Well…
Very nearly.
In fact, it was a fit of angry kicking that suddenly exploded forth upon the far side of my chamber door, accompanied by Mrs. Hudson’s shrill little voice, screeching, “Oi! Couple o’ toffs to see Warlock Holmes.”
I threw down the paper, rose with an exasperated sigh, marched to the door and opened it, saying, “Mrs. Hudson, I will thank you not to refer to my guests as—”
But they were toffs.
The very toffiest of toffs. Before me stood none other than Lord Bellinger—the current prime minister of Britain. With him was another, younger gentleman whom I did not recognize, but his dress, his complexion and the callouses on the side of his right hand and where his pen touched his fingers proclaimed him to be a high-placed, well-to-do government official. Both of them hovered at the door with the droopy-eyed impotence of those who are just beginning to waken from a deep, dreaming sleep. They teetered on their heels. Their mouths hung slightly open. When they saw me, Lord Bellinger mumbled, “Warlock Holmes…”
“He isn’t dead,” his companion noted.
“Just as the master said. He must aid us.”
“Then we must capture him.”
“We shall take him unawares,” said Bellinger, with a dim-witted smile.
My eyes sought Mrs. Hudson’s, on the (admittedly overambitious) hope that she could explain the state of the visitors she had brought. She offered me nothing, apart from the observation, “All your friends is weird.” She then turned and stomped off down the stairs.
“Aid us, Mr. Holmes,” the younger man urged.
“Then be captured,” added Bellinger.
“Hm… Well, much as I’d like to be of service,” I said, “I am not Warlock Holmes. My name is—”
“Where is Hoooooooooooolmmmmmmmmmmmes?” Lord Bellinger shrieked with such passion that I feared his voice might shatter my teacups.
“Er… I’ll just get him for you, shall I? Yes? Good. Do come in, gentlemen, and make yourself comfortable here, on the sofa. There. I’ll just nip off and fetch him.”
As soon as the two statesmen had sat down, I ran for Holmes’s sanctum.
“Holmes!” I hissed, knocking upon his bedroom door. “Holmes, there is something very strange going on!”
From within came a harrumph of annoyance and a brief scuttling. At last, the door opened. Holmes had a look of indignant fury on his face. One of his arms had transformed into a snake and the other into some form of badger. He must have had some command of them, for he’d got the snake to curl twice around his doorknob so he could pull the thing open. Yet the beasts must have had some level of mastery over their own actions, for they continually hissed and nipped at each other as he spoke to me. “Strange? Perhaps to some. Yet I never trouble you over the normalcy—or lack of normalcy—of the actions which occur behind your closed door and I will thank you to extend the same courtesy to me!”
“No… er… I mean, strange things are occurring out here. The prime minister is in our sitting room, Holmes. There’s something very wrong with him and he seems to be bent on your capture!”
“Oh? How pleasantly outré!” Holmes declared. In a blink, his animal companions were gone, replaced by his regular arms. Such was the speed and silence of their departure that I might have thought the entire thing an illusion—were it not for the fresh badger claw marks upon the doorframe. “Let us go forth and examine this splendid new adventure, shall we?”
“Perhaps you ought to put some trousers on first, Holmes.”
“Ah… yes… I shall be with you presently.”
A few moments later, I marched my friend into the sitting room and announced him, “Mr. Warlock Holmes.”
“Yes. Hello, gentlemen. I am Warlock Holmes; how may I be of service?”
“Holmes,” said Bellinger.
“Alive,” his companion said. “Just as the master promised.”
“Aid us,” said Bellinger. “Then we capture you and take you to the master.”
“Hm… An unusual request…” said Holmes. “I can hardly remember the last time I was captured and dragged before a master, of any sort. Yet—since I do not like to dwell upon the prospect of my impending doom—we might be best served by turning our attention to the other matter. How can I be of service to you?”
For the first time, true emotion crossed the brows of both our guests. Sadness, guilt, worry.
