Chapter Fifteen
EF
There were less than a dozen steps in total. Gatherford waited for us at the bottom. After my eyes adjusted, it was clear where he had brought us.
All I had known about the Chislehurst Caves was that they were caves, in Chislehurst. I had not known the magnitude of them, but Gatherford was keen to enlighten us.
“Strictly speaking, these aren’t caves at all, of course,” he said as we joined him at the foot of the steps. Passages ran off in three directions from the chamber in which we had arrived. “These chalk and flint mines run for about twenty miles in total under here. Remarkable engineering work, considering it was mostly done in the early medieval period.” His voice echoed and boomed in the confined space. I listened, intent for any reply to the sound, but there was only empty darkness down each of the tunnels. “And being mines, they are, of course, a perfect place in which to conduct the training and conditioning.”
A feeling of dread grew in the pit of my stomach as Gatherford led us into the rightmost tunnel.
3
“I wanted to show you this first,” he said. He had brought us down a twenty-yard slope into an enclosed chamber, some twenty feet on a side, filled to the brim with benches, each of which was crammed with retorts, phials, test tubes and gas burners. Crude wooden shelves lined the far wall, and they too were crammed with tall bottles of acids, alkalis and industrial alcohol. He had all the makings of a professional-quality chemistry laboratory, even down to a large chimney for ventilation in the far right corner. To my trained eye it was obviously some kind of distillation procedure, and the end result appeared to be a fine white powder, almost like well-milled flour, in a series of tall jars at the end of a trestle.
“There is no mumbo-jumbo here, Holmes,” Gatherford said. “No mysticism of any kind. This is a purely scientific operation. As I have said already—it is the way of the future, and men who realize that as early as possible will be the best prepared to profit by it.”
“Well, then, we have seen the science,” Holmes said, with merely a cursory glance at the operation. “Not let us see the ‘product’.”
He uttered the last word with ill-disguised contempt, but it washed off Gatherford like water off a duck’s back.
“There are several stages to see,” Gatherford replied airily. “Let us start with the conditioning.”
3
We went back up the slope, then into the second tunnel. It led down, longer than the last, several hundred yards in a succession of twists and turns. After a while we began to hear the well-known sound of pick on rock, and I was reminded of our near disastrous encounter in the tunnels under Vauxhall.
I tightened my grip on my pistol as we went down ever further.
The tunnel finally opened out into a wider chamber. Two dozen men worked on a rock face opposite us, all swinging picks in perfect rhythm as if in a carefully choreographed dance. None of them noted our presence.
“This is stage one,” Gatherford said. “We condition the repetitive actions into the mental and physical systems of each man. Every night they are given a carefully controlled dose of my powder and I reinforce the conditioning with simple commands that relate to simple actions. Watch.”
He shouted out, two words this time, again in a language I did not recognize, but I saw Holmes pay particular attention to the pitch and intonation. As one, the men laid down their picks and stood, perfectly silent, facing the wall. Another shout from Gatherford had them lift the picks again and continue the digging.
“Of course, all we are achieving here is making this chamber larger,” the man said. “But imagine a coal mine, or a diamond mine in Africa. Imagine the amount of work that could be done for little to no expense.”
I could indeed imagine it—and the very thought appalled me to my soul. My disgust deepened further as Gatherford led us away from the first chamber and into a narrow area where a dozen men lay sleeping. All were in that half-dead, half-alive state we had first seen in Scotland Yard morgue, and all had fresh stitching at nostrils and lips, with the wounds still red raw and weeping.
“And what of the threat of contagion?” Holmes said. “What if this ‘condition’ is spread, among both the living and the dead? What if it spread, like the plague, across the population at large—a marching army of them? What becomes of your control then?”
Gatherford waved that away contemptuously. “Such a thing is not possible. There is no vital factor to spread beyond those men I have made over to my will—there is only chemistry. No one else is in any danger whatsoever.”
I was about to raise the matter of the dead police officer rising up in the hospital, but I could see that anything I said would merely be immediately discounted—Gatherford’s fanaticism was such that he was totally unable to consider any negative consequences to his actions.
Holmes must have seen my growing discontent. When Gatherford moved toward a bed to point out the already obvious fact that the men were insensible, Holmes leaned over and whispered to me, “Not yet, Watson. We must uncover the full extent of his depravity before acting.”
3
We were soon to discover that Gatherford’s depravity was deep indeed.
He led us through a series of tunnels until the echoes told me we were entering a much larger space. He lit two sconces that were set in the wall—and we looked out from a slightly elevated position onto a throng of bodies. The cave was the size of a soccer field, and it was packed solid with men, both barely alive and long since dead, all shoulder to shoulder to the next man, all perfectly still, milk-white eyes staring straight forward.
There were hundreds of them, and the stench was terrible.
Chapter Sixteen
EF
I let out an oath.
Gatherford took my growing anger for fear. “There is no need to be alarmed, Doctor Watson. We are perfectly safe. Watch.”
