Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  “As Ra began his journey we were able to see only too clearly what had happened in the night. The camp had been razed; no trace of life remained. Examination of one of the pillars showed that someone—one of the bearers, no doubt; my men are unquestionably loyal—had pried loose one of the star-stones. It lay in the sand not a dozen yards from where he’d removed it. Of the man—or any of his companions—there was no sign, save for rather ominous reddish stains that dried onto the sands.

  “We returned to England, bearing the three objects that Persano showed you. It is quite plain that the cylinder is no less than a device for communication across the gulf of Time and Space. Equally clear is that the stone or the proximity of the stone interferes with the transmission. What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?”

  My friend stared for a minute at our guest, and it seemed to me that there was some silent struggle taking place between these two great minds, almost as though they were peering into each other’s thoughts. Finally Holmes spoke.

  “You are a brilliant man, Doctor. Your deductions seem to be correct on all counts. I suspect that this object is a communication device of some sort, obviously created by a science far beyond ours. From your description of events I can conclude only that it transmits a signal of some sort through the ether, a signal that is answered by something in a rather alarming fashion. There must be some properties to the stone that interfere with this signal, and judging from the events you have related, it would seem more than prudent to keep the stone in proximity to the cylinder at all times.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Mr. Holmes.” Nikola’s large dark eyes fairly gleamed with excitement. “My theory is that whatever beings answered this signal took our bearers, not as a matter of malice, but likely from scientific curiosity. That the terrified and ignorant fools may have struggled or attempted to attack them explains the traces of blood we found. Imagine, if you will, the benefit of conversing with these beings, of learning their science, which is obviously so far in advance of ours. If the vast gulfs of space mean nothing to them, is it not reasonable to suppose that they have found means to turn aside the threats of time and death?”

  “I suppose nothing, Doctor,” Holmes said sharply. “I draw conclusions based on logical inferences; to do anything less is anathema to my methods. It may well be as you say, that whatever visited your camp came from somewhere other than our earth. But to ascertain the motives of something that is by definition alien is another matter entirely. Still, the prospect of establishing communication with another sentient race is an intriguing one. What do you suggest?”

  Nikola smiled—not a pleasant thing to see. There was no warmth or humor in the expression; it was more akin to an automaton aping human emotion. “I have a relatively secluded building in Limehouse that will be perfect for our experiment. My intent is to summon these ‘ethernauts,’ as I must call them, and then to effect a dialogue. It’s clear that there will be no little danger, but it seems that whatever forces these beings use to traverse the gulfs are nullified when the stone is placed against the cylinder; therefore, we will be able to quickly terminate the interview if we’re unable to make ourselves understood.

  “Mr. Holmes, you possess a remarkable ability to deduce meaning from the most opaque of clues. I’m asking you to employ this skill in an attempt to communicate with beings from another world!”

  Since such talk was the sort of madness one might expect from a pair of opium eaters stumbling and pointing at their hallucinations, to see my friend nodding in assent seemed the height of madness until I reflected on the sight of that strange worm turning its dead features toward us in its vial. Nikola handed Holmes a card with the address of where our experiment was to take place, and left us to confer.

  “A most unusual man,” Holmes murmured. “I should expect we will hear a good deal more of him and his celestial friend over the years. Watson, this should be a most interesting game. I needn’t point out that the stakes are rather high . . .”

  We sent our driver off, having no idea how long we would be at Nikola’s warehouse. From the looks of it, the doctor was as versed in matters of thrift as he was the sciences. A more unprepossessing structure could hardly be imagined, even in the slums of Limehouse. The building was a wood frame that looked to have collapsed and been rebuilt numerous times. Soot-smudged and grim, it stood in back of a row of ramshackle houses packed with Chinese laborers.

  My friend Burke writes little vignettes today that laud the charms and quaint customs of this district and its peoples. I wish to assure my readers that his fond memories lend this deplorable slum an aura that it in fact has never possessed.

  We heard the faint tap of a cane’s ferrule just moments before Persano appeared. “Gentlemen, my apologies for the subterfuge. As my employer no doubt explained, in matters where the prize may be eternal life, some manners must be laid aside.”

  Holmes nodded grimly and indicated that Persano should lead the way. The warehouse door was sealed with a massive padlock, for which he produced a large key.

  “The doctor used to conduct his experiments here. In an impoverished neighborhood there is no shortage of volunteers—”

  “And where is Nikola?”

  “He’ll be joining us very shortly. Here we are!”

  The room still contained a good deal of scientific apparatus, including long tables covered with beakers and tanks, most of which were now empty. A few of the tanks still held evidence of Nikola’s vocation of vivisection. The spiders and toads of gargantuan size were bad enough, but I also saw only too clearly what Persano had meant by “volunteers.” What atrocities had been performed on these poor people is best left unsaid; my most fervid hope is that his work was confined to experimentation on the deceased and not the living.

  A lone table stood off to one side of the room, on which the star-stone and metal cylinder sat. Behind the table stood a curious representation of the human form, wrought cunningly from metal. A clockwork man! If these uncanny items were what the doctor had left behind, what sort of madness and marvels must his laboratory have contained when fully operational?

