Shadows over Baker Street

by John Pelan;Michael Reaves

  As I left the room I encountered Holmes in the hall. He looked even more preoccupied than usual, and I made an attempt at jocularity. “So, Holmes, once again the game’s afoot, eh?”

  He did not return my smile. “It is no game this time, Watson.” Before I could ask him what he meant by that, we had rejoined Miriam, and Mrs. Hudson was announcing the hansom’s arrival.

  As we waited for the cabbie to tuck our bags into the boot, enduring a sudden chilly and damp wind that threatened to blow away our hats, Miriam said, “Mr. Holmes, it seems as if you already have a destination in mind.”

  “Indeed, madam, I do. We shall take the train to Guilford Station, and a carriage across the river to East Molesy. The man we seek is Professor George Coombs, who maintains a house outside of town.”

  Miriam looked at Holmes, her expression more one of curiosity than the more common reaction of incredulity. “How can you know this?”

  “From your description of him, madam. Professor Coombs is a man with a powerful build, black hair and beard, and blue eyes.”

  Miriam frowned. “I hazard to say, sir, that there must be more than a few men in England who would answer to that same description.”

  Holmes gave her the briefest of smiles. “Of course. But not that many who have a knife scar across the palm. The professor received that wound warding off an attack from a hashish cultist while in India some years ago. Assassins, they are called, after the drug that incites them to suicidal madness. Normally they employ strangling cords for their foul work, but I understand that the professor, who was something of a pugilist in his university days, thwarted the initial attack, so that the would-be killer had to resort to a blade. Which obviously also failed, since our Mr. Coombs is still with us.”

  Miriam looked somewhat doubtful. Of course I knew that Holmes would not have engaged a taxi on this scant evidence; there would be more. It was not long in coming: “Professor Coombs is an archaeologist, attached of late to Lord Richard Penshurst’s recent expedition to the Khyber Pass. Penshurst is a gifted amateur, and wise enough to engage properly credentialed assistants when he mounts these forays. According to the Times, the group is recently returned with a plethora of items that have been donated to the British Museum.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wiser, then, to check the museum first?”

  A quick frown flitted across Holmes’s saturnine face, and I suppressed a smile. He did not care overmuch for advice, certainly not from those he considered his intellectual inferiors, a category which included nearly everyone. I have even heard him argue at length with his brother Mycroft, whom he considers perhaps his only superior in mental capacity, though I have my doubts upon that score.

  “No, madam, for had such a document as you describe been delivered to the museum, it would have been on the list of items so donated. Since I have seen this list, and since the manuscript is not upon it, I deem it more likely that the professor has kept it for further study. East Molesy is our destination.”

  To the southwest from London, an hour or so by train, Guilford is a town with an academic bent, the local college being well thought of in certain circles. Professor Coombs, who was an Oxford man and therefore not attached to the local school, lived on the outskirts of Molesy; his family owned a residential property there, and a professor’s salary, even when from private sources, is not so great as all that.

  This Holmes explained to us on the train as we steamed through the intermittently sunny English countryside. The colors of autumn were upon the land—reds, yellows, and golds—quite pleasant, if such things mattered to one. Holmes, of course, never evidenced much interest in nature per se, though he did remark upon a cluster of boxy white bee hives crowning a hill we passed. The precise construction of bee society and their hives had always seemed of particular fascination to him. Having seen some men swell up like corpses left three days in the tropical sun from naught but bee stings, I held a certain medical interest in the insects, but nothing to the extent with which Holmes viewed them.

  After we had journeyed for a couple of hours, Holmes appeared to doze, and once again I found myself alone, after a fashion, with Miriam. I felt the need to talk to her of our past.

  “Miriam—”

  “Later, John,” she said, as if sensing my thoughts. “We will speak of these things later.”

  Frustrated to no small degree, I subsided. Perhaps she sensed this as well, for she said with a smile, “Do you remember a peculiar stone you showed me once? You said you found it in a dry watercourse near Khusk-i-Nakhud.”