We stood at the top of a ramp that led down to the ranks of the undead, so when Gatherford moved to the edge to stand above them, he looked like a priest addressing his flock—which I suppose, in a way, he was.
He shouted out, two more words.
All of the men below raised their heads to look at him, white eyes staring blindly up as if in adoration.
“The commands?” Holmes asked. “Tell me, why that particular African dialect?”
“So you recognized it, Holmes?” Gatherford said, and for the very first time I saw a chink in his self-confident armor. He must have thought that the commands were obscure enough to be able to remain secret only to him. “I did it on a whim. I use the same dialect for the prayers I place in the mouths.”
“I noticed that, too,” Holmes said. He smiled and stepped forward to Gatherford’s side before calling out two words in a loud, confident voice. All of the figures below turned and stared straight at Holmes.
3
Holmes turned back to Gatherford and smiled thinly. “Now, what can I have them do?” he asked.
Gatherford’s smile had faded completely now. “You cannot control them, Holmes,” he said. “They are mine.”
“We shall see,” Holmes replied. “My will is as potent as yours.” He raised his voice and called out—three words in that same odd dialect.
The undead, as one, moved forward, heading for the ramp. Not one of them took his gaze away from Holmes, who stood above them. I was slow in spotting that the act of will was causing Holmes some great strain. His neck muscles stood out and he looked as taut as a violin string as the throng inched toward the base of the ramp.
Gatherford called out in reply three words of his own.
The forward impetus of the dead horde stopped, and all heads swung back to the businessman, who showed no sign of any strain as he raised his voice again at the same time as Holmes shouted another counter-command.
For the first time it seemed that the crowd below us was in confusion, and for a long second I thought that Holmes might prevail. Then I saw my old friend stagger and cough. Fre
sh blood showed at his lips as the strain caused his rib injury to flare into prominence at precisely the wrong moment. Holmes staggered, almost fell—and I had to move quickly to prevent him tumbling down to where the undead stood, silent and staring.
3
Gatherford’s grin was back full force. “You asked about the ‘trick’ earlier, Holmes? I’m afraid there is one. The conditioning works—but it works too well. They will respond to another’s command—but only if not countermanded by a new command from me. Do you think me stupid enough to let such as these fall into the control of anyone else? This is my ace in the hole. This is the thing that will ensure it is I who rules in the bright future to come.”
It had taken me long enough, but I had finally come to the realization—Gatherford was quite, quite mad. I reached for my pistol, but once again Holmes put his hand on my arm.
“I cannot ask you to do that, Watson. You cannot have an unarmed man’s blood on your hands. It would taint you forevermore and you would never forgive yourself.”
Gatherford smiled. “And that is where I will always win, Holmes,” he said. “For I have no conscience to prevent me from doing what must be done.”
Holmes smiled back through blooded lips. “In this instance,” he said. “I think you will find we are more alike than you imagine.”
In a movement that belied the pain it must have brought him, Holmes drew the blade from his cane and thrust it up toward where Gatherford stood above us. The stroke was meant to take the man in the gut, but Gatherford saw it coming and was able to dance backward, taking a cut instead to his upper thigh, one that caused him to yelp in pain. Blood soaked his trousers, deep black here in the gloom of the cave.
He shouted, two words again, but not the ones he had spoken before. The ranks of the undead came forward again. This time all eyes were trained on Holmes or myself, and despite the blind white stares, I felt like a mouse being stalked by a party of cats.
3
Holmes leapt for Gatherford, wrapping his arms around the man in a rugger tackle and sending them both rolling to the ground. I would have gone to help, but I quickly had problems of my own. Three of the undead were already advancing on me.
I managed to raise my pistol in time to put a bullet between the eyes of the nearest attacker—a long-dead figure in a state of advanced decomposition that fell away immediately on taking the shot. The second attacker was more troublesome, being heavier and not yet fully dead. I had to back off to give myself enough space to raise the pistol again, and in doing so was forced to step over the struggling bodies of Holmes and Gatherford. Holmes had his man by the throat, preventing further commands being issued, and was squeezing with all his might despite the evident pain this was causing his tortured rib cage. Gatherford rained pummeling blows into Holmes’ ribs. The pain must have been immense, but Holmes’ grip on the man’s neck never loosened.
The struggle below me served another purpose—it slowed my attacker just enough that I was able to gain time and space to raise my weapon. I said a silent prayer and shot him in the head. My aim was slightly off, hitting him in the right eye rather than the forehead, but it did the job well enough, and he too fell aside, leaving me to face a third attacker.
I looked into a face I had not seen before—but I knew immediately who it must be. One milky-white eye looked down at me and there was a ravaged empty socket where the other should be. He had not been dead for long, but dead he was. Mrs. Pemberton would be making no more breakfasts for her George.
Knowing his identity did not improve my situation any—it was not as if I was about to engage him in polite conversation. His pale hands reached for my neck. I put my pistol close up to his forehead and tightened my finger on the trigger—it clicked on an empty chamber.