  I glanced at Holmes and there was a look of alarm on his face. Persano was idly examining some of the equipment on one of the tables. Holmes signaled for me to be silent and nodded toward the door by which we had entered.

  His cryptic gestures became quite clear as, with a grinding of metal, the clockwork man came to “life.” There was no sign of the puppeteer who pulled the electrical strings of this grotesque marionette, but its purpose was all too clear. With a deft motion it grasped the star-stone and removed it from the cylinder.

  “Watson, Persano! Out of here as you value your lives!” Holmes’s shout startled us both as we stared at the mechanical man, who had now again assumed lifeless rigidity. Holmes grabbed my arm, pulling me along. Persano started to follow us and then stopped and shouted, “Cowards! They will be here soon, the ethernauts; they can grant us eternal life!”

  “Ignore him, Watson, he has no conception of the forces at work here. This is yet another of Nikola’s experiments . . .”

  We stumbled into the chill night, Holmes turning and locking the door behind us. We ran across the street and watched as madness descended . . .

  A shimmering funnel, of a color that we could not discern, appeared in the night sky, somehow blocking out the stars. The funnel seemed to bisect the walls of Nikola’s warehouse without rending the wood asunder. From within the funnel came a buzzing and whirring as of the wings of a million locusts . . .

  Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The night sky resumed its normal properties. We stood quietly smoking for over an hour, watching, waiting—for what, I am not entirely sure. Finally Holmes said, “It was a brief visit; I expect that Mr. Persano’s interview was less than satisfactory. Shall we go in? I believe the danger is well passed. Nikola’s no doubt here somewhere, watching to see how this all plays out. It would be a shame to disappoint him.”

  The vast room was undis
turbed. Persano was alive, after a fashion . . . We found two more of the remarkable worms, and no doubt Holmes has them still bobbing and nodding in jars of formaldehyde. The cylinder and star-stone we took with us also; surprisingly, their owner never called upon us for their return.

  Persano never spoke an understandable word again. From time to time he would scream out strange sounds that were completely beyond even the most capable of linguists to decipher. The cries sounded like an attempt to reproduce sounds never intended for the human throat. Persano died in a madhouse some months later; what he saw remains a mystery that he took with him to the grave.

  We did have opportunity to study the worms at leisure. They were no doubt parasites, though of several rather unusual aspects. Their ichor, upon examination, indicated a diet of metal, yet their aspect shares commonalties with certain worms native to Africa and known for boring into a human or animal host. Is it possible that their host organisms are beings of living metal?

  Whatever the aspect of the ethernauts, the sight of them drove the sanity from Persano. Indeed, while Holmes commented earlier on our inability to discern the motives of a truly alien mind, he neglected to offer any speculation as to how terrible the aspect of such a being might be and how even a strong-willed man like Persano might be blasted into madness by the sight.

  The events following that awful night were rather anticlimatic. We saw no more of Dr. Nikola, though I have reason to suspect that my friend may have had some further communication with him, perhaps on unrelated matters. As I synopsize these most unusual events of nearly thirty years ago, I cannot help but marvel at some of the things that have come to pass. Nikola’s Chinese colleague made his terrible presence felt in London, just as the doctor implied that he would. Nikola himself disappeared into the maw of the Great War, though I suspect that this vanishing is merely temporary. Can such a man as Nikola be truly gone for good? I think it unlikely. We struggle along in a hideously ruined world now, a world growing ready for the advent of a leader capable of promising and demonstrating great marvels. I suspect that the doctor will make an appearance on the world stage sooner rather than later. I do not know if he ever successfully replicated the formula which he sought, but he has had many years in which to conduct his research and recruit new allies in his pursuits.

  My friend Holmes has long since retired to an isolated farm in Sussex, where he raises bees. I learned enough of my friend’s methods to find the reasons for his avocation elementary. I can only hope his scientific experiments are successful, and that he is never tempted to move the star-stone from its place of proximity to the metal cylinder.

  The Mystery of the Hanged Man’s Puzzle

  PAUL FINCH

  Neither Holmes nor Watson had really wanted to attend.

  Watson went as far as to say he didn’t think they should. And he had good reason for that. One might argue that they were honor-bound to attend, that it was in some ways incumbent on them—after all, this was the net result of much of the work they had done together—but in the particular case of Harold Jobson, the blame rested entirely with the Metropolitan police; neither the good doctor nor his friend had been at any stage involved. Despite this, a letter from the aforementioned gentleman had arrived at 221B Baker Street on a bright May morning in 1897, in the form of a personal invitation. Even then, Holmes might not have been tempted. But there was something about the Jobson case . . . something odd and inexplicable. And then there was the letter itself, and its curious, rather ominous wording. And at the end of the day, Newgate was only a quarter of an hour’s carriage ride away.

  Jobson smiled across the table at them. He had broad, strong features and a chalky-white complexion, which under his mop of jet-black hair, looked almost ghostly. “I knew you’d come,” he said quietly.

  “Then you’re quite the prophet,” Holmes replied.

