3
I expected her to chide Holmes about his lack of progress in finding her lost husband, but instead she seemed smaller somehow, quieter and more withdrawn. She spoke in barely a whisper, rarely raising her head and never looking either of us in the eye.
She looked beaten, and I felt a twinge of remorse at not having told her the truth—as I saw it—on her last visit, for at least then she might have come to some acceptance and might have been able to continue with her life. As it was, she was in a kind of limbo and would remain there until ‘her George’ was found, one way or the other.
“I’m lost without him, sirs,” she said. “I need his arms around me; I need him to tell me that everything is going to be fine and dandy.”
I was at quite a loss as to what to say.
Holmes, as ever, cut to the heart of the matter. “Have you heard from him at all, Mrs. Pemberton? Or from his employer?”
“Oh, I heard from the boss, right enough. Five bob a week for the next four months they gave me, paid in advance. Said that George had to go away to work but that they’d be in touch. Ten days ago now that was.”
Holmes went very still, as if mustering his concentration. “Tell me more,” he said.
She wrung her hands in her lap. “He came the day after I last spoke to you, Doctor Watson. He looked more like an old servant than a boss, and he had a black-and-blue bruise that covered half his face, but he had money right enough—counted it out into my hand, and told me that George sent his love and would be back for Christmas. Christmas? What am I going to do until then?”
And with that she began to sob—gently at first, then full-on wailing. Holmes looked at me imploringly until I led the woman away and downstairs where even Mrs. Hudson’s kind ministrations did little to ease Mrs. Pemberton’s pain.
Holmes had a pipe lit when I returned.
“We have been remiss in our duty to a client, Watson,” he said, and I saw the old Holmes steel in his eyes. “We have failed that poor woman—and must make reparations.”
With that he fell quiet again, but there had been a change in the air. Holmes was no longer recuperating. The Gatherford case had once again become the focus of his attention.
3
He began the second phase of the case that very afternoon. After a late lunch he invited me to accompany him to King’s Cross Railway Station. He did not say why on the longish walk there, striding along with that long gait of his that forced me to almost trot to keep up. And he did not enter the main concourse of the station itself but instead led us through to the warren of workshops and track that the public never sees—a spot where the business of ensuring that the system runs smoothly takes place. Even then he kept walking between stationary trains until we came to a more open area where the goods carriages were kept while waiting for an engine to take them on to their destinations.
We walked alongside row after row of carriages, with Holmes studying the often graying and frayed packing labels stuck on the doors.
“What are we looking for, old man?” I said after ten minutes of this.
“Gatherford, of course,” Holmes replied. “A man like that is never far from his business. This—or places like this—is where he makes his money. This is where the thread will begin that will lead us to him.”
We did not find any trace of Gatherford’s company either at King’s Cross or St. Pancreas—but we made our first breakthrough on the case in the sidings of Euston Station.
It was almost evening by this time, and Holmes was showing signs that his rehabilitation was not quite complete, having gone drawn and haggard about the face. He refused all of my requests for him to at least slow down somewhat and strode at some speed up and down sidings and along tracks until he stopped and let out a sharp yell of triumph.
“Finally,” he said and read from the carriage’s packing slip: “Gatherford Mining and Timber.”
The train was twenty carriages long and already stocked and ready for a departure later that evening—heading north with Glasgow being the ultimate destination. We had found it only an hour before it was due to leave.
3
The door to the carriage was closed but not locked. The simple expedient of sliding back a latch allowed us entry. I was standing the closer of the two of us at the time and was first to put a hand on the door to pull it open.
I smelled it straight away.
The rank odor of decomposition and corruption was enough to alert me that we had indeed found something with the man’s stench on it, if not Gatherford himself. Holmes’ injuries were not healed enough to allow him to pull himself up into the carriage, the floor of which was some four feet above the rails. I took that duty and very soon wished that I hadn’t.
At first I could scarcely make out what I was seeing. There was no sound to indicate that there was anything alive in the carriage—not at first. My eyes took several seconds to adjust to the darkness inside, and my initial thought was that the compartment was filled with sacks of rotting meat. Then I stepped fully inside and saw the full extent of the horror.
The packing note had said merely “waste” where the contents were detailed. It was waste, all right—a waste of a dozen lives. They lay strewn across the carriage floor, legs and arms crossed over and tangled with the limbs of those nearest them, their skin gray with a greenish pallor that spoke of decay. Some had bellies swollen and distended with gas, and a thick swarm of blackflies rose and hung lazily in the air as I went deeper inside.
I covered my nose to hide the smell—but the stench wasn’t the worst of it. The very worst moment of all came as I made another step into the carriage. One of the boards on the floor creaked loudly—and a dozen pairs of milky white eyes turned to stare at me.
Then the noises started. As before in the tunnels under Vauxhall, these men had their nostrils and mouths sewn with crude black thread, although that did not stop them mumbling deep in their throats, a coordinated effort that seemed far too much like some barbaric chant for my liking. It reminded me all too vividly of the war cries of the hill tribes in the Afghan and sent a cold shiver down my spine that no amount of sultry heat was going to dispel.
