With an oath, Jephson Norrys struggled to his feet and lunged forward. With all his strength, he snatched Moriarty and plunged pell-mell with him into the mouth of the vortex. I heard a strangled cry. And then, abruptly, the edges of violet-colored aura contracted. Of a sudden the jaws of the vortex snapped shut . . . with Moriarty and Norrys within. I heard a hideous crunching sound, and then something flew past my head and landed on the limestone steps above me.
In the gleam of the lamp, I saw Jephson Norrys’s hand with some few inches of his severed forearm in a bloodstained coat sleeve. The broad paddled mass of his finlike appendage pointed accusingly toward the bottom of the staircase. The rest of Norrys, and the whole of Moriarty, had quite vanished. The interdimensional vortex had closed while Jephson Norrys’s arm was inside the aperture . . . and his hand had been neatly sheared off.
The whispering voices fell silent. But now I heard again the muffled scurryings, like the sounds of unseen rats within the walls. And from somewhere nearby, in the dark, it resumed: the faint whisper of “Tekeli-li . . .”
“Really, Holmes,” I ventured, “I see no point in our tarrying here.”
“Just a moment, Doctor.” My friend reached down with one of his long arms to retrieve something, then we ascended the stairs with all speed, and soon—not soon enough for my tastes—we were in the moonlit graveyard of the priory. Not until we were well past that shunned place and safely on the road to Anchester did Holmes consent to speak.
“Evidently, Bergson and Loubachevskii were correct,” said Sherlock Holmes, pausing briefly to light his pipe before we continued down the road. “It is possible to bridge the gulf between distant points in the dimensions of space. Some unknown factor in the cellar of that priory enables it to serve as the terminus for a viaduct between Earth and elsewhere: perhaps the limestone deposits, or some peculiar mixture of the minerals which have seeped through them for centuries. Moriarty spoke of the stars being ‘right’ for his intentions: but the stars in the heavens move constantly, and bring their gravitational fields along with them . . . which may explain why Moriarty could keep the viaduct open for only such a brief time.”
We walked in silence for a moment whilst I lighted a cigar, and then Sherlock Holmes spoke again: “That vortex, Watson, is the most fiendish thing I have ever encountered, with the possible exception of the giant rat of Sumatra. Something within that vortex seemed to promise us the thing we most desired, although the promise was certainly false. I was offered a chance to commune with intellects nearly the equal of my own. Watson, I heard you cry out the name of your late beloved wife, so I can guess what you were offered. I can but hope that Jephson Norrys has found some measure of peace, and that he entered the vortex of his free will. As for Moriarty, I believe that he found his final temptation on this side of that hideous gulf between the worlds.”
“What do you mean, Holmes?”
“The Elder Gods, or whatever they were, made an unholy bargain with Moriarty,” said Sherlock Holmes. “They have snatched away his humanity, and given him darker things in return. But there is one thing that the Elder Gods cannot offer. It is something which Moriarty gave up willingly, before our encounter at the Reichenbach Falls. And yet it is something which Moriarty clearly desired, and he repented having lost it. Did you mark the expression of longing on his face? Permit me one deduction, Watson: I deduce that, in those final moments in the vortex, Moriarty was suddenly reminded of what he had lost when he squandered his humanity, his life, his very soul.”
We were nearing an inn, where two coach lamps stood sentinel in the front window. Now Sherlock Holmes held something in his outstretched hand, and by the light of the coach lamps I saw in his grasp what had fallen from Jephson Norrys’s pocket. It was the object which had momentarily distracted Moriarty, and which he had sought to retrieve: the hand-tinted Jubilee portrait of Queen Victoria.
“For one moment, Professor Moriarty remembered what it meant to be an Englishman,” said Holmes, pocketing the pasteboard as we approached the inn. “That is what Moriarty gave up in his bargain with the Old Ones . . . and not even all the infinite realms of the Elder Gods could make up for that loss. Come, Watson! I hear piano music in the saloon bar, and voices singing . . . not ‘Tekeli-li’ this time, but rather ‘Knocked ‘Em in the Old Kent Road’ . . . so it is elementary to me that this tavern is open all hours, and we shall find glad company within. Would a pint of bitter go welcome?”