  Jobson shook his head. “It’s just that I read people well. I knew the great Sherlock Holmes would never be able to resist a matter of national, even international, importance.”

  “You made that case well in your letter. Can you enlighten us further?”

  “I can, but I won’t. Instead, I have something for you.” Jobson fished a folded scrap of paper from his trouser pocket, opened it, then turned and sought the warders’ permission. Both officers examined the item closely before exchanging bewildered shrugs and passing it over the table.

  At first glance, Holmes, too, was unable to make head or tail of it. It was a crude, pencil-drawn grid pattern, consisting of ruled lines; most were connected, forming a vague network, though there was no symmetry or identifiable configuration; most of the lines finally tapered down and merged at the right-hand side. Lying roughly in the center, though perhaps slightly to the left, at a point otherwise unreferenced, there was a small circle in red ink.

  “What is this?” Watson finally asked.

  “That’s for Mr. Holmes to fathom out,” their host replied. “In giving it to you, Holmes, I’m giving the world a chance. Of course, I owe the world precious little . . . so it’s only a slim chance. By my approximation, you have, at the most, two or three days to solve the puzzle.”

  “And if I fail?” Holmes wondered.

  Jobson leaned forward over the table, his smile becoming a ghastly sickle-shaped grin. “If you fail . . . there’ll be a calamity the like of which you have never imagined. I, of course, won’t be here to see it. But in that respect, I’ll be among the lucky ones.”

  “I’d have thought someone in your position would be seeking to make peace with his fellowmen, not leave them a legacy of hatred,” said Watson.

  “It isn’t my legacy, Dr. Watson,” the felon replied. “Don’t be lulled into the cozy misapprehension that in destroying me, the state is destroying its prime foe.” He glanced up at the clock on the gray brick wall. It read five minutes to nine. “Quite the opposite, in fact. In roughly five minutes’ time, your troubles will only just be starting.”

  A moment later, Holmes and Watson were out in the passage. With a loud clang, the cell closed behind them. Twenty yards to their left, the door stood open to a brightly lit, whitewashed chamber, in the middle of which a slender gentleman in funereal black was putting the last delicate touches to a noose.

  “Well, Holmes . . . did he have anything to say?” came a gruff voice.

  It was Lestrade. The inspector had arrived in company with two of the other detectives who’d worked on the Jobson case, but it was still a surprise to see him. The Scotland Yard man was currently, and rather notoriously, involved in the hunt for a large male crocodile that had gone missing from the zoological garden at Regent’s Park . . . an investigation which had already been the object of several humorous cartoons in Punch. It represented a considerable change of pace from his previous and more earnest hunt for Harold Jobson, the vicious murderer of five people.

  Holmes shook his head. “For once, Lestrade, both you and I are at an equal loss.”

  “Some vague ramblings,” Watson added. “Didn’t make a lot of sense.”

  The policeman harumphed, then adjusted his collar. In honor of the day, he was wearing one of his higher, stiffer ones. “I daresay the fellow is insane . . . but it was a despicable crime. He’s going to the only fate he deserves.”

  “No doubt,” Holmes said, turning on his heel and striding away. “No doubt at all.”

  And that was true. Harold Jobson’s crime had been quite despicable.

  In the dead of night, in an apparent drugged stupor—nobody could conceive that he’d gone about his heinous act while of sound mind—he’d broken into the Russell Square home of the wealthy chemist and professor Archibald Langley, intending to burglarize the property. At some point during the course of the crime, he came across two of the maids while they slept in their ground-floor room, and brutally bludgeoned them to death with his crowbar. He then went upstairs, where he attacked Professor Langley’s butler, Henry, who had risen from his bed, thinking he’d heard a noise. The loyal Henry was als
o slain, his skull battered to a pulp. Still not sated, Jobson made his way into the bedroom of the chemist’s nineteen-year-old daughter, Laura, hauled her from under her blankets, and bound her to a chair with a bellpull cord. He then went next door into Professor Langley’s bedchamber and did the same to him. What happened after this was uncertain. Very possibly, Jobson tortured the poor souls, seeking to learn the whereabouts of valuables in the house. Whether or not he did this, he left an hour later empty-handed . . . but only after he’d deliberately started a fire in the sitting room, which very quickly swept through the rest of the building, entirely gutting it, and burning the still-bound captives beyond recognition as human beings. It was to be hoped that Professor Langley and his daughter had been killed first; the evidence, however, suggested otherwise.

  As they rode back to Baker Street, Holmes mulled over the dark details of the crime. Even now, with the knowledge of the full confession obtained by the police, it made little sense.

  “Why should a fellow,” he said, “in the process of committing a crime for which he can expect at most several years’ penal servitude, for no obvious reason then go on and make it far, far worse . . . both for his victims and himself?”

  Watson shrugged. “Why try to understand the irrational? It can’t be done.”

  “I’m afraid I disagree.” For a moment, Holmes was lost in thought. “Often the most irrational acts seem rational to the perpetrator. Yet in this case, though we know a little about Jobson’s background—he came from a good family, for example, but regarded himself as a failure, and in later life took to drugs and drink—we’ve learned remarkably little about his true motives.”