By the time we got back outside it was too late—I suspect it was too late even when I had my last sight of the shadow going over the top of the snowdrift.
We ventured out into the blizzard and found the tracks easily enough; they were not footprints, but strange, triangular markings, like those a lizard or a large bird might make, and they only went as far as the top of the drift. There they stopped, as if our visitor had vanished into thin air or, as I was coming to fear was the case, had once again taken flight.
Chapter Thirteen
EF
Sleep was to prove elusive for the remainder of a long, storm-swept night. The train rocked from side to side in the wind, and I started at every thud, expecting our visitor to make a return.
As I gave in to the inevitable and lit up a smoke, Holmes finally showed me the syringe he’d been holding in his lap since his earlier exploits. Half of the fluid within was gone, and the remainder moved sluggishly when I tipped it from side to side.
“Be careful with that, Watson—it’s caustic stuff.”
I passed the syringe back to him. “It’s not a narcotic, then?” I asked.
Holmes smiled—somewhat wistfully, I thought. “Not even close, Watson. I surmised that if our opponent was so fond of the acidic, given that it is what we have smelled at each encounter, then maybe some alkali might give him pause for thought—a potassium hydroxide solution seems to have done the trick.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
Holmes went quiet. “He was enfolded in what appeared to be a leather cloak,” he said. “And I believe he wore a mask of some kind of rubber, for it melted and ran when I squeezed the syringe at him—but no, to answer your question, I did not get a close look. I did strike the crucial blow this time, so we could be said to be ahead in the game at this point. And he will pause before testing our defenses again.”
We sat there smoking all night, but there was no more thudding overheard, either from leather-clad assailants or from stray bovines. Finally, just as the sun was coming up, the train stirred into life and began to inch forward. A weary cheer rang out along the carriages, followed by a louder one when the conductor came through announcing that the railway would be paying for breakfasts for all.
3
Breakfast proved a great deal more pleasant than supper and we were fortified with toast, marmalade, bacon and eggs before we finally arrived in Carlisle some twelve hours late. We were, however, fortunate enough to catch an almost immediate connection for Hawick on the Border Union Railway, and we arrived in the market town mid-morning, intending to hire a carriage to take us the last twelve miles to the address we had for Mains.
Once again the weather defeated us. We tried three different carriage drivers and all three turned us away.
“There’ll be nowt moving beyond the town boundary at all today,” was the general opinion. “And maybe not tomorrow either.”
We walked as far as the river that bounded the eastern edge of town, by which time the snow came up almost to our knees—walking twelve miles was not at all possible, especially given that the wind was biting cold, and more snow could arrive at any moment. After our delayed journey to Carlisle, Holmes was champing at the bit to reach our ultimate destination, but even he could see that it would be senseless to try in the conditions.
We took rooms at the Queen’s Head, a quite delightful example of a Scottish country inn, and decided we would take our chances with the weather on the morrow.
Our enforced incarceration did mean that I was finally able to grab several hours of restful sleep. I had imagined that Holmes might do the same, but when I rose, refreshed, in mid-afternoon, I found him sitting in the main bar at a table of local chaps, deep in conversation.
The mood seemed cheerful, doubly so when I stood a round for the table.
“I was telling these chaps that we had the pleasure of Mr. Mains’ company in London, Watson,” Holmes said as I sat. I grunted something non-committal, hoping to gauge the general mood before embarking on conversation. I am glad that I did so, for it quickly became apparent that Mains was a man of some influence in the area, and also seemed to be genuinely liked by all who had met him.
“The new mill has kept many here in work this past year,” one man said. “Mr. Mains didn’t have to do that—even after the old mill fell into disuse, he had plenty of money to go off and do whatever he liked with it. A smart man like him, he could live anywhere in the world he wanted to.”
“And I hear he’s planning on starting the old mill up and running again,” a younger man said. “There’s been folk in and out of there these past few months.”
“Queer folk, foreigners and the like, is what I heard,” an elderly gent piped up.
“You don’t hear anything that don’t come out yer arse,” another elderly gent said—and so the conversation went, ebbing and flowing around the table, with Holmes doing little more than prodding and leading in the directions he was most interested in.
I spotted that Holmes openly wore the large ring, the lion rampant facing forward. But if any of the men present took any note of it, none said so, even after Holmes swiveled the face around to show the jet-and-silver sigil and left it that way for a good twenty minutes.
One by one our drinking companions dispersed, heading home where wives and sweethearts would be waiting, until finally Holmes and I were left alone at the table. The barman informed us that there was rabbit pie and mash available, so we decided to remain at the table for supper, and while waiting for the food, I was able to catch up with what Holmes had learned.
“The more I hear about our Mr. Mains, the more I am inclined to think that he is sincere—or at least he himself believes so. And that makes the deception being practiced on him all the crueler.
“Mains has been a busy man these past months, Watson—there is an old mill on his property, left to fall into ruin by his father but now, if word of mouth is to be believed, being prepared for a new lease on life. At least that is what the townsfolk would like to think—workmen, businessmen, metalworkers and tradesman have all been through this area in large numbers—along with an unspecified number of ‘foreign types in leather coats that keeps themselves to themselves.’ It is clear we have come to the right place—the hub of Mr. Mains’ activities.
