“Yes, but no one was here.”
“Did you happen to look in that wardrobe?” I asked.
“I had no chance. Bannister had some sort of fit and collapsed on the chair out there. The old fool would not get up, no matter what I did, no matter how I kicked him.”
Even Holmes, who had a tendency not to care for the clues that were given him, had to raise his eyebrows at that one. He looked up from his fell-token friend and asked Soames, “So… Bannister disobeyed your order? He shouldn’t be able to do that.”
“Yes, well…” Soames waved his hand about dismissively. “You’ve seen the beast. He’s somewhat deficient. I think he was simply overcome. He knew he was in trouble.”
“I rather suspect Bannister might have been putting on a show to distract you from that wardrobe,” I said. “Now, Soames, you left to fetch us right after that?”
“Yes. I had to get my own hat and cloak because Bannister was so overcome. But by the time I had them, he was on his feet and just leaving the office. I told him to lock the door and admit no one until I returned.”
“Well, I don’t suppose he admitted anyone,” I chuckled. “In fact, I suspect just the opposite.”
I went to the wardrobe and opened the door. In just a moment, I gave a cry of triumph.
“Ha! I’ve got a present for you, Holmes!”
The second black pyramid was identical to the first. Holmes wasted no time snatching it from my hand and reintroducing it to its lost friend. “Look who we’ve found! He was hiding in the wardrobe! Oh, you must’ve been worried sick…”
Soames went white. “So… the entire time I was in the office…”
“The thief was hiding here,” I confirmed. “He must have been trapped until you left. As soon as you were gone, Bannister was free to release him. But we’ve got an even bigger problem.”
“What is that?”
“Is the room the same as it was when you left to fetch us?”
Soames ran back into his office and searched it over.
“Yes, I think so.”
“It must be at least an hour and a half since you left. How has the thief spent that time? He did not steal the manuscript, for there it lies. Either he must have thought he would not be caught, or he has been laying other plans.”
“What plans?” Soames asked.
I shrugged. “I have no way of knowing. The two most basic choices are either to fight us, or to flee. If flight, I think he might have elected to take that manuscript with him. He may be laying an ambush for us, even now. I can’t be certain. But I’ll tell you this: no guilty man suspects he will escape discovery when there are only two other suspects.”
Holmes gave a grim nod.
Soames spluttered, “What do we do?”
“Well, since we’ve cornered ourselves in here very nicely, I’d suggest we begin by locking the door. After that, let’s hear about the suspects, eh?”
Soames practically tripped over himself, running to lock the office door. As soon as it was accomplished he turned to us and crowed, “There! Safe!”
“Well… not too safe, I should think,” I told him. “We know Bannister’s got a key.”
“But he is bound to serve me!”
Warlock and I exchanged a look. He nodded.
“Tell me, Mr. Soames,” I said, “when we walked into this building, did you or did you not tell Bannister to bring tea?”
“I did.”
“And has he?”
Hilton Soames’s hands were shaking, visibly.
“Perhaps he is receiving other orders from his true master,” I said. “Speaking of which, tell us about your students.”
“Er… well… there’s Miles McLaren…”
“What sort of fellow is he?”
“Bookish and weedy,” said Soames. “A very dedicated student of magic, but a bit of an eccentric. He says he wants to make it his life’s work to revolutionize personal transportation, using occult study.”
“Hmm… Let’s consider his potential motives,” I suggested. “If he had full access to that ritual, if he could summon any demon he wished, what do you think he would do?”
“Ha! I can tell you exactly,” said Soames. “He’d bind the demon into a steam engine. He’s certain he could make a coach-sized personal conveyance move two hundred miles in a single hour, without the benefit of a horse, if only he could muster the power. Mad, I tell you. He’s got exactly the same delusions as that daffy Italian, Ferrari.”
“So McLaren would happily steal the ritual to get an advantage on Ferrari,” I reasoned, “but he’s not athletic?”
“I should say not,” Soames harrumphed.
“Then let us move on. Are either of the others?”