“I take it we have found something,” Holmes said sardonically from outside.
“Indeed we have, Holmes. Give me a minute.”
I did a quick survey of the bodies—I could scarcely bring myself to call them men. George Pemberton was not among them.
Even as I turned to speak to Holmes again, two of the bodies crawled toward me, their bellies dragging and rasping against the wooden floor, their arms reaching, imploring. The stench of death grew stronger and it was all I could do to keep from gagging. I did not know what they wanted of me, nor did I know what I could give them apart from a quick death and a well-deserved rest.
I turned and jumped back down to where Holmes was waiting. The crawling men kept coming. We closed the carriage door to keep them in, for want of a better idea. Even then I heard them, scratching and clawing at the door as if in desperation to escape.
“This is inhuman,” I said. I thought I had whispered it, but Holmes had heard me.
“Inhuman—and inhumane,” he agreed. “Quickly now, Watson; you must fetch the authorities—any kind of policeman you can find should do the trick. Lestrade needs to get here as quickly as he can be summoned if we are to stop this train being dispatched on its way north.”
I left Holmes there by the carriage, making mental notes as I went back to the main station in order that I could return without becoming lost in the warren of tracks and carriages.
I found two patrol police on the main concourse and was eventually, after some degree of suspicion on their part, able to persuade one of them to return with me to Holmes while the other went to put a call out for Lestrade and his men.
After that events proceeded quickly. The site was soon an industrious hive of activity as Lestrade arrived and took charge of proceedings. Holmes seemed actually pleased to see us as I showed Lestrade and his men t
o the carriage.
“It has been most disconcerting standing here alone this past half hour,” he said. “There has been more rough scratching on the other side of the door, you see. These men are a long way from being at rest.”
Lestrade had been somewhat skeptical of our story, despite having seen the man in the morgue back at the start of things. He was rather more inclined to believe us when the carriage was opened.
Three of the men flopped out, head first, onto the tracks and started to crawl. Lestrade himself had to dance backward to evade a grasping hand. He, along with the rest of the attending officers, seemed unsure as to how to proceed.
I happened to be looking at the crawling figures with a mixture of disgust and scientific curiosity—the disgust was winning—and I was facing in the wrong direction to see precisely what happened next. The first I knew of the trouble was when a high-pitched scream echoed around the carriages and rails. I turned to see a young officer on the ground, trying to hold off one of the undead that seemed to have fallen out of the carriage and landed directly on the policeman.
Several of us went to the officer’s aid at the same time, but we were all too late to prevent what happened next. The attacker’s jaw stretched as if he were attempting a scream. Stitches burst and a vile mixture of watery pus and blood splashed over the young policeman’s face, bringing fresh screams that were only cut short when the half-dead thing clamped its jaws on his neck and began to chew.
Chapter Ten
EF
As can be imagined, chaos ensued rather rapidly. Holmes kept his head the best of us, calmly pulling closed the carriage doors to prevent any further escapes. The attacking body was dragged off the youth and, before Lestrade could order otherwise, had its head caved in by several heavy-duty police boots. It finally fell still—dead once more, although the body seemed to twitch and shake for an inordinate length of time.
The crawling figures were quickly rounded up. They still had their stitches in place and were quite easily manhandled back into the cargo carriage, although we had a bad moment when two others stumbled forward, intent on escape, and we only just managed to close the door on them in time to prevent them falling on us.
The bitten lad was whisked off sharpish to the hospital, and Lestrade had a job on his hands to calm the frayed nerves of his officers before he returned to where Holmes and I stood. He accepted my offer of a smoke, and we lit up.
“You’re the doctor, Watson,” Lestrade said. “I believe it is medical aid I need here—we can hardly lock this lot up in the cells, and I am at a loss as to how to proceed.”
I had to admit that I too was quite stumped. My medical training had not prepared me for such an eventuality. All I could think of was to treat it like any other disease outbreak, and I was about to suggest just such a course of action to the Inspector when Holmes spoke softly.
“This is Mycroft’s domain, Watson. He has all the resources that might be required at his disposal, and he will ensure appropriate action is taken in a far more timely manner than can be managed by the men at the Yard.”
Lestrade nodded.
“Good thinking, Holmes; call in the Whitehall lads and let them deal with it. I should have thought of that myself.”
Lestrade went away to put the new plan into action.
“What now, Holmes?” I asked. “It seems that we are no closer to finding our man.”
“On the contrary, Watson. We have discovered a means by which he moves his ‘cargo’ around. Now that we know that, Mycroft will have every station yard in the country checked. If we cut off the man’s supply chain, then it may be we can flush him out into the open and into the clear light of day.”
There was little more to be achieved by standing around in the goods yard. We left Lestrade’s men nervously guarding the carriage and made our way back to Baker Street, taking a carriage from King’s Cross despite the relatively short journey.