“We have… lost something,” Lord Bellinger said.
“Loss,” sighed his companion. “Loss.”
“I see. And exactly what is it you have lost?” asked Holmes.
This question seemed to cause some consternation for our visitors. They shifted about uncomfortably for a few moments, then the younger one said, “A communication.”
“A letter,” Bellinger volunteered.
“Powerful.”
“Beautiful.”
The two of them became nostalgic and wispy-eyed as they sat on our couch reflecting on the power and beauty of… whatever the damn thing was. I traded glances with Holmes.
“They’ve been mesmerized,” he said, then looked at them for a moment and added, “Just astoundingly mesmerized. I don’t know who or what might be responsible for their current state, but I can tell you this: something has crushed their power of reason, even as a fat schoolboy might crush the spine of an ancient, osteoporotic pony.”
I blinked at him.
“I’ve seen it happen,” he explained. “Quite sad.”
“That’s all very well, Holmes… or I don’t know, maybe it’s all very tragic, but it still leaves us uncertain as to why the highest powers in this land wish for your aid, followed by your capture. Or what this strange communication might be. Or whom it might be from.” I leaned towards our visitors and asked, “Can you describe the message to me?”
“Wonderful.”
“Powerful.”
“Yes, yes, but what sort of paper was it on?”
“No paper.”
Holmes and I drew our brows into furrowed lines.
“No paper? What was it written on?” I asked.
“Nothing. It was just a single letter. Writ on nothing, in a hand of fire.”
“A word, I think.”
“A name.”
I recoiled in horror. I knew the object of which they spoke. Holmes might be unwilling to let himself believe it, but I was certain the disembodied spirit of Moriarty now haunted London. Apparently he’d been visiting the highest circles of London society.
“It was trying to show us something,” Bellinger said. “To teach us what to do.”
“Capture Holmes,” the younger man reminded him, “and destroy… something…”
“Couldn’t tell what it was called.”
“Something like: Wosson…”
My breath caught in my throat. Me? The disembodied personality of Moriarty had just ordered Britain’s prime minister to kill me? I realized it in an instant. Holmes, of course, did not.
“Most peculiar,” Holmes observed, scratching at his chin. “You know, there was a Swedish warship called the Wasa. Perhaps that is your target. Oh, but it’s already sunk, I think. Hmmm… I think I would have better luck understanding what it is you’ve lost, if only we could work out what it wanted you to destroy.”
He put his hands up to his lips to ponder, but I was already on my feet, shouting, “Conference! Conference, Holmes! I’d like to speak with you in the bathroom, I think!”
“By Jove, I do believe he’s worked it out!” Holmes laughed. “And no surprise. He’s a clever man, my good friend Wat—”
But I clapped a hand over his mouth just in time and dragged him backwards. I did not release him until I had the two of us crowded into the bathroom. Though it was rough treatment, Holmes did not protest. Rather, as soon as I released my grip, he declared, “I say, Watson, you seem quite worked up! What is it? Don’t leave me in suspense; what are they trying to destroy?”
“Me!”
“Eh? Why wo
uld they do that?”
“Because he’s angry at me.”
“He? He who?”
“Moriarty!”
“But that doesn’t make any sense, Watson. Moriarty is gone. He’s dead.”
“You always say that, Holmes. You’ve been telling me that almost since the day we met. But you’re wrong! I’ve seen the thing they describe. I told you about it, remember?”
“The thing that came out of our turkey?”
“Goose, Holmes.”
“It may be as you say, Watson, but… do you think you might be acting a bit like a paranoiac? Is it not equally likely that some magical trickster enchanted our Christmas turkey—”
“Goose.”
“—and that Moriarty is truly dead? Perhaps you finally killed him.”
“No! Holmes! Stop saying that! You’re always wrong!”
“Watson, you’re being dramatic.”
“No. I’m not. Look: something has addled the minds of our highest government officials. We agree on that, don’t we? Something has ordered them to capture you and destroy me.”
