CONTENTS
Cover
Also by G.S. Denning and available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Adventure of the Blackened Beryls
Silver Blaze: Murder Horse
The Reigateway to Another World
The Adventure of the Solitary Tricyclist
The Hell-hound of the Baskervilles
Part I: From the Journal of DR. John Watson
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part II: From Some Nebulous, Undefined Source
10
11
12
Watson’s Note
Part III: Once Again, from the Journals of DR. John Watson
13
14
15
16
17
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by G.S. Denning and available from Titan Books
WARLOCK HOLMES
A Study in Brimstone
My Grave Ritual (May 2018)
TITAN BOOKS
Warlock Holmes: The Hell-hound of the Baskervilles
Print edition ISBN: 9781783299737
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783299744
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: May 2017
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2017 G.S. Denning
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
To Baba Yaga, my own feeble but beloved hound.
To my in-laws, George and Stephanie, whose ridiculously low estimation of what they should charge me in rent financed this book.
To the readers and fans who supported book 1. Thank you. I’ll keep churning out adventures if you keep reading ’em.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLACKENED BERYLS
“MADAM, SURRENDER YOUR POSIES!”
I raised my voice and brandished my cane as I said it, as if to proclaim, “I am John Watson! A doctor! A man of worth and station! Would you dare to refuse me my desire? Would you?”
My flower-girl opponent was unimpressed. She raised an eyebrow, stuck out a hip and laughed. “I’ll surrender more than that, guv’na.”
“No. I don’t want more than that. I thought I made it especially clear. I want your flowers.”
“Yeah… me flowers…”
“No! Well… yes… but from your tone I can tell that we are still discussing two very different transactions. Honestly, I want the actual flowers. Those blooms. Those posies. Those colorful things you are holding in your left hand that grew on the tops of plants. That is what I want. How can I be more clear?”
“What, these?” she asked, pointing at the battered bouquet.
“Yes! Thank God, yes.”
“But… you just gave me two shillings.”
“I know.”
“Nobody pays two shillings for a handful of dead posies.”
“I did! Or anyway, I am certainly trying to.”
“No. Didn’t you realize what we was talking about?” she asked, pointing at her lap.
“I never was! This conversation has always regarded actual, real, in no way double-entendre-fied flowers! Now hand them over, if you please.”
“No!”
“Why the hell not?” I howled. A few heads turned. I drew forth my handkerchief, wiped some of the frustration sweat from my brow and tried again. “I apologize for my language, madam. But… why not?”
“Constables will run me off, if they sees me with no flowers! How can I be a flower girl if I ain’t holdin’ flowers?”
“How can you be a flower girl if you refuse to sell flowers?”
For an instant, it looked as if I were to have a particularly saucy answer to that, but her eye caught a flash of blue and she hissed, “Aww, bollocks! It’s the coppers.”
By the time the constable had reached us, every trace of annoyance was gone from her tone, replaced by sappy-sweet coquettishness. She gave a clumsy curtsey and cooed, “Ooh… Hallo, Tony.”
“Wot’s all this, then?” Constable Tony wanted to know.
“Constable, I am trying to purchase flowers from this young lady, here.”
“Gaw! And you just up and admit it, to an officer of the law? I shall have to ask both of you to accompany me to the station, forthwith!”
“No. Please. I am not propositioning any indecent services. I wish to purchase those flowers, right there. How could that be illegal?”
A look of consternation crossed Constable Tony’s face and he turned to ask my flower girl, “Wot’s he talking about, Molly?”
“I dunno,” she shrugged. “He says he wants the actual flowers.”
“What, those?”
“Yes!” I cried.
“But Molly’s a prostitute, don’t you see?”
“Yes! But I don’t care! Those! Those flowers! That is what I want! That is what I paid for! Give them to me!”
Constable Tony recoiled from me. He scanned me from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes and back again, searching for any clue that would allow him to understand my peculiar fancies. Finally he grunted, “Well, you’re a right sick one, ain’t ya?”
* * *
Thank heaven for small mercies: there was a florist on the way home from the police station. I think it must have taken me almost an hour to make my case that trying to buy flowers from a flower girl was not yet a crime. At last, the sergeant on duty was forced to admit that I had broken no written law and that he was therefore compelled to release me, but that he personally found my lifestyle disgusting and that I really ought to look to my eternal soul.
By the time I reached the florist, my hands were shaking such that I could hardly count out my coins. Despite my recent return to poverty, I bought as many flowers as I could carry. Funny, less than half a year before, I had been watching my funds dwindle and feared I would be unable to purchase food to sustain me. Now, though procuring edibles would soon become problematic, my chiefest worry was obtaining flowers.
What a horrible risk it was turning out to be. I’d given the police a false name and escaped before it was put to paper, but… simply trying to get flowers from a flower girl had brought my affairs before the law. If they’d had reason to examine my doings—or worse, my home—I’d have still been in custody, bound for the gallows.
