “Holmes!” exclaimed I when he had shut the door. “What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, merely testing a new gadget I installed into the crook of your mechanical arm. The internal cannon was unfortunately destroyed during our fun yesterday, and so rather than attempt to restore it by lengthy pains to its former state, I opted instead to pitch it altogether, and installed in its place that beautiful little rocket-launcher I picked up at the Russian armory.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, didn't I give you any description of the case which took me to Moscow last autumn, Watson? It had some singular features of interest, and its solution depended upon the mysterious disappearance of a certain diamond-studded dog-collar, of immense value. When I had solved the case to the satisfaction of my illustrious patron, I was accorded the honour of a guided visit through the armory, and received as a token gift this fully-functional scale model of a magnificent rocket-launcher of mammoth proportions. You can imagine how pleased I was to have acquired the miniature, and how I regretted not having a proper opportunity in which to test its alleged powers of destruction. Well, I have tested it at last, and you may observe for yourself how pleased it seems to be in its cozy new niche, and what glorious damage it is capable of inflicting upon its opposer, when skillfully handled. I've no doubt she will be to you an admirable compan
ion and worthy comrade in battle.”

  Holmes demonstrated the various mechanics of the instrument—such as were visible, that is, above the gleaming surface of my newly-repaired arm—as he spoke, and proceeded to fasten the refurbished arm to the attach-plugs and braces set within my shoulder. I tightened the leather cinches which circled my left shoulder and chest, noticing that the weight of my metallic member had diminished significantly now that its heavier impedimenta had been replaced by a much lighter weapon.

  “Ah, here is our breakfast. Come, Watson, for in the excitement of my experiment this morning, I clean forgot to tell you of the conclusions I reached last night, as I meditated over shag and our present case. Let us sit down, and after breakfast, I shall recount all, for I am famished after my nocturnal exertions.

  * * *

  Our breakfast was spread, and I retrieved from the pageboy our daily pile of periodicals. Elsewhere I have described my friend's avidity for the personals and agony columns of most of our London dailies and weeklies. Into our not overly spacious apartment flowed an endless stream of papers, periodicals, journals and tabloids of every sort and description, and the criminal news and agony columns were duly perused, sorted according to value of interest, and carefully stored for future reference in massive bundles and scrapbooks.

  If, due to some pressing case absorbing all of his vital energies, Holmes was unable to keep abreast of this daily imposition on his time, I was in no wise permitted to dispose of the cluttering flood, though the papers accumulated knee-deep upon every surface in our rooms; during those times I was instructed to either sort through them myself, according to my knowledge of Holmes' interest, or else to store them in some place where they would be immediately accessible to him whenever he chanced to require them, for they were bastions of fresh resource for his insatiably curious and energetic mind. By faithful study of the same, Holmes kept his fingertips upon the pulse of London's society and criminal strata, and this he did with the devoted fidelity of a family doctor watching over a cherished patient.

  It was, therefore, upon this fresh stack of information that the attention of my friend Sherlock Holmes alighted at once. As a result of our skirmish on the previous evening, Holmes' sallow complexion was severely transformed by a rainbow of assorted shades; nevertheless the irrepressible light of adventure gleamed deep and bright in his eyes, as a wounded foxhound that returns to the chase after a short reprieve.

  “The very first thing to do, Watson,” said he, from deep within the folds of The London Gazette, “is to place an advertisement in the agony column of the Daily Telegraph.”

  “Indeed?” I queried, settling back in my chair with the paper mentioned upon my knee. “To what end?”

  “We know that it has been one of the means of correspondence between von Oberon, alias Pierrot—”

  “How do you know that von Oberon is Pierrot?” I interrupted.

  “Obviously, my dear Watson,” said Holmes with a reproving glance at me over the top of his paper, “Peter von Oberon is more likely to be 'Pierrot' than 'Sieg'. Furthermore, I happen to know the identity of the latter, and it is my intention to unmask and capture this villainous person without unnecessary delay. I shall therefore assume the alias of Pierrot, and insert an advertisement requesting an urgent interview with my confederate.”

  I poised to agree with my friend, but just as my coffee cup reached my lips, my eyes descried a familiar name in the paper before me.

  “Holmes!” cried I with a sputter, nearly upsetting my coffee. “Too late! Look at this!”

  Holmes lifted an unperturbed eyebrow, and I read aloud, my voice quivering with the excitement of my discovery:

  “'Imminent danger. Tonight after ten. Stinking Wharf. No return. Pierrot.'

  “Well, well,” said my friend with a philosophical shrug, “it seems our quarry have tried to second-guess us, though this rash move shall prove to be their very downfall, or I'm very much mistaken. I shall wire to Mycroft immediately.”

  “But Holmes,” I expostulated, “this is terrible. What shall we do?”

  Holmes looked surprised. “Why Watson,” said he, “naturally, unless Providence forbids it, we shall join not one, but both of our friends tonight at ten. If we do not catch them then, it shall be entirely our fault. I've no doubt Mycroft will place her agents carefully; for all her habitual lack of energy, she is at least thorough and cunning when she does undertake a task.”