  “Yes. A strange bit of rock, evidently meteoric in origin,” I said. “Odd you should make mention of it; I fancy it rather a good-luck charm, and have brought it along.”

  “Do you have it with you now?”

  I produced the stone from my pocket. Her face lit with a smile, and she held out her hand. I tendered it to her.

  She ran her fingers over it lightly, her eyes half closed; it seemed to be almost a sensual pleasure for her, as if the touch of it roused some pleasant tactile memory. After a moment she sighed, and offered it back to me.

  “Keep it,” I said.

  “I couldn’t.”

  “It would please me if you did. It came from your country, after all.”

  She smiled, though in her expression was a hint of mystery. “Thank you, John,” she said softly. “I will treasure it more than you can know.” After a moment, she raised her hands behind her neck, unclasped the charm that hung there, and held it out to me. “A gift for a gift. Please.”

  “Miriam, you don’t have to—”

  “Take it, John,” she urged me. “It will keep us close together, always, no matter the distance between us.”

  Touched by the sentiment, I accepted. We said no more, but settled into a comfortable and companionable silence as the train continued.

  British railways run like fine clocks, and thus we arrived in due course at Guilford Station just before evening, and engaged a hansom. The clouds that had partially obscured the sun were now thickening, and the threat of rain grew stronger during the trip to Professor Coombs’s house, which, as Holmes had said, was in the countryside beyond the town proper. By the time we arrived the rain had sent heralding drops, and we barely attained the porch before the skies opened up with a pounding, wind-lashed downpour. Through the rain I noticed, as we drove up the winding lane, the vague outlines of a small hill or mound in the fields behind the place.

  The doorbell was answered by a large, rough-looking butler who, it seemed to me, would be more at home on a wharf loading heavy cargo than working as a man’s man. His clothes fit well enough, but he did not look comfortable in them. Since our visit was impromptu and without appointment, and as Holmes has always been somewhat impatient with the social graces, I took it upon myself to introduce ourselves and to inquire if the professor might be persuaded to see us. The butler took our hats and bags, showed us to a modest but well-appointed parlor, and lumbered off to speak to his master.

  I have never been, nor do I expect ever to be, in Holmes’s league when it comes to observation; however, even I noticed that Miriam seemed anxious, lacing and unlacing her fingers and smoothing and adjusting her garments nervously as we waited. Twice she stood, took a few steps in different directions, then returned to her chair. Her high level of concern over the danger represented by the Arab’s manuscript was evident. I would have attempted to reassure her, but something in her manner—her movements seemed oddly formal, almost as though she were performing a series of gesticulations by rote—coupled with her earlier reticience, prevented me from doing so. Holmes seemed to have noticed it as well; he watched her with his usual clinical detachment.

  A short time passed, during which the only sounds were the rustling of crinoline and the loud ticking of a grandfather clock. At length the apish butler returned. With him, judging by Miriam’s and Holmes’s descriptions, was Professor Coombs. I appraised him with my physician’s eye. He was tall, well made, and sound of limb from
his motions, athletic in appearance, and tanned darkly.

  Again, I made introductions. Coombs did not appear to be surprised to learn our identities.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Your reputations precede you, sirs. I am honored, if a trifle puzzled, by your visit. And Miss Shah.” He bowed. “Have we met? You seem familiar.”

  “We have, sir, after a fashion. Though you would not have seen my face, as I would have been veiled.”

  “Of course.” He sat, as did we, and offered us claret, to which we demurred. “What brings you two gentlemen from London? And you, madam, from the Eastern lands?”

  “Come now, Professor,” Holmes said. “There is no need to be disingenuous. We are here to speak of the Kitab al-Azif.”

  Coombs’s smile was a flash of white against the darkness of his beard. “You are a direct man, Mr. Holmes, as I have heard. Let me be equally as blunt. What business is it of yours?”

  Holmes replied smoothly, “Miss Shah’s concerns stem from a worry as to its possible . . . misuse.”

