“That’s true, they do,” I admitted, “but keep quiet, Holmes. We’re almost there.”
I think we must have made more noise than we ought, sneaking into Stoke Moran and up the winding stairs. Luckily for us, our quarry was too distracted to note our approach; from behind Roylott’s closed door, we could hear muffled chanting.
“He’s started it,” I hissed. “Quick, Holmes, into Julia’s room!”
The room was in half-darkness, lit only by the lantern Helen Stoner had obscured behind the curtain to signal us.
“I don’t see anything,” whispered Holmes.
“Watch the vent,” I told him. “That is where danger shall approach.”
Even as I said it, there was a dull metallic bang from the vent, followed by the sound of an unknown, fleshy body sliding through the duct.
“Here comes the cobra,” I said, but when our antagonist emerged from the vent, it was no snake. A human hand protruded itself from the edge of the vent and began groping about for the bell pull. Its spotted complexion and profusion of curly ginger hair proclaimed this to be the hand of Dr. Roylott. It used only two fingers to feel about; the others clutched something that gleamed metallic in the lantern’s failing light—I recognized it to be one of his hypodermic needles.
The wayward human hand found the bell pull and started down. As I had suspected, it seemed the pull was there as a guide to reach the pillow below. As unsettling as the hand was, what followed was even more horrifying. The hand was not disembodied. A long, prehensile forearm flowed out of the vent and began coiling down the rope. Certainly there could be no bones within, for it was rubbery and capable of bending in any direction at any point along its length.
“Disgusting!” proclaimed Holmes. He was alight with admiration.
In his shock and inebriation, Holmes quite forgot to keep his voice down. The creeping hand recoiled in surprise, then struck out in Holmes’s and my direction with the hypodermic poised. We tried to get out of the way, but as I fled, the needle caught the flapping tail of my overcoat and pierced it. The back of my coat instantly disintegrated into a putrid brown liquid. Holmes saw this better than I could, and the fright of it caused him to cry out again. The hand turned towards him and pursued him about the room, striking randomly with the deadly needle as Holmes pelted back and forth screaming, “Ahhhhhhhhh! Watson! Help! The Freckled Hand! The Freckled Hand!”
In the fervor of its attack, the hand struck the pillow, the mattress and the easy chair with its murderous needle. All three melted into puddles of stinking slop. Holmes had the misfortune of placing his foot in one of these as he ran. He slipped and went down heavily. His trademark hat fell from his head and the contents of his pockets fairly exploded forth. His magnifying glass slid across the room towards me, but what caught my attention most was the metallic device that fell upon the carpet as he began to rise and renew his flight—his handcuffs.
As Holmes ran off, I dived in to recover them. I fastened one side to the stout lower rail of the bed, then waited. The next time Roylott’s viperous arm passed, I lunged out and snapped the other cuff around it. In my panic, I fastened it cruelly tight. Roylott must not have been expecting that, for the arm jerked back and forth arhythmically a few times before it turned on me and tried to end my life with its bewitched poison. I flung myself to the far corner of the room and sat breathless against the wall. Holmes joined me and clapped a hand on my shoulder, crying, “Bravely done, Watson. I think we have him now.”
The hand recoiled all the way up to the silver handcuff and feverishly attempted to pull itself through. I feared Roylott would manage to yank it free and resume his murder attempts, but the cuffs held fast.
I breathed a sigh of relief and asked, “What is it, Holmes? What has Roylott done?”
“One more trick he picked up in India, Watson. I think he must be a fakir.”
I had heard of these mystics and recalled that they were famous for methods of manipulating their own bodies that seemed quite beyond the capabilities of mortal man.
“That makes some sense,” I agreed.
“In fact,” said Holmes, “he is a master of their art. I must say, I am impressed. Such transmutations are difficult to perform and even harder to maintain. Do you hear how much louder and more strained his chanting has become?”
“Ahhhhhhhhh! Watson! Help! The Freckled Hand! The Freckled Hand!”
I listened and agreed that I could note the change.
“In a few moments his spell will fail,” said Holmes. “He will find himself returned to his normal shape, exhausted and unable to defend himself. He’ll be helpless, Watson.”
I nodded that this was good, but held that opinion only for a fraction of a second. Soon, the full ramifications of the situation occurred to me and I found myself shouting, “Keys!”
“Eh?” said Holmes.
“Where are the keys?”
“What keys? For what?”
The chanting reached a fever pitch, then began to fail. I could hear Roylott gasping for breath in the next room over.
“The handcuffs, Holmes! Quick!”
He patted at his pockets fruitlessly, and decided, “I must have dropped them when I fell. Look around, Watson.”
But it was too late. Roylott’s voice gave way to a fit of coughing, followed by a ragged scream. His spell failed. His body began to resume its normal shape and, as his hand was attached to the bed in our room, his body was drawn inextricably towards it. From his room came the shriek of tortured metal as the vent deformed. An instant later, the duct within our room began to bulge and shift. A number of rivets popped free and a second later the vent over the bed became a spout. Several gallons of chunky gore erupted forth all over Julia Stoner’s vacant bed.