  “And where do you propose to find them? Surely even you cannot tell which of the thousands of putrid-smelling wharves along the river merits the title 'Stinking Wharf'.”

  Holmes' expression froze upon me for a second or two, then he threw his head back and laughed aloud with great merriment; an occurrence which I have only observed at rare intervals, and that only when his current foes had great cause to fear.

  “My dear Watson,” said he when his mirth had somewhat expired, “you must forgive me. I am delighted, truly delighted, at your deficient knowledge of evil. It is a pleasure to me, who constantly find myself hobnobbing among the lowest dregs of morality, to be associated with a man possessed of such upstanding character, that he is unacquainted with certain knowledge considered elementary to the average criminal.”

  Holmes, observing my blank incomprehension, grew grave as he continued.

  “I happen to know that the 'Stinking Wharf', as it is styled in this short summons, is an unofficial term for the Foul Fish and Fowl club, in east Kent. The nickname is most appropriate, as the club itself is a converted fish warehouse, situated on an old wharf, right on the Thames, between a fetid fish oil refinery and a tumbledown boathouse. A more vile place one could hardly imagine, morally speaking; it is a nesting ground for all manner of wickedness, frequented by blackmailers, foreign spies and local; the unspoken gathering place of the scum of London's high society. You can write me down an ass, Watson, not to have guessed from the first that this club would be our mice's chosen place of rendezvous. I am glad to at last have an opportunity to bring the action of the law into this evil quarter.”

  I had listened, fascinated, to Holmes' exposition, during which time my eggs and toast grew cold; I reluctantly returned my attention to these now-unpalatable viands while Holmes, who had consumed his breakfast as he talked, snatched up hat and overcoat, and headed toward the door.

  “I shall make all the arrangements for this evening, Watson,” said he, pausing over the threshold. “See that you are ready for a great deal of action this evening. If you are inclined to be guided by my advice, I would suggest that you dedicate some few moments to testing the new gadgets in your arm—they may perhaps be wanted sometime during the next twenty-four hours. Good-bye!”

  The door slammed companionably on my friend's heels.

  Some months previously, Holmes, ever on the lookout for adequate places in which to test his dangerous explosive gadgets, had discovered a disused underground tunnel in the vicinity of a noisy underground construction site, and appropriated it as his private target range. I had accompanied him thither on one or two occasions, and it came now to mind as I pondered Holmes' parting suggestion; I resolved to go there after my breakfast and spend an hour or two mastering the mechanics of my new weapons.

  Not, however, until our good landlady appeared to clear away the breakfast dishes, did the calamitous result of Holmes' maiden trial with the newly-installed weaponry return to my mind; my conscience constrained me to postpone my plans and devote my energies to repairing the unsightly breach lately added to our already pocked and bullet-marred wall.

  Neither my appearance nor that of the wall was much improved when I finally put down my tools at half-past two that afternoon. Surveyed the result of my labors, I admitted to myself that my skills are less suited to repairing crumbling masonry than my fellow human beings; the wall's mien was still one of battle-scarred ill-use, but at least the gaping gash was sealed. Consoling myself with that thought, I brushed away the excess plaster from my hands and trouser knees, put a hasty sand
wich into my pocket, and headed out in direction of the tunnel.

  * * *

  It was close upon seven o'clock when I returned to Baker Street, but I had scarce arrived when Holmes' step was heard upon the stair. He sauntered into the room, tossing hat and coat aside, and collapsed into his chair. There he sat in dreamy-eyed abstraction, humming snatches of a tune, lost in another dimension.

  Not wishing to disturb his reverie, I lit my pipe and sat in my own chair, opposite the fire, and rested my feet atop the grate. The air was chilly that evening, for Spring had not yet peeped out amid the droplets of melting snow, and though the Winter had not been a particularly cold one, my afternoon's exertions in a clammy underground tunnel with makeshift practice targets, and my long tramp home in the damp, smoggy dusk, had awakened in me the desire for warmer weather and fresh life among the stems and branches. Engaged in these thoughts, while the smoke curled pleasantly about my ears, I was disturbed by a vigorous resurgence of Holmes' humming, his fingers tapping noisily in beat to music conjured by his memory.

  “I have been to see Brahms' Rinaldo this afternoon, Watson,” said he presently. “There is nothing so soothing and yet invigorating as a good cantata. Music refreshes the mind without detracting energy from the vital sources so elementary to the unraveling of mental complexities. We have much yet to discover, Watson, in this little problem so kindly extended to us by sister Mycroft; yet I believe that we are on the right track. There is, I think, much, much more beneath the surface of the plot than is apparently revealed in the bold features of this case.”

  I pondered this statement while I tapped out my pipe ashes; hearing a throaty chuckle, I glanced up and observed Holmes' eyes alight with sardonic merriment, gazing at the glaring patch of uneven plaster which, rendered conspicuous in the gas-lit ambiance, marked my morning's attempts at masonry.

  “You employed your time very kindly today, Watson,” said Holmes, still chuckling. “Although I cannot tell whether the good Mrs. Hudson will prefer your treatment of the poor wall to my own. ”