Sherlock Holmes in 2012: TIMELESS DUEL
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“What about the future, Watson?”
“What about it?”
“No one mentioned if the machine could transport one into the future. These reports only make reference of a man capable of traveling in the past. I wonder if Wells intends to force his way into the future-that would be most interesting, indeed.”
“Are you not interested in the past?”
“Not in the least, Watson. We have historians to take us in the past; we have related accounts of men who have lived even as far back as thousands of years ago., no, what I would be interested in is the future-not the past.”
In the interim of Watson and Holmes continuing to read, Mrs. Hudson had entered the room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, which she was now trying to deposit on Holmes’s table. She moved the remaining unfolded papers to one side and put the tray down.
Holmes raised his head to her. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but we won’t need to sip tea at this time,” he said, folding the newspaper and getting to his feet abruptly.
Not saying a word, Mrs. Hudson took the tray from the table and turned to leave the room.
“Mrs. Hudson.! Do get us a cab, will you? We will be leaving shortly,” Holmes shouted to the woman’s back as she crossed the landing and started down the steps.
“Holmes, the way you are treating Mrs. Hudson is appalling..”
“Why, Watson? Because we have more pressing matters to which we must attend presently.?”
Watson shook his head.
Grabbing a muffler from a peg beside the door and wrapping it around his neck, Holmes said, “Stop reading this drivel, and come with me,” bending over the back of the sofa.
“Where are we going?” Watson asked, rising from his seat.
“To see for ourselves what this ‘Time Machine’ is all about, Watson. The papers have not reported all that I could see, to be sure. Come now; come., no time like thepresent!”
As both men were about to cross the landing and rush down the stairs, Holmes stopped, spun on his heels and returned inside the apartment, pushing past Watson. “I know him, Watson!” he exclaimed, marching in the direction of the bookcases along the far wall.
“Who? Who do you mean?” Watson queried, still surprised at this sudden about face.
“Professor Wells. He is not a professor at all., well., not exactly,” Holmes uttered, pulling a stack of folders and dropping it to the floor. He opened one folder after another and threw the sheets of paper carelessly around him until he came across a newspaper clipping. He brandished it in front of him and handed it to Watson. “I recognized his name. This is him.” He tapped on the piece of paper.
Watson read aloud, “The Chronic Argonauts by H.G. Wells.”
“Yes, Watson. Our Mister Wells is a school teacher, probably called ‘Professor’ by all who knows him, but has no professorial accreditation to his name. But, read on, read on, Watson.”
Watson did.
“As you can see, Mr. Wells wrote this rather convoluted story almost seven years ago, in which he described the adventures of a reverend, a man by the name of Cook, who experienced time travel. In this story he also makes mention of an eccentric scientist who had constructed such a time machine. It all fits, Watson, it all fits.”
Still dazed, Watson stood beside his friend, both waiting for a hansom cab to stop by the curb. As the horse halted his progress a few paces ahead of the two men, the coachman called from his seat, “Where would you like to go, sir?”
Opening the cab’s door, Holmes replied, “143 Maybury Road, in Woking, my good man.”
“Very well, sir,” the man replied as Watson followed Holmes into the hansom.
Once seated side by side and facing the horse’s back and the street beyond, Watson asked, “How did you know the man’s address, Holmes? I didn’t see it mentioned in the article you showed me, or in the paper for that matter.”
Holmes didn’t turn his head to reply, “No need. Didn’t I say The Times is much more accurate in relating the events that occur around us?”
Watson nodded almost imperceptibly, a smirk appearing beneath his mustache.
When the cab approached the house, Holmes muttered, “He must be a well-to-do professor, indeed,” looking out the window of the hansom and before opening its door.
Once he had alighted from the seat atop the back of the cab, the coachman held the door open for his passengers and accepted the coins Holmes handed him readily. “Thank you, my good sir,” he said, pocketing the coins inside his cloak.
Before he had returned to his seat, Holmes shouted, “Wait for us, we should need you to take us back to Baker Street.”
“Very well, sir,” the driver replied, urging his horse forward a few paces toward a copse of trees alongside the road.
Watson, distracted by the departing horse and hansom, stood beside the curb as if lost in thought for a moment.
“Come, Watson,” Holmes said, recalling his friend to the present, “we must meet this mysterious professor.” He shot a glance at the house; a two-storey affair, white washed with neatly trimmed windows and doors. He shrugged. Such a modern abode didn’t appeal to his sense of comfort. Everything arranged and in order only applied to one’s mind, not to one’s surrounds as far as Holmes was concerned.
H. G Wells s house 143 Maybury Road, in Woking
Watson turned to the house, as a man, probably in his thirties judging from his smooth face and scrutinizing gaze, opened the front door wide, obviously surprised at the sight of the two men. “What can I do for you, gentlemen, and who might you be?”
“Ah, very good question, Professor-who might we be? Very good indeed.”
Watson was visibly embarrassed. He lowered his head and took his hat off.
Holmes handed the man his visiting card. “Here is mycard.,” and turning to Watson, “This is my friend, Dr. Watson. May we come in?”