  Coombs raised an eyebrow. “And is this a concern shared by Sherlock Holmes? A rationalist known for his powers of deduction? You are an Englishman and an intellectual, sir—surely you do not subscribe to such beliefs as the al-Azif espouses?”

  I expected a quick reply from Holmes affirming this, but I was surprised. “My research into this topic is not yet complete,” he replied, his voice even. “However, I am unwilling to dismiss the underlying premise out of hand.”

  Coombs nodded, tugging at his beard. “You are wiser than I have been led to believe, sir. There are things under God’s heaven that seem impossible to any modern nineteenth-century mind yet which are in fact quite real.” His expression darkened. “Over the years and in my travels, I have seen some of these things, and I have become a believer, albeit a reluctant one.”

  Holmes did not speak to this. After a moment, Coombs continued. “Miss Shah may rest easy. I guarantee the manuscript will not be misused. It is part of my personal collection of antiques and curiosa.” He rose. “I apologize for seeming brusque, but my schedule today—”

  “You have the al-Azif here, then?” Miriam interjected.

  Coombs looked at her. During his speech she had diminished, but not ceased, her patterns of anxious movement. Coombs now seemed to take note of this. His eyes narrowed, and some wordless communion seemed to pass between them. A look of mingled fear and anger filled his face. I saw Holmes lean forward, watching them intently.

  “I had not expected you so soon,” Coombs said to Miriam. He raised his voice. “Bradley!”

  The butler reappeared. In his oversized hand he held a Webley .38 Bulldog, like the one I had in my valise. Exactly like mine, I realized, recognizing with a start the custom ivory grips I had caused to be installed on the revolver some years ago. The thug had evidently searched our baggage.

  I have never considered myself primarily a man of action, though certainly my time in Her Majesty’s service exposed me to more than my share of turmoil in foreign lands. And, while most of the investigations upon which Holmes and I have ventured have been relatively peaceful, there have been times when a stout heart, aided by a quick wit and quicker movements, have been necessary for survival. So it was that the instant I discerned my weapon in the brute’s grip, I slipped my own hand into my jacket pocket and quickly removed the cosh, palming it and holding it thus hidden upon my lap. The butler did not appear to notice my action.

  Meanwhile, Coombs spoke to Holmes but kept his gaze upon Miriam. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but you have involved yourself in matters much more complex than you comprehend. I cannot allow the manuscript out of my keeping. Especially to one such as her.”

  He spoke this last sentence with an expression of disgust akin to that which a white man might voice about a wog with leprosy.

  If I live to be a thousand, I shall never forget what transpired next. Miriam—dear, sweet Miriam, who had brought me back from Death’s door with her own gentle hands—glared at Coombs, her expression one of concentrated evil and fury that seemed inhuman in its intensity. Then she spoke, uttering a short, harsh two-word expression in a language I did not recognize. The discordant timbre of her voice grated painfully in my ears.

  “N’gêb Yalh’tñf!”

  Coombs suddenly lurched to one side, clutched at his chest, and collapsed, as a man suffering a fatal cardiac convulsion might.

  Bradley, the butler, stepped in and leveled my revolver at the back of Miriam’s head. He meant to shoot—I saw his finger tighten on the trigger, saw the hammer begin to cock, the cylinder begin to turn, chambering the round to be fired. This all happened in a kind of measured motion, as if time were somehow stretching. In that elongated moment, the only sound I could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock, which suddenly seemed loud enough for a timepiece the size of Big Ben.

  Then sound and movement rushed back to fill the momentary vacuum. I realized I had leaped to my feet. I heard Holmes yell, “Watson, no!” But I had already jumped for the butler and brought my cosh down on the man’s arm, just above his wrist. I distinctly heard the bone crack. That would be the radius, I found myself thinking.

  Bradley howled in pain and dropped the gun. But he was a burly brute and, broken arm notwithstanding, he turned to grapple with me.

  I fancy that I can handle myself as well as most civilized men in a bout of fisticuffs, but this was not a boxing ring. This thug was half again my size and obviously a brawler who had never heard of the Marquess of Queensbury. I did not hesitate to employ the cosh again.