“Or perhaps the Swedish warship, Wasa.”
“Holmes! Damn it! We have a major problem. That man in there can order the army about. He commands Scotland Yard. He’s got diplomatic ties the world over. If he unleashes the might of Britain against you and me… Well, the sun never sets on the British Empire, but the empire might set on us, rather hard.”
“Hmm… You have a point, Watson,” Holmes conceded. “Even if it is not Moriarty—”
“Which it absolutely is.”
“—even if it isn’t, we do have a challenge before us. Exposure to the established power structure had always been my chief fear. It seems to have come to pass.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “The only thing going for us right now is that the two of them seem somewhat… er…”
“…stupid?” Holmes volunteered.
“Well, one doesn’t like to use such terms when describing a sitting prime minister.”
“But look at them, Watson.”
Peeping around the doorframe, I beheld the two gentlemen, slouched forwards, leaning on each other so as not to collapse, staring with happy, vacant expressions at the far wall, drooling all over my coffee table.
“Yes, all right. Stupid. Here is what I propose: agree to help them. If they’ve got any useful information, I’d like to have it. Then we get rid of them. We keep our heads down, stay out of the way of police and soldiers, and we figure out what has happened and how to fix it, before they capture you and destroy me.”
“Or the ill-fated Swedish warship—”
“Holmes!”
“Oh, very well, Watson. Let’s finish interviewing our clients, shall we?”
“Yes. Thank you. But you mustn’t call me by name.”
“Of course, Watson. I shan’t.”
“But you just did.”
“Well, I won’t do it again, Watson. Never fear.”
“But you just did. Again.”
“Well, not in front of anybody. Really, you must learn to trust me, Watson.”
“Oh, God…”
I have seldom been more affrighted than I was when we walked back into the sitting room to confront the mesmerized remains of Britain’s prime minister. Holmes was the very picture of calm. He strode back in, smiled warmly and said, “Well, I think my partner Wat— um… Wat… whatever his name is and I are prepared to take your case.”
“Yes. Aid us.”
“I shall.”
“Then we will capture you.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it, gentlemen,” Holmes assured them. “But before you do, can you tell us anything more about the mysterious letter?”
“It was beautif—”
“Yes, but where was it kept?”
“He had it,” Lord Bellinger said, indicating his companion with no small amount of blame creeping into his stuporous monotone.
“Capital. And he is…?”
“Trelawney Hope,” the man introduced himself.
Holmes looked just as lost as before, so I told him, “Mr. Hope is the Secretary for European Affairs, Holmes. He’s quite the rising statesman. Or… he was…”
“And exactly where did you keep it, Mr. Hope?” Warlock asked.
“In my home, Whitehall Terrace,” he said. “In my bedroom. In my dispatch box, where I keep all my important papers.”
“I see. So, you took a piece of fire and put it with all your important papers,” Holmes said, then turned to me and mused, “Well, I suppose he may not have been all that intelligent, even before he was mesmerized, eh, Wat— er… whatever your name is, eh?”
“Perhaps not,” I agreed.
“So, you put the fire in with your papers, and then what happened?” asked Holmes. Yet, if the Moriarty Rune did set fire to any government documents, Trelawney Hope seemed to have no regard for it.
“Lord Bellinger…” Hope said. “I called him in to see if he could tell me what it was.”
“Ah. I see,” said Holmes. “And I have to suppose that’s when it started in with the whole mesmerism thing, yes?”
“We used to stare at it for hours,” Hope said.
“Admire it,” said Bellinger with a sad, wistful look in his eye.
“So beautiful.”
“So powerful.”
“Capture Holmes.”
“Destroy the doctor.”
I gave Holmes a rather pointed look. To his credit, he recoiled, shocked and dismayed. The prospect of his own capture had caused him no concern, but the idea that I was in danger rocked him to the core. “What?” he spluttered. “No, no! Don’t do that!”