Holmes’ fatigue was clearly showing again, and as for myself, I was in dire need of the comforts of home and a snifter or two of brandy to wash away the taste, smell and sight of the poor creatures crawling on the floor of the carriage. I suspected they would haunt my dreams for many nights to come.
3
Once back in Baker Street I earned myself another telling-off from Mrs. Hudson, who berated me for a full two minutes in the hallway, only ceasing when Holmes insisted that he felt none the worse for our adventure. Only slightly mollified, she insisted that Holmes must eat a hearty meal and proved as good as her word an hour later by providing us with a feast as fine as that from any restaurant. I was quite replete by the time we found our armchairs by the fireplace in the late evening.
Barely ten minutes after we had settled there was a loud knock on the door. Holmes raised an eyebrow.
“Something has Lestrade in a bit of a temper,” he said. “We’d best hear what he has to say.”
This time I did not bother even asking Holmes how he knew the identity of our visitor. It was indeed Lestrade, and he was indeed in an angry frame of mind.
“That brother of yours don’t waste no time, does he?” he said by way of introduction. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know there’s no bodies anymore and no case to investigate—I’ve been told to keep well clear if I value my job. Bloody huge fire up at the goods yard, too, just to put a cap on things. I hear they mean to burn the whole bally lot of it. A matter of national security, they say. A rum do in any case.”
It took me several seconds to grasp his meaning, for it had all come out of him in an angry rush.
“Mycroft has had the bodies burned? Alive?” I said, aghast at the thought.
“Well, as alive as they were ever going to be,” Lestrade said, wearily now that he had given vent to his frustration. “‘A nuisance to the public health that must be eradicated’ were the exact words that were used.”
The Inspector sat down heavily in the free chair and took a brandy when I offered, draining fully half of it before continuing. “They’ve put young Frost in isolation at the Infirmary. Armed guards and nobody allowed in to see him—‘under observation pending further outcome,’ whatever the blazes that might mean.”
“Frost is the lad who was bitten?” Holmes asked.
Lestrade nodded.
“Mycroft is taking no chances, it seems,” I said. “He must fear possible contagion.”
“Yes,” Holmes said softly. “Risk-taking is not in my brother’s makeup. Taking control and maintaining it over all possible variables is his way of approaching matters. I do believe he might be just the right man for this particular task.”
“Right man?” Lestrade said, building up his anger again. “That boy Frost has a family who are at their wits’ end. Mycroft won’t let them visit, won’t tell them his condition—won’t tell them a single thing save that they’ll hear when it’s time to hear. What way is that to treat the boy’s ma and pa?”
Holmes puffed at his pipe before replying.
“And what if the boy has ‘turned’ like those in the carriage—what then, Lestrade? Would it profit his parents to see him in that state—to remember him in that condition?”
Lestrade did not reply as Holmes continued. “But you did not come here merely to rail against my brother, did you?”
Lestrade’s anger once again vanished as quickly as it had come. He ran a hand through his hair, took a gulp of brandy, and once again had the demeanor of a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard.
“No, you are right, Holmes; I did not. I came because I may have a lead on Gatherford. By rights I should have told Mycroft about it in Whitehall—but I’m a copper, and I want this man for what he’s done—I want it to be me that nabs him, not some government lackey. And if Frost dies, I’ll be there in the queue to see Gatherford hang for it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Holmes said. “But you say that Mycroft has warned you off any further investigation?”
“Indeed he has. But he ain’t warned you, Holmes. So if you should come acros
s Gatherford’s whereabouts in the course of your own investigation, and I were to tag along, unofficial-like—well, where’s the harm in that?”
“Careful, Lestrade,” Holmes said, laughing. “I appear to be encouraging you into some rather bad habits.”
3
“So are you with me, Holmes? I come along, and if we catch our man, I take him in?”
Holmes nodded. “He is in the city?”
“So I have been told: holed out south of the river in a warehouse—at least, that’s what my snout said, and he’s generally not far wrong when there’s a florin in it for him.”
Holmes lifted his heaviest walking cane from the rack as we went out through the hallway, and the three of us headed out into the London night—much to Mrs. Hudson’s disgust, I should add. We caught a carriage at the corner of the street, and Lestrade gave the driver directions as we climbed inside.
Lestrade passed around his smokes. His tobacco was not quite of the quality I was accustomed to, but it had a tang to it that reminded me of old battlefields, which seemed rather apt, given that I had a feeling that the day’s fighting was not yet over. I watched Lestrade check his revolver. I had my own in my jacket pocket, but I already knew it was of little help in this matter except for possibly a head shot. I was still not sure I would be able to put a bullet into the head of any of the pitiful wretches like the ones we had seen.
Lestrade had directed the carriage to the riverside at Putney, and we disembarked on the bridge, alone there as the vehicle rattled off across the cobbles.
The night was another warm one—not as warm as it had been on our last trip south of the river, thankfully, and there was the merest hint of a chill that said autumn might finally be ready to bring an end to our misery. We stood watching the Thames beneath us until we had finished our smokes. Lestrade flicked his away, still lit, and watched the red embers fall away into the river before turning back to us.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 24