I put my head down and headed back to 221B Baker Street. I was just mounting the stairs to my rooms, when a tiny, pink-clad whippet of a woman lunged forth and blocked my path.
“Aaugh! Mrs. Hudson!”
“Where is Holmes?”
“I’ve told you: he’s vacationing in the south of France.”
“Why’s he gone so long? He’s late with me rent.”
“He has assured me that the rent is on its way. Patience, Mrs. Hudson.”
I began pushing my armload of flowers up against her. If only I could drive her back with th
em, I could slip past her, up to my door.
“Yes, but where is Holmes, eh?” she protested, working her way around my floral shield, maneuvering to stay between myself and my flat.
“We’ve just been over that, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Well… What’s the idea with all these flowers, then? How many you got up there anyways? You been bringin’ armloads of ’em home for weeks. Me whole house stinks like rotting delphiniums!”
“Yes, so sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I am engaged in a botany experiment. Very important. Detective work, you know. Lives may hinge on its outcome. Though they may seem humble, these flowers are for science. Science!”
She stared up at me. Her hate was unguarded and unbounded.
“Er… except these…” I mumbled, selecting a little yellow nosegay, “these are for you.”
Her gaze wavered for just an instant, before she slapped the proffered pansies from my grasp. They careened to the floor and exploded into a sad little could of petals, stems and misplaced expectations.
“Yes… Well… Good day, Mrs. Hudson.”
With a final lunge, I flew clear of her and through the safety of my own door, which I flung shut against her.
“I want me rent!” cried her muffled voice from without.
“Yes. I know. Holmes though, don’t you see? South of France, and all that.”
I stood there, gasping for breath with my ear against the door. I tried to control my breathing, listening for Mrs. Hudson’s step upon the stairs. At last, she shuffled off. I pressed my face amongst my hard-won flora and… wept? I could hardly tell. I was certainly shaking. Just as certainly despairing. I was lost once again. In the longer view, I had no idea what to do with my life, or even how to sustain it. At least, in the short view, I knew exactly what I must do.
I went into the smaller bedroom and began packing flowers around the rotting corpse of Warlock Holmes.
* * *
I was wakened by a long, rattling gasp.
“Stop it,” I said.
I nearly slid from my book pile. It was a sort of throne I had built myself in Holmes’s room as I realized just how much time I was spending in there. I had a few blankets on it and a handy side-table constructed of ancient tomes of unspeakable evil, upon which I often balanced a cup of tea.
I looked about, blearily. I could not tell the hour, but it must have been deep within the night. I could see out through Holmes’s door to the window in my own room. Outside, London was all but silent. The promise of dawn was some hours off, but by the sputtering light of the gas lamps, I could see an unseasonably late snow was falling. The lamp below my window cast ghostly shadows upon my ceiling as the flakes fell past.
I knew what was coming next. I did not relish it, but I leaned in to wait nonetheless. What if it didn’t come, you see? If it did not come then I was free. My guilt would be by no means assuaged and my future still uncertain, but I would be relieved of the terrible burden Holmes had become. I got my stethoscope and placed it to his chest.
“Lub.”
And then, some twelve or fifteen seconds later, “Dub.”
The breath he had drawn fell back out, escaping betwixt his dried and shrunken lips.
“Stop it, I say! I have told you this before, Holmes: the dead do not breathe! Nor are they possessed of beating hearts! You’re doing it all wrong!”
Holmes had no rebuttal.
“I do not mean to be a complaining sort of fellow and I do not mean to harp upon your faults, but… can’t you do anything right? Even expire? Can’t you do that?”
Holmes remained pensively quiet, as had become his habit—one he’d formed shortly after I poisoned him, kicked fire in his face and shot him twice through the chest. Which had been partly his fault, if I’m honest. I mean, he’d been possessed by the spirit of Professor James Moriarty and had just claimed ownership of me. What was I supposed to have done?
“Look here, Holmes, I’m sorry for what I did. You know I am. But you mustn’t do this to me. Either you are dead, or you are not. Now, you haven’t moved in almost a month. Your front half is all dry and crackly. Your back half, down amongst the flowers, seems to have gone to juice and rot. I am positive that mattress is ruined. Ruined! You are clearly dead! So stop all this breathing nonsense, won’t you?”
Since castigation made no difference, I turned to cajoling.
“Just stop. As soon as that breath is gone, as soon as that heart is still, I can chop you up and sneak you out of here. Won’t that be nice? I can bury you, then. Or burn you. Or throw you—chunk by chunk—into the Thames. Whatever you prefer. But our current position is untenable, Holmes. I need you to make up your mind, don’t you see?”