* * *
Another case closed. Another success, we thought. True, I had slain a man, which offended my sensibilities and violated my Hippocratic oath. Yet this had been the result of an accident and the personality of the victim was such that nobody ever said to me that they missed his company. More to our satisfaction, Miss Helen Stoner was preserved from harm. Despite the sudden, strange death of Dr. Roylott, her fiancé’s zeal to marry held and the couple moved away to begin their life together. They could have stayed at Stoke Moran, I suppose, but Helen Stoner was never happier than the day she packed her bags and left it forever.
In the Adventure of the Freckled Hand, we see one of my greatest failures. I allowed myself to be distracted. Our survival, our seeming victory and Helen Stoner’s happy ending brought me such elation that I failed to consider the greater consequences of the case. I happily moved on to the next adventure and thought no more of Stoke Moran. How many men would have paused to ask themselves, “What will become of that house now?” Would a wiser fellow have worried that perhaps the next heir might be none other than Sebastian Moran? Would he have realized that—should Moran succeed in reconstituting his fallen master—Moriarty would now have a sturdy stone house with defensible walls and an evil magical workstation already in place?
A better man might have.
I did not.
I apologize to you all.
CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON: SOULBINDER
THAT LADY EVA BLACKWELL’S ENGAGEMENT WAS threatened did not bother me in the slightest.
I suppose it should have. She had, after all, come to Holmes and me in the express attempt to save it. Yet, as she spoke with dread about the prospect of becoming unattached, it occurred to me more and more that she was just the sort of girl I would like to marry some day. If the worst should come to pass—if she should lose the affections of the Earl of Dovercourt—how should she replace him? With a doctor perhaps? Doctors are not so well regarded as earls, I will admit, but they are a good deal more practical. What if someone were to become injured or sick? Having a doctor in the house saves a carriage ride. And really, what does an earl do?
“Can you gentlemen help me, do you think?” Lady Eva sighed.
Holmes clucked his tongue—indicating that this was a
matter of dread severity—and asked, “What do you think, Watson?”
“Oh? Eh?” I said, rousing myself from my dream. “Well, I suppose we might look into it. A blackmailer, you say?”
“Yes! A horrible blackmailer!” she agreed, nodding her chestnut curls. “He says I must supply him with seven thousand pounds by Friday, else he shall cross my match and see that Nigel and I never wed!”
“Seven thousand pounds…” I mused.
“The sum is extraordinary,” she cried. “Why, you could buy a palace for that!”
“I would buy you a mansion in Dover,” I said, “near the sea. A white one with a yard full of ponies…”
I became aware that Lady Eva was staring at me. So was Holmes.
“How would that help matters?” Holmes wondered.
“What? Oh… it wouldn’t. I just… ahem… Lady Blackwell, I do not mean to be indelicate, but I must ask: what does this blackmailer have against you?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“But he must have something,” I insisted, “else how does he think he could foil your marriage? How does he intend to turn your fiancé against you?”
“He does not say! In fact, he writes that the particulars of my downfall will be forever unknown to me. Of course, I was inclined to throw the ridiculous letter into the fire, but he included these two lists, you see?”
She waved two pieces of paper at Holmes and me. Both were lists of names, but there the similarities ended. One was writ in a gilded hand upon stationery worthy of the queen. The other was done in filth-brown ink upon parchment so poor that a street urchin looking for something to scrawl his begging sign upon would have passed it by, saying, “Meh, I could do better.”
She flourished the finer paper at us and said, “This first is a list of those previous victims who succumbed and agreed to pay him. I was shocked by some of these names, gentlemen! I called on some of them and asked if this document was true. Awkward as the matter is, they did confirm it. The blackmailer says that part of the price of his forbearance is that they tell their tale to the next poor soul to bear his letter, else he will work mischief upon them.”
“Cad!” I declared.
“I spoke with four of the people on this list and they all admitted that they paid him. Some said they felt foolish for it, yet that was the worst complaint any of them could make; their lives and fortunes are all quite intact. This list, on the other hand…” here she waved the brown, feculent list at us, “…this is a litany of shattered dreams. There is not a soul on this list who is happy today. Broken marriages… lost careers… great artists whose works suddenly fell from public favor… It is unaccountable, the sudden trials and failures suffered by the people upon this list! And all of them whom I spoke to traced their misfortune back to the same man! All of them cursed the day they refused to pay this blackmailer and encouraged me to do whatever I could to save myself from his fury.”
“An odd story,” said I, scratching my chin. “I have never heard of a blackmailer who operates without having some sort of leverage on his victims. One wonders if it is not a ruse…”
“A ruse?” Holmes reflected. “How might he pull such a thing off, Watson?”
“I can imagine two methods, offhand. Either he has compiled these lists from people who had nothing to do with him, but whose fortunes were especially good or ill—”
“Yes, but that does not account for them telling Lady Eva that this villain’s interference or forbearance made their fortunes or ruined them,” Holmes said. “Keep in mind that they all verified his story.”