Looking down at the card, “Mr. Holmes., how.,” Wells blurted, noticeably shocked to find the renowned detective standing in the doorway of his house. “By all means, Mr. Holmes, by all means. I am Mr. Wells..” He extended a welcoming arm toward the lounge room beyond the small foyer. “Please, do be seated.,” he added, indicating a couple of chairs and sofa furnishing the room.
Having deposited his hat and cane on it, Watson took a seat on the sofa, while Holmes and Wells sat facing each other beside the fireplace.
“May I get you some tea or refreshments?” Wells asked, apparently a little nervous.
Holmes waved a dismissive hand in front of him. “Nothing for the moment, Mr. Wells. Just tell us, where are you storing your time machine?”
Evidently taken aback by the abruptness of the query, Wells leaned against the back of the chair and caressed his rather voluminous mustache. “Not here, Mr. Holmes.” He smiled. “This is not the sort of thing one stores in one’s lounge room.” He chortled.
“Where then?” Holmes demanded, getting to his feet.
“Please, Mr. Holmes, sit down. Let me explain.”
“Explain what, my good man? I only came to view your time machine. I am interested in your invention and I want to set my eyes on it so to satisfy my curiosity.” Holmes resumed his seat slowly.
“It’s not here, Mr. Holmes, because it is a rather large machine and dangerous to anyone who should desire to use it without acquiring the knowledge of its function beforehand.”
Somewhat mollified by Wells’s comments, Holmes asked, “Just answer two questions for me, Mr. Wells: first, where is the machine stored, and second, would it be capable of transporting a man into the future?”
Wells caressed his mustache again. “The answer to your first question is obviously dependant on my answer to the second question, isn’t it, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes chuckled. Watson opened his eyes wide. It had been a long time since he had seen his friend this excited about anything.
“Yes, Mr. Wells, if your Time Machine is incapable of propelling a man into the future, I, as many others I suspect, will n
ot be interested in seeing your invention.”
“Very well then, Mr. Holmes, the answer to your second question, is yes. The time machine is capable of transporting a man through and into the future-I have no doubt of it.”
“How can you be so certain since, I believe, you have not tried it yourself?”
“It is just a matter of space and time calculations; their relationship is intrinsic to their value. If you can turn a wheel in one direction-in space and time-without a doubt, you will be able to turn the same wheel in the opposite direction.”
“Let me understand this correctly, Mr. Wells; if I am able to turn the clock backward, I should be able to turn the clock forward, is that the principle behind your invention?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Holmes. And to prove my point; should you travel today to the middle of the Pacific, arriving on some island tomorrow, you would notice that the calendar the residents of the island use will tell you that you are still living in today’s date.”
Holmes stared at the man facing him. “Yes, you are correct! I would have turned the clock ahead one day, yet I would have landed on the same day as the one I departed. Moreover, the reverse would be true; leaving the island on a designated day, I would arrive in London a day ahead of my supposed arrival date.. Incredible, but indubitably correct!” Holmes stood up and began pacing the floor under the amazed gazes of Watson and their host. Retracing his steps to the chair he had abandoned moments ago, Holmes sat down once again. “If such is the case then, would you be so kind to tell us where the machine is stored?”
“Not far from here, Mr. Holmes. It had to be in a building which I could reach easily by day or night. Come, I will show you.” Wells got up from his chair and invited the two guests to follow him to the kitchen at the back of the house. “You can only see the roof of the disused house beyond the trees, but that is where the time machine is stored.”
Holmes and Watson peered through the window pane at the rooftop to which Wells had pointed as they had entered the kitchen.
“May we see it now?” Holmes asked somewhat impatiently.
“I am afraid that will not be possible today, Mr. Holmes.”
“And why wouldn’t that be possible, sir? I came all this way intending to view your invention, and you refuse me the pleasure?” Holmes sounded more than obfuscated at the refusal.
Wells shook his head and put his hands in his pockets. “I am not refusing you the access to the machine, Mr. Holmes, I am simply asking you to come back another day when I will be freer of my time to demonstrate its functions to you. That’s all.”
“I think that’s only fair, Holmes,” Watson said, opening his mouth for the first time since entering the premises. “We have come unannounced, and Mr. Wells is probably busy with other pressing matters today; we should be able to come back.”
“Well, if we must, we must,” Holmes agreed, surprisingly enough to Wells.
“Let me accompany you to the door then,” Wells offered. “If you would like to come back tomorrow, I shall be at your entire disposal then.” He stretched an arm in the direction of the hallway leading to the foyer.
On the stoop, Holmes gestured to the waiting hansom coachman for him to come back. He then turned to Wells. “Until the morrow then.. Good day, sir.”
“Good bye, Mr. Holmes,” Wells replied, re-plunging his hands into his trousers’ pockets.
Watson saluted the man, touching his hat with his cane before boarding the cab behind Holmes.
Comfortably ensconced once again in the seats of the cab, Watson couldn’t refrain from asking, “What do you think we will see tomorrow, Holmes?”