Death Did Not Become Him
DAVID NIALL WILSON AND PATRICIA LEE MACOMBER
It has been many years since the events I now record took place, and even as I run through them in my mind, I’m uncertain if I should continue. There is a question of privacy involved, to be certain. There is more. I fancy that when all is said and done, these words will one day find their way into the hands of others. Still, my purpose over the years has never been to further my own reputation, and certainly I’ve been brutally honest when it comes to others.
Let me begin by mentioning the most glaring oddity of all. In this case, when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes admitted his newest client to 221B Baker Street, it was none other than myself, half-crazed and shaking like a scared dog.
Upon my arrival in the neighborhood, the clock in the church tower had chimed eleven. It was later than I had thought, and far too cold for a sane man to be about. All but one light was out in Holmes’s flat and I assumed him to be asleep. It did not matter. The burden of that night was too much to bear alone, and at the very least I needed the comfort of my old friend’s solid intellect.
I paced, until my shoes threatened to wear ruts in the sidewalk. I wanted desperately to turn around and return to my own home, have a brisk shot of brandy, and slide between the cool sheets of my bed. What I most emphatically did not want was to see my relationship with Holmes tainted by the appearance of insanity. Still, there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead, and I finally dashed for the door in desperation, wanting to reach it before my traitorous feet turned away yet again. Before I could raise my hand to the door knocker, the door swung inward, and I found myself stumbling to a clumsy halt, staring into the grinning countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“Do come in, Watson,” Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye that set my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Another few paces and you’ll wear the leather from your soles.” As he took in my own expression, Holmes grew more serious, and he closed the door quickly behind us, taking my coat.
“I’m terribly sorry about the hour, Holmes,” I blurted, “But the matter simply can’t wait.”
“I gathered from the odd slant of your hat and the mismatching of buttons that this was a matter of some importance,” he replied. He turned and disappeared into his study, and I hurried to catch up with him. When I reached the dimly lit room, he was already in his chair, legs stretched out before him and fingers pressed together under his chin. “So tell me what brings you out so late on a cold night.”
“I’ve come to offer you a new client, Holmes.”
“But you’ve come alone. Who, then, would your client be?”
I watched him for a moment, steepling his fingers and staring at me, eyes twinkling. I knew he had already deduced my reply, but I made it anyway. “It is I, Holmes. This time, it is I who seeks your aid.”
The skin around his eyes drew taut and his lips pursed. “Very well, Watson. Why don’t you sit down, take a brandy, and tell me your story.”
I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the events of the evening flow back into my consciousness, telling the tale as best I could. I knew any detail I left out, or forgot, might prove the one thing Holmes needed to see through it all as nonsense, so I was careful. The brandy helped. This is the tale I told.
It was but a few hours before when a knock came at my door. It was later than I was accustomed to accepting callers. I immediately assumed it to be you, Holmes. Who else would call on me at such an hour? My heart quickened at the thought of adventure, and I hastened to open the door.
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The man who met my gaze was gaunt, tall, and weathered as if he’d spent long years on the deck of a ship, or working a farm. His complexion was dark, and his coat clung to him like a shroud. I could make out two others standing directly behind him in the gloom.
“Dr. Watson,” he asked, his voice sharp and edgy.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I countered. “I’m Watson, and you are? My God, man, do you know the time?”
“I am well aware of the time,” the man answered. “My business with you cannot wait.”
The man held forth a sheet of paper, pressing it toward my nose as if I could read it in the dark. “Did you sign this?” he asked sharply.
“I can’t see what it is from here,” I said. “Step inside Mr. . . .”
“Silverman,” he said, stepping hurriedly through the doorway. “Aaron Silverman. My companions are Mr. Sebastian Jeffries and . . . well, read the paper, and you may see who else accompanies me.”