“They both are,” said Soames. “You should see Daulat Ras—he’s quite the specimen.”
“Unusual name,” Holmes noted.
“He was sent to us from India. He’s in a Kali suicide cult. They believe that a paltry gift to their god is an insult. They therefore work to perfect their own bodies and their knowledge before destroying themselves in her name. His athletic prowess is formidable. His academic resolve is dauntless. His love of slaughter—even self-slaughter— knows no limit. His dedication is unquestionable.”
“Hmm. I disagree,” said Holmes. “Any member of a suicide cult who survives more than a week… well… I can’t help but question their dedication. Still, it’s easy to see that he might like to get his grubby little murder-claws on those proofs, eh?”
“Absolutely,” said Soames. “He’d use it in a second— and in the worst way he could. It’s hard to get a truly powerful being through to our realm without a willing vessel. Daulat Ras would not hesitate to sacrifice himself for such an exchange—to give up his life to let a great force of destruction loose upon the world, for the glory of his god.”
“Never mind that,” I said. “How tall is he?”
“What? Why does that…?”
“We haven’t much time, Mr. Soames,” I urged. “How tall? Compared to me?”
“Oh, a bit shorter than you, I would think, Dr. Watson.”
“It isn’t him,” I said.
Holmes cocked his head to one side and wondered, “Are you sure, Watson? I really think he seems like the sort of fellow—”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he gives us a bit of trouble in the future. Yet, he does not match the particulars of this crime. The last student is both tall and athletic, I presume?”
“He is,” said Soames, with a doubtful grimace, “but I almost hesitate to call him a student. Douglas Gilchrist is only here because he’s a legacy. He’s from one of England’s preeminent magical families.”
Holmes gave a snort of disdain.
Soames bristled and declared, “England has several great houses with hundreds of years of—”
“Being dimwits, dodderers and dabblers,” Holmes interrupted. “Really, Watson, there are so few fellows worth fearing. It’s an overrated field, I must say. Still, I’ve high hopes for young Daulat.”
“Be that as it may, we must disregard him, for the moment,” I said. “Now, Mr. Soames, what would Gilchrist do with those proofs?”
Soames shrugged, “Loaf about with them? Try to impress girls? Really, he is the worst magus. He’s flirted with dismissal from this school any number of times. He cares about his cricket and rugby teams a great deal more than the arcane. He’s so proud he got his Blue for long jump and hurdles, but it was all I could do to get him to study his part of the ritual. His father and grandfather were foremost in the field—indeed, his father gave me no end of trouble, in my youth—but the great line has ended. Douglas Gilchrist is hopeless.”
“Nevertheless, he is our man.”
Warlock fixed me with a stern but curious look. “You are sure, Watson?”
“I am,” I said. “It all comes down to those little earthen lumps you’re holding in your hand, Holmes, and to what they are really tokens of.”
> “Fell intent,” said Holmes, as if this should be plain to everybody.
Hilton Soames rolled his eyes at Holmes’s amateurish lack of theatricality, then leaned in with the tips of his moustache quivering and hissed, “Misfortune! Calamity!”
Holmes gave a hurt look for having been upstaged so cruelly, but rallied. He crooked his left hand into a claw and declared, “Doom!”
Hilton Soames grasped the corners of his long silk cape in both hands, threw his hands out to either side, so he looked like some sort of goateed humanoid bat and shrieked, “The death of all hopes!”
Warlock drew a breath for his next rebuttal and—as the expression of annoyance on his face gave me to understand it was likely to be an impressive one—I decided I must intercede before anybody started hovering or bending shadows. I stepped between the two men, raised one finger and said, “Long jump, actually.”
“Eh?”
“What?”
“Good lord! It’s plain to see neither of you was ever a sportsman. Have neither of you ever worn track shoes? They’ve got spikes all over the bottom and, let me tell you, you can bang them together again and again, but you never manage to get all the dirt out of them. Therefore, if you’ve been flinging yourself into a black clay jumping pit all day, you just can’t stop your shoes from leaving those, wherever you lay them.”