He didn’t see. His eyes were open, but they were shrunk back inside his head like tiny, month-old poached eggs.
We had reached our nightly impasse. I pulled the blankets up around my chin and settled back onto my throne. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my own bed. I missed it, in a way. But I never slept there anymore.
* * *
At a quarter past eight in the morning I was woken again. A positive flurry of blows erupted upon my front door, along with a man’s deep voice calling, “Holmes! Holmes! For God’s sake, Warlock Holmes! Answer your door!”
I jerked into wakefulness, fell off my book-throne and blearily stammered, “Augh! Help! South of France!”
Gathering my wits somewhat, I stumbled towards the front room, calling, “I am sorry, sir. Warlock Holmes is unavailable at the moment. He is… indisposed.”
“Let me in, I say! I need him!”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Holmes is taking his holiday in the south of France and cannot be reached. So you see—”
“But he must help me!”
“He cannot help you. Warlock Holmes cannot help anybody right now!”
This did not dissuade my visitor, who began throwing his whole weight against our door repeatedly, crying, “Please! Please! He must steal the Beryl Coronet from me! He’s the only man who can!”
“Yes, but as I’ve been telling you, he can’t. Now stop causing a scene, sir, and be on your way.”
“Don’t you see?” the man howled. “I have in my possession a powerful magical artifact. He has to steal it!”
“Well, he can’t.”
“He must steal my resurrection crown!”
“Your what?”
“Resurrection crown!”
“…”
“…”
“Won’t you come in?”
The gentleman’s name was Alexander Holder, which, he explained, was more than only a name. It was his family’s job, since antiquity. Once I had introduced myself as Warlock Holmes’s assistant (and the only help he was likely to get) he threw up his hands, violated sworn secrecy and told me all.
“My home is built over an ancient catacomb,” he said. “It is a magical place, deeply enchanted. Few can see it. Fewer can open it. As such, it has not been… overly subject to the rigors of the law. It’s safer than any bank. Moreover, it is good for storing things no reputable bank would touch. Mysterious things. Evil things. For centuries my family has been paid to guard this repository of secrets. Most people cannot even see the vault door. If it is closed, their gaze will slide away from it like water off wax. Even if it could be found, it cannot be opened except by one who is Holder by blood and also by law. If a family member is stripped of his name or forsworn, he cannot open the vault. Oh, if only I had forsworn my son! If only!”
“Your own son? Why do you say so?” I asked.
“Because he stole from me!” Holder flung a battered black case onto my table and opened the catches. Within lay a circular depression lined with flesh-colored velvet. In this lay a broken gold fixture holding three black crystalline rocks. It was clearly a fragment of a larger whole. He took it out and set it on the table before me.
“Behold: the Beryl Coronet,” Holder announced, with a flourish.
“Well… clearly not,” I said.
“Ye
s, of course. Not all of it.”
“It occurs to me, Mr. Holder, that beryls are an amber-brown or green stone. These are black. Obsidian or jet, I should think.”
“Yes, yes. Normally beryls are green or amber—”
“So when you say, ‘Behold: the Beryl Coronet,’ what I think you mean is, ‘Behold: a broken bit of jewelry that contains no beryls.’”
“Look here, I’m getting to all of that,” he harrumphed. “But the important thing is: you have heard of the Beryl Coronet, I trust?”
Of course I had. It was not one of the official crown jewels, but it was the next best thing. Its sudden disappearance some two hundred and thirty years earlier was still the stuff of national interest.
“It’s King Arthur’s crown, they say.”
“So I have heard,” Holder replied, with a shrug. “He had it from the fairies, if you believe that sort of thing. All the beryls were green, then. When he died at the Battle of Badon Hill, his knights bore him to the edge of a sacred lake. There came a boat crewed by maidens in black hoods which took him away, into the mists. But, as Sir Bedivere chronicles, the ferry returned some moments later. The chief of these ladies told the knights that Arthur was no longer dead, but would return to lead them some day. She gave Bedivere this crown. One of the thirty-nine beryls had gone black.”
“So… the color of the gems has something to do with resurrection?”
“It is thought that each gem holds a powerful, life-giving spell,” said Holder. “When the spell is cast, the magic is exhausted and one beryl burns itself black. But it’s a difficult thing to get it to work, you see. Despite repeated efforts, only seven of the beryls have ever been used—and that includes King Arthur’s. Until last night, this crown was whole and contained thirty-two green beryls and seven black. The current owner has had the most success with the thing, having blackened three beryls himself.”
“And this current owner is…?”
“Professor James Moriarty.”
My eyes darted involuntarily towards Warlock’s room and I think I began to perspire. There was every possibility that the individual Holder spoke of was lying dead, not twenty feet away from him. I’d formed the habit of speaking to the body as if it were Holmes. But was it? Who was it that lay, not quite dead, in that room?
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 1