I knew I should have told the men to return by daylight, but I’d invited them in, and the deed was done. I glanced at the other two, who remained silent. The first was a white-haired old chap with ruddy features and wide, bulging eyes. His cheeks were overly full, making his lip drape oddly downward. I didn’t know him. The third wore a dark coat, as did Silverman, and a hat pulled down to hide the features of his face.
I glanced back to the paper and began to read. It was a death certificate. I had signed it only a week before, pronouncing one Michael Adcott dead of a knife wound to the back. Mr. Adcott had been out too late in the wrong part of town, and apparently someone had fancied his wallet.
“What has this to do with any of you?” I asked bluntly.
“Mr. Jeffries,” the first man explained, “is my solicitor. I should say, he is my cousin’s solicitor. I’m not certain if you would have been told, but there was a sizable fortune—a tontine—involved in the death. Michael was one of only two surviving members of the tontine, and upon the declaration of his death, the courts moved to deliver the tontine’s assets to a Mr. Emil Laroche.
“I knew of no tontine,” I said, “but I see no way I can help you in such a matter. Mr. Adcott died, and as I understand such arrangements, that would indicate that the courts were in the right.”
“So you say,” Silverman said, “and yet, you would be—for the second time this week—mistaken.”
I blinked at him. “Mistaken? How—”
Silverman held up a hand, then turned to his third companion.
“Michael?”
My heart nearly stopped. The man removed his hat slowly, staring at me through eyes I’d seen glazed and closed so few days in the past. He didn’t seem to see me, not really, and yet he reacted to Silverman’s words with perfect understanding. The dazed, haunted expression of those eyes burned into my mind, and I had to shake my head to clear the sensation of—something—something dark and deep. Something wrong.
“This is quite impossible,” I stated. “There is no way this can be the same Michael Adcott that I examined earlier in the week. That man had sustained a direct stab wound to the back, penetrating a lung, and he lay dead in the street at least an hour before I arrived on the scene. There was a constable on the spot—Johnston was his name.”
“And yet,” Silverman said, holding up one hand to silence me, “Michael Adcott stands and breathes before you, a very alive, and suddenly destitute, man. Only your intervention, Dr. Watson, can prevent a horrid miscarriage of justice.”
This was a strange situation, to be certain, but I fancy that I’ve acquitted myself well in any number of odd happenings over the years. Without hesitation, I stepped closer and stared at the man before me. He wavered back and forth, as if his legs barely held him upright, and I squinted, trying to find some fault between my memory of the dead man and the one who’d disturbed my evening.
“Impossible,” I muttered, stepping back. “Preposterous.”
Silverman eyed me coldly. “And yet, a fact that is difficult to deny, I suspect,” he said shortly.
At this, the plump man, who’d remained silent until that moment, stepped forward, fumbling a monocle from his breast pocket and perching it on the bridge of his nose with a palsied hand. The lens teetered, and I was nearly certain it would drop from its perch before he could steady it, but miraculously the man got it under control. He lifted a small sheaf of papers, bringing them closer so he could glance at them through the lens.
“It would seem,” he spoke, the words slow and forced, “that we have a situation before us requiring the utmost in haste and discretion.”
“You would be Mr. Jeffries,” I stated, not waiting for an answer. “I would expect, sir, that of all gathered here, you would be first to note the absurdity of the claim laid before me. Dead men do not pry themselves from the grave, no matter the fiscal windfall it might provide themselves or others. This man cannot be Michael Adcott.”
Jeffries glanced up from his papers quickly, nearly sending the monocle flying. “I assure you, Dr. Watson, that he is. I have served the Adcotts for the past twenty years as solicitor, and I know my client when he stands before me.”
“Which would lead me to believe, sir, that you have mistakenly pronounced Mr. Adcott dead.” Silverman folded his hands in front of him and peered down his nose at me.
I must say that I would rather admit to an error in judgment than to the possibility of the walking dead. All evidence and proof aside, I needed them gone just then.
“Return here tomorrow at four sharp and I’ll have the answers you seek,” I told them, shoving the papers at Silverman and marching them forward.