  The advantage to being a doctor of medicine in a tussle is a good knowledge of anatomy. My next strike deadened the ulnar nerve and paralyzed the butler’s left arm; even so, I had to duck as he nearly took my head off with a haymaker punch thrown by his broken right. My third strike with the cosh was to his right temple. It stunned him, but it took another hit to his skull to complete the process. Bradley fell, unconscious.

  Holmes knelt next to Coombs, who was trying to talk. I looked about anxiously for Miriam, but saw no sign of her. She had apparently fled the room while I was dealing with the butler.

  I stepped to Holmes’s side; he was cradling the fallen professor’s head in one hand. Coombs looked up at us, and his eyes were filled with a fear I had never before seen, not even in the eyes of men dying on the front lines. “B-behind the house,” he managed. “In the cromlech! Hurry!”

  These were his final words, for they were followed by the unmistakable sounds of his death rattle.

  Holmes whipped about to face me. “Watson! Does she have the stone?”

  I was by this time, I admit, in something of a state of shock. “What?”

  “The good-luck piece you sometimes carry!” There was an intensity in his expression that I had never seen before or since. “Does she have it?”

  “I—yes. What’s this all about, Holmes?”

  But he was already on his feet and rushing for the parlor door. “Out the rear entrance!” He flung back over his shoulder. “Hurry, if you want the world to see another dawn! And bring your revolver!”

  Bewildered, and more than a little frightened, I snatched the gun from the butler’s limp grasp and followed.

  I left the rear entrance of the house a few steps behind Holmes. It was raining with almost tropical ferocity now, and full night was upon us. A flicker of lightning showed me our destination: A cromlech—an ancient burial mound probably dating back to the Neolithic. Holmes dashed up the winding path and under the shelter of the huge capstone. When I regained his side, he had already struck a match and set aflame a makeshift torch, which was little more than a wooden club with the blunt end wrapped in dry reeds and grasses. By its wavering light I saw it was one of several on the ground before the mound’s entrance. Holmes picked up a second torch, ignited it from his, and handed it to me. “Keep your gun ready,” he whispered. “And pray it will be effective.” With that enigmatic statement he started into the narrow pa
ssage.

  The ceiling barely allowed us room to walk upright. The walls were drystone, broken occasionally by the darker entrances to several interior burial chambers. The central passage led steeply down, twisting back and forth to mitigate the precipitous descent. I had to swallow more than once to equalize the pressure of my inner ears with that of the tomb’s dank atmosphere.

  At last we reached a level floor. A few paces farther the passage ended at the entrance to a large cist carved from the subterranean rock. And in that chamber, by the light of our torches, was revealed a scene which my mind at first refused to comprehend.

  Miriam stood next to what appeared to be a stone altar, bounded on either side by stelae. Petroglyphs were carved into these stone pillars—sigils that seemed, in the uncertain light, to writhe and dance on the rocky surfaces. Atop the altar lay two tall stacks of ancient parchment, one higher than the other. I could barely make out the faded, cryptic scrawl that represented the thoughts, experiences, and fears of the mad Arab, set down by his own hand centuries ago. I realized that this must be the complete Kitab al-Azif; the book of which the Necronomicon was but the merest fragment.

  Lying on the altar before it was my lucky stone, though I scarcely recognized it. It glowed, pulsing with a chatoyant light that shifted through a dark spectrum of colors I could not name.

  Miriam did not notice us at first; she was occupied with chanting phrases in that same ear-smiting language she had spoken upstairs only moments ago. My senses reeled as I tried to comprehend this phantasmagorical scene. What was happening could not be happening. The very air seemed to be alive and visible, swirling like fog and smoke on a cold London winter’s eve, as those bizarre syllables, utterly inhuman in their cadence, reverberated about us:

  “Wyülgn mefh’ngk fhgah’n r’tíhgl, khlobå lhu mhwnfgth . . .”

  I realized Holmes was speaking to me, his voice urgent and barely audible over Miriam’s chant. “Shoot, Watson, shoot!”