“You will see nothing, Watson,” was Holmes only reply before he fell silent for the rest of the trip back to Baker Street.
Chapter Two
Holmes disappears
During the night, without Wells’s knowledge, Holmes embarks on a voyage that lands him in Late 2010. He wants to sate his curiosity, and discover the mysteries of our era. The disappearance of his time-machine angers the professor and leads him to locating Irene Adler. He asks her to help him in finding Holmes, using his second time-machine, and in bringing him back.
“What did you mean by I would see nothing tomorrow?” Watson iterated once both men had made their way upstairs to Holmes’s apartment.
“Exactly what I said, Watson,” Holmes replied, taking a seat in his favorite chair and grabbing The Chronic Argonauts article that he had discarded to the floor before departing that morning. He read through the story, flipped the paper in the air, got to his feet and began pacing the floor.
Watson knew from long experience that Holmes was evidently in one of his brewing moods and wouldn’t come out from his torpor-like state until the morning. It was time for him to take his leave. He rose from the sofa, mumbled a few words of farewell to his friend and left the apartment without acknowledgement from Holmes.
In the hours that followed, Holmes prepared himself for what he hoped would not be a wasted trip back to Woking. He could not wait until the morning to verify that what he had read in the article and what he had heard from Wells’s mouth was true to life. In fact, ambivalent thoughts, whether the time machine was capable to travel anywhere-be that in the past or the future-encumbered his mind without relief. The article had been clear enough on that point. The machine, constructed out of brass and ivory, nickel and mahogany, logarithmic mechanical apparatuses and involving curvi-graphical machinery, could hardly describe a functional spatial vessel; although, a block with a steel circular saw, among other appliances, had been employed to construct the platform and some of the gears comprised in the machine. Moreover, the article had referred to the ultimate disappearance of the machine, supposedly returning Reverend Cook to the time of his departure and leaving Dr. Nebogipfel, the inventor, free to travel to a time suited to his then thought eccentric disposition. On the other hand, this story was just that-a story. The concept of which was sound, and Wells had written the description of the vessel several years previously, which would probably have formed the basis for his constructing the time machine he had envisioned when he wrote the article.
Nonetheless excited at the prospect of unveiling what the old rambling mansion, located at the back of Wells’s home, could contain, Holmes could not be bothered with Wells’s explanation of the functions of the machine. He had only one gearing thought in mind; travel to a time that would sate his desire for infinite and rewarding research into an era more deserving of his scrutiny.
Following a rather lengthy journey back to Woking,
Holmes alighted from the cab and ordered the coachman not to wait for him.
The coachman had driven the hansom past Wells’s house and beyond the alley that bordered it. Holmes made his way quietly through the deserted lane, grateful that only the moonlit sky showed him the path ahead of his footfall. Attired of a suit, a cap and a dark cloak, the detective progressed slowly toward the gate of the house that supposedly contained the time machine. He walked on the grass verge to ensure that his footsteps would not be heard from any of the neighboring homes. As he advanced toward the entry between the hedges, he felt somewhat rueful for not inviting Watson on this adventure. He knew however, that, if he were successful tonight, he might not return for some time.
He stopped in front of the gate and examined it. The light was not enough to allow him to see if the gate was fitted with an alarm of some sort. However, he needed to make sure the small wooden door would not creak when he would open it. He bent down and passed his ungloved hand along the hinges. He then raised his fingers to his nose and smelled the gritty residues that had been scraped off the hinges. The smell of rust was obvious. He shook his head, and took a few paces along the hedges, trying to find another opening. Finding nothing that would allow him noiseless entry beyond the hedges, he retraced his steps to the gate and jumped over it. Crouched close to the ground, Holmes stayed immobile for a minute or so before making his way stealthily towards the door of the house.
He first opened the window upward, leaving a gap wide enough between the sill and pane for him to enter the place. He then heaved his body inside the room and sat on the floor before rising to his feet and closing the window.
The darkness inside the house was somewhat overwhelming at first, but undaunted, and determined to accomplish what he had set out to do; he waited until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness engulfing the residence. Once his eyesight enabled him to distinguish the shapes and forms of the items stored in the room, he realized that he was in a workshop and not the place where the time machine, he expected, stood in wait for its next passenger.
He crept slowly toward the door he saw opposite from where he was standing. He opened it and stood in the embrasure for a moment. He gasped at the strangeness of the machine before him. From Wells’s description, seven years ago, Holmes had not anticipated the size or shape of this vessel. It was not as large as he had expected but its globular shape is what captured Holmes’s attention. Unfortunately, the light from the windows didn’t allow him to see the details of the outside tubing nor the intricacy of the control panel that stood facing a comfortable seat inside the glass enclosure. Generally, it would have taken a lot to amaze a man the likes of Holmes, but this was beyond all that he could have expected or anticipated. He now readily understood why Wells was so protective of his invention; guarding it as a precious gem, close to his heart and home. Although not a sensitive man, nor one given to admiring any one’s accomplishment gladly, Holmes stood before the Time Machine in awe.