“Awww! But that’s hardly doom-y at all,” said Holmes, with a deep sigh. “Are you sure about Gilchrist, Watson?”
“Quite sure. Remember, Soames said none of the students knew he’d printed the entire ritual. Even Bannister didn’t know. So—discounting the printer—the thief must have been someone who was capable of seeing the documents through that window and also someone capable of realizing their importance. Yet, let us remember that as we approached Soames’s office—an approach that passes the athletics field—only Holmes was tall enough to see the desk. The thief was therefore likely to be someone both athletic and tall. When I saw the first ‘token’, I knew I’d guessed it right.”
“But how?” asked Soames.
“Well, think about it: someone walks past the athletics field, sees a giant roll of parchment on your desk and wants it. He orders Bannister to open your office—”
“Why do you continue to presume that someone else may command Bannister?” Soames demanded.
“We shall come to it,” I said, “but first let us see if the rest of the narrative suits. Having gained entrance, the thief moved the writing desk to the window, placed his spiked shoes down on it—leaving the fell token—and began to copy the manuscript, thinking he could spot your return. You took the side door and—if you had not cried out at seeing Bannister’s key in the lock—you might have surprised him. Instead, your warning gave him just enough time to snatch his shoes off the desk and run to the bedroom, to hide in your wardrobe, where we found the second clay pyramid. There he remained—trapped— until you left to fetch Holmes and me.”
“And you suppose Bannister let him out?” Soames asked.
“I do. It is a tenuous connection, but you mentioned that Bannister was donated by a notable magic family. I don’t suppose it was the Gilchrists?”
“Oh! Thornton Gilchrist, I shall destroy you!” Soames howled, shaking one fist at the ceiling.
Holmes rolled his eyes. “That’s a ‘yes’, I should think, Watson.”
“He said Bannister was a peace offering,” said Soames. “Proof that our years of antagonism were at an end. Of course, at the time I assumed it was nothing more than a bribe to assure I would admit his useless son to this school.”
I had to agree. “It could well have been. If Gilchrist Senior could get a still-loyal Bannister and his son into your school, he’d have two spies. It would also explain why Douglas Gilchrist would attempt to copy the binding ritual, even though his own interest in magic is small.”
“Would it?” wondered Holmes.
“Of course. Never underestimate the lengths a loaf-about son will go to, making sure his father’s money keeps flowing in to allow him to waste his days attending university. Er… but don’t ask me how I know.”
“Well then… what should we do?” Soames asked.
“Confront Gilchrist, if he is still here. The problem is, we’ve no idea what he’s up to. He could have run, in which case he’s got a nearly two-hour start on us. Or he may be planning an ambush.”
“He might even be trying the ritual,” Holmes noted.
“Do you think he’s capable?” I asked.
Soames nodded. “The ritual is remarkably simple. A competent mage could prepare for it in less than an hour. He is not competent, but he’s had some time now.”
“What do you think, Holmes? Are we in any danger?”
“Hard to say, Watson. I imagine, if he’s got low ability, he’s not going to be picky about particulars. He’s likely to lock onto the most powerful arcane being he can find and just—”
But Holmes did not finish. Instead, he blinked out of existence.
“Oh…” I said. “Bollocks.”
Soames recoiled. “Did he just…? Did Holmes just…? You don’t think…?”
“Gilchrist summoned him and bound him to his will?” I asked.
“Could he?” Soames wondered.
“I really would be the last of us to know,” I told him. “If he has, though, we’ve got a bit of a problem. Holmes is a most dangerous fellow.”
“Bah,” laughed Soames.
“I am telling you: I’ve lived with that man for almost two years and I’ve no idea what his limits might be. Perhaps he has none.”
“I’m sure you exaggerate,” said Soames.
“Good. Then you may go first,” I replied, cracking open the office door. I wasn’t sure what to expect—an attack by Holmes, Bannister, Gilchrist or perhaps only an empty school—but I certainly could never have guessed the scene that would present itself.