“All that remains now is to find the man himself, and extract the full story from him.”
It sounded easy when Holmes put it so simply, but I was all too aware of the snowy landscape that needed to be traversed to reach our goal, never mind the peril that might face us on our arrival.
“Did no one remark on the ring?” I asked.
Holmes smiled. “No one did. But they all saw it, and for a group that size not to have remarked on something this outlandish? Well, that is remarkable in itself, is it not?”
“They were hiding something from us?”
“Isn’t everyone?” Holmes said, and laughed again. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
The rabbit pie proved to be delicious and, washed down with some heady local ale, was quite the best possible antidote to our ordeal on the train. We were quite content to finish our evening sitting by the inn’s large fireplace, all thought of our hardships of the previous night fading into memory.
“You asked in the train about the ‘end-game’, Watson,” Holmes said over a last pipe before retiring to bed. “Well, I feel we are getting closer by the minute. It is our move now—we had best make sure it is a decisive one.”
Chapter Fourteen
EF
There was no more snow overnight, but it had been bitterly cold, and in the town at least, the streets were rutted with ice as hard as stone. My hopes of getting a driver were low, but I was to be surprised at the second time of asking when the man agreed to take us—at least as far as the carriage would pass—along the hillside road to Mains’ property.
I was also surprised to find that Holmes had ordered a small travelling hamper of food from the landlord of the inn.<
br />
“We may be abroad for longer than we would like. It is best to be prepared.”
At nine o’ clock sharp, having eaten another hearty breakfast, we were on our way. It was a crisp clear morning, and the snow-covered views across the Border valleys were as stunning as any Afghani mountains could ever be. The carriage traveled at a fair trot along the side of the hills for a very pleasant half an hour during which I almost felt cozy. Holmes sat opposite me, lost in thought, puffing on a pipe. It was a most pleasant way to spend a winter morning.
It was not to last. I heard the horses neigh and whinny up front, the driver shouted a one-word command, and the carriage came to an abrupt halt that almost threw me into Holmes’ lap.
“This is as far as I can go, sirs,” the driver’s voice called down to us.
“I can pay more,” Holmes said. “Just name your price.”
“It’s not a question of the money, sir—have a look for yourself.”
We disembarked, a chill breeze immediately biting at my cheeks, and saw the reason for the abrupt end to our ride. The narrow road ahead had been blocked by a wall of snow some four feet high, drifting across the full width and banked high up the side of the hill.
“There is no way round?” I asked.
The driver shook his head. “There’s just enough room for me to turn and go back as it is. The Mains Mill, and the big house, are at the far end of this valley—about four miles on—and this is the only way in or out.”
“Shank’s pony it is, then,” Holmes said, although he did not look in the slightest bit daunted by the prospect.
I retrieved the food hamper—thankfully it was made in such a way that it could be strapped across one’s back, and I took the first carry. We said our thanks to the driver and had a smoke while we watched him delicately and ever so carefully maneuver the carriage and horses in a series of small movements that culminated with him facing back along the road to Hawick.
“Are you sure I cannot take you back, sirs?” he said. “The weather can turn fast up here.”
“We have come this far,” Holmes said. “I am certain we can manage another four miles.”
The driver nodded. “I shall pass out word that you’re on the road,” he said. “Just in case. Whatever you do, do not stray off the path—you’ll only find a quick way to Hell at this time of year.”
And with that he was off and away. For a time we heard the rattle and clatter of wheels on rutted ice, and then we were left in silence. The only sounds came from a cold breeze whistling in our ears and the crunch of snow underfoot as we walked up to the snow bank and surveyed the full scale of our next obstacle.
3
“Come on, Watson,” Holmes said, and scrambled up to the top of the drift. He turned away from me and looked up the valley towards our destination. “There is about twenty yards of this; thereafter, it looks as if our path might be a bit clearer.”
It proved to be a long twenty yards, most of it spent thigh-deep in soft snow, struggling to move more than a few inches forward with each step. At one point I sank in so far—almost chest deep, that Holmes had to bodily drag me out to stop me being engulfed. By the time I was finally able to push through to stand on road again rather than snow, I was cold to the bone and already dog-tired. The prospect of four miles of the same filled me with nothing but dread.
I let Holmes carry the hamper for a while after that, but even without the added weight, it was a tiresome uphill slog that faced us for the rest of the morning. Even Holmes showed some signs of fatigue when we finally reached the head of the valley, turned a sharp bend in the road, and got our first look at the Mains grounds.