“Did they? Suppose a man comes to you and says you must give him a pound or you will explode. You do give him a pound. You do not explode. Does it necessarily follow that your lack of unexplained detonation is due to the fact you paid him off? Is it not possible that you were never in any such danger and have just been conned out of a pound? Is it not also possible that you might blithely tell his next victim of your supposed escape and encourage them to pay as well?”
“It is possible,” Holmes admitted. “In fact, some might say it is the basis of all religion.”
“Ahem… yes… Well, the other possibility is that these witnesses are all in league with the blackmailer and stand to receive a portion of the funds.”
“I do not think that could be the case,” said Lady Eva, in a manner that all other ladies should study and endeavor to repeat, in order to render themselves irresistible to the mortal man. “Look at these names, Doctor; they are well-known public figures.”
“A good point, Lady Eva. I only mention it because I must consider all possibilities, even if they seem remote. Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Holmes rolled his eyes at me as if this were an extraordinarily naïve thing to say. I refused to be cowed and continued, “I think our next course of action must be to investigate the blackmailer himself and determine the true nature of his relationships with these supposed victims. Did he leave any clue as to his identity?”
“Oh yes,” said Lady Eva, who would likely have made a fine mother to my children—caring and doting, yet stern when the occasion demanded. “He signed it. His name is Charles Augustus Milverton.”
I laughed out loud. It was too good to hope that the man might be fool enough to begin such a criminal enterprise by signing his true name to a blackmail note. Yet my enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by Holmes, who said, “Milverton?” in the most disappointed way. He slumped into his chair and shrank like a beaten dog. Fixing Lady Eva with a look of both pity and apology for his own impotence, he mumbled, “Pay the man.”
“Holmes!”
“I am sorry, Watson. And I am yet more sorry for you, Lady Eva, but his name is known to me and I have reason to suspect that he is more than capable of rendering the destruction he has threatened. If you wish to be happy in your marriage, pay him.”
“But I can’t!” Lady Eva protested. “Don’t you see? My family has a title, yes, but that is no guarantee of means. It is not wealth that has allowed me to enter London society. It is only…”
She trailed off, for modesty does not allow a true lady to extol her own virtues.
“It is only your perfect grace,” I said. “It is only your charm. It is only that, in you, the London aristocracy see what it is they aspire to become. They see their better, and yet the tutor is so winning that they cannot bring themselves to resent the lesson. Not to mention your cheekbones! Look at them!”
Lady Eva blushed. Holmes only watched me, waiting for me to make my point. I recoiled and mumbled, “Oh… I say, have you ever had one of those days where you find yourself thinking a thing and then—and you have no idea how it happened—you find that you have been saying it as well? I am having just such a day and I apologize.”
“No, no, that was… kind of you, Doctor,” said Lady Eva, fixing me with a smile that crushed my mind and my heart and made me wish beyond all hoping that I had been born an earl. “Yet, my trouble remains. Even by calling upon the support of my family and friends… even by putting myself deeply in debt to those who might wish me ill, I am sure I can raise nowhere near the sum. I think I can manage two thousand. Maybe a little more, but only very little. Oh, if you cannot save me from this man, could you at least negotiate with him on my behalf? Tell him to take two thousand—take it and leave me alone.”
Holmes sighed, “I can try, Lady Eva. If you ask me to, I will. Yet, I warn you that more harm than good may come from my involvement. Milverton knows me well and I think he is not… favorably disposed.”
“What choice have I?” asked Lady Eva with a sad shrug. “I cannot raise his fee and idleness dooms me. Say you will help, won’t you? Say you will try?”
“I shall do my utmost,” said Holmes. “I’m sure Watson will, as well. I only hope some good may come of it. Leave me his letter, won’t you? Watson and I shall be in touch when we have news. In the meantime, it might be wise to begin raising the two thousand.”
* * *
Holmes fretted over his reply for almost half an hour, despite the fact that it was only three lines long. Wiggles and I waited by the hearth. At first I was uncomfortable in the company of the young wererat, but boredom eventually conquered fear. Soon, I sat suppressing my laughter as I watched him sniff the air, having apparently forgotten he was in his human form. In another ten minutes, I was tearing little hunks of bread and throwing them this way and that, watching him scuttle about to retrieve them.
Finally, Holmes approached. He handed Wiggles a letter, a shilling and a slab of beef that was just beginning to display that rainbow sheen which says, “You ought to have eaten me yesterday.”
“Find the Soulbinder, Charles Augustus Milverton,” Holmes said. “Give him this letter and wait for his reply. I am sure he will wish to set an appointment with me. Do not fail to bring his response or we may all find ourselves in some trouble.”
“Soulbinder?” I wondered.
“Yes. Soulbinder,” said Holmes. “Come on, Watson, let’s go for a walk. Or something. I don’t care; I just don’t want to sit here thinking of him. I shall tell you more in the park.”
He didn’t. Shortly after reaching the park, he was accosted by a squirrel. It ran up his trouser leg and snatched a crust of toast from his hand. Holmes seemed quite content to chase the little blighter up and down the path, sometimes cajoling, sometimes threatening, always emanating the especial joy of one who has made himself a grand new friend. For my part, I was happy to let Holmes go. It left me free to think of Lady Eva and sigh.
A Study in Brimstone Page 22