Just opposite the door of Soames’s office were the ancient stone stairs that led up to the students’ quarters. At the top of these stood a flushed youth, with sandy-blonde hair and the easy confidence of the young and handsome. In one fist, he held a candle; in the other, an irregular bundle of papers—his notes on the Fortescue Binding. Just behind his right shoulder stood Bannister, looking sheepish and unhappy. Behind his left stood Warlock Holmes.
Holmes was laughing so hard I thought he might faint.
“He summoned me, Watson! Me! I must say, I’m flattered by the attention.”
“Silence!” Douglas Gilchrist cried. “I had hoped it might not go this way, Professor. I had hoped you might never know my father had gained your secrets. But now there’s nothing else for it. Minion, destroy these men!”
Holmes gave an apologetic shrug. “I’d rather not, you know. I quite like one of them. But if the master commands it… well… what else is there to do?”
Yet, Holmes did think of something else—something as efficacious as it was childish. He placed one foot to the small of Douglas Gilchrist’s back and shoved him down the stairs.
I suppose most of us have fallen down a flight of stairs before, but how many have fallen down a set of steep, stone, medieval stairs? After seeing it happen to Gilchrist, I am not eager to ever perform the feat myself. At the top landing, Douglas Gilchrist had been a handsome, energetic man, rife with youthful vigor. By the time he arrived at the bottom, he was another fellow altogether. He had a great cut on one leg and one on his scalp. His face was bruised and puffy. Two of his fingers faced the wrong way and the fight had gone out of him entirely.
“You betrayed the master!” Bannister cried, and flung himself at Holmes.
“I say! Get off! Really, Bannister, this is not a fight you can win, you know.”
Yet, the pudgy demon would not relent. He wrapped both hands around Holmes’s neck and tried to throttle him. Even from my limited vantage point, I could see there was no strength in his grip. He gave a horrible, high shriek and his doughy face contorted into a hideous battle-visage.
&n
bsp; Holmes looked more pitying than scared. He reached up and gave Bannister a little back-handed slap on the cheek. No sooner had Holmes’s skin touched him than Bannister broke into a great cloud of white dust. He spattered all across the opposite wall. Holmes was left coughing and brushing Bannister bits all off the front of his shirt.
“Can’t fault his devotion, can you?” Holmes wheezed.
“Holmes? What have you done to him?” I cried.
My friend gave me a quizzical look, as if it were the oddest question he’d ever heard and indicated the white smear on the opposite wall.
“But… is he dead?” I wondered.
“Watson, in our future adventures together, here is a good rule of thumb: whenever you see anybody explode into bits and spatter all over a wall, yes, they are dead.”
“But how?” moaned the ill-shaped pile of Douglas Gilchrist. “You were bound to my will!”
“Don’t be silly,” Holmes chided. “I am not a demon, sir; I am a man. All right, I may be slightly full of demons, so I can pardon the mistake, but my will is quite my own. And let me say: even if I were a demon, I’m not sure you’d have caught me that easily. Really, Gilchrist, a little less time on the cricket pitch and a little more with your nose in the books would do you no harm, I think. Poor marks.”
Straightening his sleeves and shirt front, Holmes descended the stairs, stepped over the figure of young Gilchrist, then reached down and plucked the wad of papers from his grip.
“I’ll just be taking these, shall I?” Holmes said, then turned to me and asked, “All right, Watson?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“I say, that was a refreshing little mystery,” said Holmes. “Just what was needed to ease us back into the swing of things, eh? You got a fun little puzzle to wrap your brain around, with only three suspects. I got to test my mystic mettle against a self-important teacher, his worst student, and an enfeebled butler demon. They won’t always be such larks, you know.”
“Oh, I know. Our easiest case so far. By a margin, I’d say.”
Holmes nodded. “I suppose the only true threat was this binding ritual. Dangerous business. I’m afraid we really can’t let you remember it, Gilchrist. Can we get him on his feet, Watson?”
Warlock Holmes--My Grave Ritual Page 25