“Holmes, I need some help here.” I was able to turn my head just enough to see Holmes drop Gatherford to the ground. The businessman looked as pale as the dead man in front of me, but his eyes fluttered, telling me that he was still alive.
Holmes was at my side in seconds, but even our combined strength could not match that of the workman. Cold fingers closed around my throat. I was vaguely aware of other pale figures looming up out of the shadows behind him. We had mere seconds before we succumbed to the press of bodies.
Holmes, by sheer brute strength and force of will, finally dragged the man off me. They stood, nose to nose. Holmes held the workman’s grasping hands at bay; it took all of his strength to do so and fresh blood flecked his lips—this battle had to be won quickly or not at all.
“George,” Holmes said, raising his voice. “Annie sent us. Remember Annie, George?”
Another of the dead made a grab for Holmes. I stepped up beside the decaying workman, grabbed his head and twisted, breaking his neck. He fell away, completely lifeless.
Holmes hadn’t so much as flinched.
“Do you remember your Annie, George?” he said.
And to my astonishment, he got an answering nod of the head. The dead man’s lips tried to move but were stifled by the crisscross stitching tearing into fleshy lips. A single tear ran from the milk-white eye.
“Yes, George,” Holmes said. “Your Annie sent us. And this man here wants to keep you from returning to her.” Holmes pointed at where Gatherford lay, gasping, on the ground at our feet.
George Pemberton, or what was left of him, lowered his arms, and turned away, forgetting us completely as he bent and reached for Gatherford.
The businessman called out, the by now familiar words in the foreign tongue. The squad of dead coming up the ramp turned their attention from Holmes and myself, heading instead toward where George and Gatherford were now locked in embrace, each with hands around the neck of the other.
The undead stumbled and piled over each other in a writhing melee as they tried to drag the two apart.
It was to no avail.
The crack as Gatherford’s neck broke echoed loudly around us.
To a man, the throng of pale dead fell as if pole-axed. Holmes and I were left alone in a suddenly silent chamber, dead bodies strewn at our feet.
George Pemberton’s hands were wrapped tight around Gatherford’s neck. The thread around the workman’s mouth had broken and his lips were raised at the corners in a last smile.
Gatherford’s accusing eyes looked straight at us, seeing nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
EF
There is little left to tell.
Holmes and I made a weary trek back up to the shed, and I had to almost carry him up the short flight of steps and out into the garden. I left him in the sitting room of the thatched house with some brandy, a pipe and tobacco and went to try to rouse the constabulary.
It took me rather a time to convince anyone that I was not in fact a victim of some raging fever myself. It was only when I enlisted the aid of the vicar we had met earlier that I was able to persuade two skeptical policemen to join me in a trip back down into the caves.
They were far less skeptical after they saw what I had to show them.
Things moved quickly after that, and once Mycroft arrived to oversee proceedings just after midnight, Homes and I were allowed to depart and were given the use of an official carriage in which to wend our weary way back to Baker Street.
By the time I had brought Holmes home and patched him up again, thin morning sunshine was coming in the window.
Holmes did not complain when I ordered bed rest, and both of us slept most of the day through until sunset.
3
Mycroft called us to the Diogenes Club several days later. It was a Tuesday afternoon; the place was rather empty and somehow even quieter than usual. A silent attendant showed us through to Mycroft’s office. Holmes’ brother looked tired, as if he had not got much sleep since we last saw him in Chislehurst. Although it was just past noon, he already had a large brandy in his hand, and judging by the high color in his cheeks, I was not sure it was his first. But there was no slur in his voice as he offered us a drink and a cigar
.
We took advantage of his hospitality, then sat in the armchairs.
“Well,” Mycroft said. “It was a damnable mess all round, but the Chislehurst end at least has been tidied up with little fuss.”
“And Gatherford?” Holmes said. “What about his business interests?”
“Terrible thing,” Mycroft said. “It seems that Gatherford had a nasty accident in one of his facilities—an equipment failure, I am told. We are closing down all his mining activities until further notice so that a proper investigation of safety procedures can be made.”
Holmes laughed bitterly. “There is to be a cover-up then?”
Mycroft sucked deeply on his cigar. “Of course there is to be a cover-up—there is a lot of money and prestige at stake among the man’s backers. A cover-up is absolutely essential—unless you believe the public is ready for the truth of the matter?”
“The public is rarely ready for the truth of any matter,” Holmes replied. “But that does not mean we should not consider telling them.”
“Telling them what, exactly?” Mycroft said. “That industrialists have concluded that there is a possibility that working lives will continue even after death? That walking dead have roamed our largest hospital? We would have riots in the streets.”
“Plus the reporting would only be lurid and offensive. Gatherford’s experiments were shocking and immoral in the extreme,” I added.
Mycroft smiled thinly. “Morality and I are only distant acquaintances these days, Watson. But there is one good deed I can do that might mitigate some of that.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “I have had a note from Gatherford’s backers, promising a rather large stipend for the next of kin of the casualties of the ‘experiment’ if their names could be kept out of the papers.”
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 27