Yet Holmes’s admonitions were nothing against “the master’s” repeated brain-washings. Bellinger leaned in with renewed vigor and insisted, “Destroy the doctor!”
“Destroy!” Hope agreed, in high-pitched, strident tones.
“Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!”
“I said no!” Holmes insisted, leaping to his feet. He cast his eyes about the room, as if searching for a weapon.
Eager that my friend not murder the prime minister in our sitting room, I suggested, “Perhaps we’d best concentrate on the present dilemma, gentlemen. We must recover your lost item. Can you tell us where you got it?”
“Lord Holdhurst,” said Hope.
I nearly fell over backwards. “Do you know where he is?” I blurted.
“He had to go,” said Bellinger with a malicious smile.
“Um… er… to the South of France,” Hope added, unconvincingly.
“I got a hammer,” said Bellinger, “and sent him to the South of France.”
“No!” Hope insisted. “My axe and my letter opener! We sent him to the South of France!”
Though I was quite taken aback, at least some of the mysteries of the last week were taking shape in my mind. I cleared my throat and asked, “So, when did you last see the master?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“We were looking at it.”
“Admiring.”
“Trying… trying to hear what it was telling us.”
“So frustrating.”
“So beautiful.”
“Very well,” I said. “One presumes this occurred at Mr. Hope’s house?”
“Yes,” Bellinger said.
“Whitehall Terrace,” added Hope.
“At what hour did you see it last?”
This question demanded the act of recalling one’s actions—a particular challenge for our guests, it seemed. They grunted and strained for a few minutes, until Bellinger finally decided, “Two, I should think. Two in the morning.”
I nodded. “And when did you discover it was missing?”
“We awoke this morning at seven,” said Bellinger, “to admire it.”
“So beautif—”
“Yes, yes, yes! And powerful, I know,” I interrupted. “And that’s when you discovered it was gone?”
“Gone!”
“Lost!”
> “What do you think happened to it, Wat— er… Person-Who-Lives-With-Me?” Holmes wondered. “Did somebody take it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, then turned to our guests to ask, “Who else knew you were in possession of this message?”
This idea drew a howl of rage from Bellinger. “No! No one! The master must be kept safe!”
“Secret!”
“Secret from everybody!”
I drew a sigh and asked, “Mr. Hope, is that a wedding band on your finger?”
“Yes.”
“And is your wife in residence at Whitehall Terrace?”
“Yesssssssss.”
“And do you suppose she failed to notice that you spent the better part of the week holed up in your room, staying up until all hours, with the prime minister of Great Britain?”
The thought sunk slowly through the layers of fog that obscured the minds of our two visitors. They sat in silence. I had no idea how long it would take to register and had begun to doubt they would comprehend it at all when Bellinger suddenly screamed, “Destroy the wife!”
To my horror, Hope also screamed out, “Destroy!”
“Destroy!”
“Destroy!”
The two of them began to struggle up off the couch, but I leapt up before them and urged, “Gentlemen! Calm yourselves!”
“Do not calm! Destroy!”
“But wait! Wait… Don’t you want Holmes’s aid, first?” I reminded them.
“Aid us.” Hope’s tone was pleading. The rage dropped away from him in the merest heartbeat, replaced by an expression of haggard helplessness. I’d always supposed mesmerism and hypnotism to be relaxing endeavors, but here was proof that the last few days had been emotionally exhausting, even for these robust politicians. Poor fellows…
“Yes. Yes, that’s right,” I said, patting his arm. “Holmes will aid you. And until such time as he is finished, there is to be no capturing and no destroying of anybody, is that clear?”
“But… capture Holmes…”
“Well, if you capture him, how can he aid you?” I asked.
“But… destroy the wife…” Hope muttered.
“No, you mustn’t.” I tried to keep my voice stern, but fair.
“Destroy the doctor,” Bellinger volunteered.
“No! You must especially not do that,” I urged. “What if the person you destroyed was the only person who knew where your lost message was?”
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 8