Holmes had grown contemplative; his eyes were focused, but not, I think, on any point in the reality we shared. Leaning forward in my chair, hands on my knees, I gazed at him anxiously and finished.
“With the house again empty and my heart still beating a savage rhythm in my chest, I could think of only one thing to do, and that was to bring the matter to you.”
Holmes eyes shifted, and he rose suddenly. “And well you did, my dear Watson, well you did indeed.”
He was already walking toward the door, wearing an uncharacteristically distracted expression. “I must see to some things, Watson,” he said suddenly. “And you must rest, old friend. When the sun has risen a little higher in the sky, we shall see what we can find.”
“But, have you no thoughts on this matter?” I cried.
“Thoughts are often all that we have, Watson. There is nothing that I can say for certain, but I do have—thoughts. That is for tomorrow. Go and get some rest.”
With that, he opened the door, and I could think of nothing to say or do, other than to stumble out into the night and off toward home, wondering if my old friend now thought me daft. The sky was already stained a deep bloodred with the sunrise.
Silverman glanced furtively to either side, then slipped through a massive wooden door and into the depths of the squat, monolithic building beyond. The exterior was dingy brick; even the soot and grime seemed soiled, and there was an oily sheen to the place, gleaming sickly in the early-morning light.
He carried a case under one arm, and he’d come on foot. No coach waited outside that door, nor did anyone spot his entry. There had been precious little traffic through those doors in recent years, and what there was, men tended to ignore. Such knowledge was best left to others, or to no one at all. It was a dark place, and the screams of those who’d entered and never been freed echoed through the air surrounding the place like a hum of electricity. So it seemed to some.
The Asylum of St. Elian had been closed for reasons never released to the public. There were rumors of dark experiments, of torture and sin, but they were not often repeated, and usually died before reaching the level of greatness. There was nothing good in the building, and if it hadn’t required actual contact with the place, most would have been happy to wield one of the hammers that would bring it down.
Silverman had found no trouble at all in renting a po
rtion of the fading edifice, and with Jeffries handling the legalities and paperwork, had managed to do so with near anonymity, the solicitor having been granted the right to sign on Silverman’s behalf. The laboratory of St. Elian’s, and the ward nearest that foul place, had come under Silverman’s control easily and without contest. Even the homeless and the drunks had avoided the place. It was empty and lifeless as a tomb, and that suited Aaron Silverman just fine.
Now he made his way down the dark main corridor and fumbled a large skeleton key from one pocket of his jacket, balancing the leather case precariously under one arm. He’d cleaned up as much as was possible—or necessary—but the old lock ground its metal tumblers together in a sound near to disbelief at the intrusion of his key. St. Elian’s hadn’t welcomed him gladly.
Once inside, Silverman wasted no time. He moved about the room, bringing the dim lights to life and placing the wooden case carefully on a bench just inside the door. The laboratory was much as he’d found it. There had been a great deal of equipment left behind when the building closed, and none had felt the urge to return and clear it away. The thought of the use it might have seen was enough to slap away even the greediest of fingers. Silverman had carted in, late at night and under cloak of the deep London fog, the last remaining bits of what he’d dragged from his father’s home—his inheritance.
Despite the hum and glow of the lamps, shadows clung like swamp lichen to every surface and bit of furniture. Silverman shivered; then, irritated with himself, he drew forth a box of matches and lit the large oil lamp on the table beside his case. Turning up the wick, he watched as the flame licked upward, flared, and settled. Standing in the pool of light this created, he felt a little of the spell of the unease lifting and drew a deep breath.
There was little time, and there was no room for delays, or hesitation. Silverman flipped open the case and stared down at the contents. The interior was lined in rich velvet. In slots manufactured to accommodate their exact shape and size, a line of six vials rested. The first three were empty. In the next two slots, a greenish liquid roiled. It was not quiescent, as it should have been, sitting still on the table. It swirled and curled toward the edges of the vials, reaching up the sides and falling back down—as if trying to escape. The sixth and last of the vials contained a flat red powder. Silverman stared for a few moments longer, as if mesmerized.
Shadows over Baker Street Page 40