Had I not been quite so weary, I might have enjoyed the view more. We had reached the end of the narrow valley, and the Mains ancestor who had built the imposing house on a high outcrop could not have chosen a more commanding position. The house itself was mainly made up of two tall turrets of gray stone in the Scottish baronial style, and stood tall, looking over the whole length of the valley into the snow-covered hills in the distance. Lower down the slope on the banks of a fast-moving stream sat a squat sandstone building—nowhere near as handsome in appearance, but almost twice the size of the house above, and built for business rather than aesthetics. Three red brick chimneys rose from its southern end, and a cluster of smaller buildings I took to be dwelling houses for the workers clung along the edge of the far side of the valley from us.
We seemed to be the only people in the area—everything was quiet and still, the snow unbroken as far as the eye could see.
“What now, Holmes?”
“Let us find a convenient spot, and spy out the lie of the land,” he said, and ushered me off the road and behind a trio of tall pines. We found an overhanging rock we could both sit under in relative shelter from the elements, and my overcoat provided almost adequate protection for our rears against the cold seeping from the ground. We had a clear view of both the house and the mill, and settled in for a wait.
3
By the time we had been there for almost two hours, I was feeling the cold in my bones again, and there had been no movement apart from a solitary dog fox that took one look in our direction and immediately fled the opposite way. Holmes lit up a smoke. I joined him, and we cracked open the hamper to find a most welcome array of sandwiches, cold pies and two bottles of ale. I would have preferred something hot, but the ale was strong and heady and did much to improve my mood.
After eating, we had another smoke, and then Holmes stood. “There is clearly no one home,” Holmes said. “Or if they are, they are keeping their heads down. Let us go and rattle a few cages, shall we?”
“Anything to get out of this blasted cold,” I replied.
We stowed the hamper under the overhang, closing it securely lest the dog fox became curious, and walked, in open view, along the short stretch of road towards the main entrance to the house.
I felt the weight of the service pistol in my pocket, and considered having it in hand, but Holmes seemed relaxed, for the moment, at least, and there was nothing to give any indication that we were in any immediate danger. We made fresh footprints along the length of the snow-covered pathway as we approached the tall oak door.
The bell was a very old pulley-and-rope affair, and the sound of its ringing seemed to echo inside the house.
No one answered. Holmes pulled the rope for a second ring, longer this time.
“It’s a long way back before we reach a warm bed and some rabbit stew,” I said, thinking more about having to traverse the deep snowdrift for a second time.
Just as I was resigning myself to an arduous walk, the tall door swung open in front of us, smoothly and without a sound, as if recently oiled.
“At least we will not have to sneak in through the kitchen this time,” Holmes said, and stepped forward. I walked through the doorway to stand beside him, and the door swung shut, just as noiselessly, behind us.
The house—I hesitate to call it that, as it was more in the way of a small castle—felt warm and slightly musty. It also felt lived-in—I cannot put it any better than that, but I knew for a certainty that we were not alone. I believe Holmes felt something of the same; he was noticeably more tense as we made our way through the high vaulted hallway.
A voice, hardly more than a croak, called out from a doorway to our left. “Through here, gentlemen,” it said. “I have been waiting for you.”
We walked through into a library, although this one was on a far grander scale than in Mains’ London property, being two stories high with an ironwork balcony all around just above head level, the oak shelves stacked full with leather-bound tomes of great antiquity. Three armchairs were arranged around a small fire that was completely dwarfed by a massive stone grate with a high handsome mantel that looked like polished granite and must have weighed a ton.
Mains sat in one of the chairs. At first I did not recognize him, for his health had deteriorated markedly in the short time since our last meeting, giving
him the appearance of a man twice his age, shrunken inside a wool suit many sizes too large for his frame. Open sores wept on his scalp beneath thinning strands of hair that were all that remained of his luxurious oiled locks. His eyes were moist and rheumy, red-rimmed and sunk in graying pits far back in his face. He raised a hand and I saw the veins and muscles through skin almost as transparent as glass.
“Good God, man,” I said, my medical training overcoming any reticence I might have felt. “What has become of you?”
I moved forward toward him, but he waved me away, rather feebly, and only with an effort that seemed to tire him further.
“Please sit,” he said. “There is Scotch on the table if you wish, but little else in the way of sustenance, I’m afraid—I am past the need of it. Sit, and I will tell you the story you have come to hear—if I am given the time to finish it.”
Holmes did the honors, pouring us each two fingers of peat-colored malt I could not identify, but which proved to be fiery and smooth in equal measure and went down very nicely, doing much to dispel the memory of the morning cold. Mains waited until we were settled and then began to speak, his voice only just carrying above the crackle and spit of the logs on the fire.
3
“I like to think of myself as something of a visionary,” he began. “It is why they chose me.
“My company is the best at what we do because I employ the best. I actively seek out the new and revolutionary and put it to work. My boats have the latest engines and the newest hull designs, my cargoes have the most efficient refrigeration and storage techniques known to science, and I employ a specially selected team of researchers whose only job is to find innovative ways to make my company bigger, stronger—and wealthier.
“I believe it was this very forward-looking state of mind that drew them to me in the first place. They made themselves known to me in late August—here in this very room. I was going over the blueprints for a new storage facility in the Amazon basin when he appeared to me—you know the man I mean; you saw him yourself in St. Columba’s.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 8
