Between leaving the camp on Victoria Park and coming to his senses in the clearing at Epping Forest shortly before he gave Holmes consent to shoot him, Umslopogaas remembered nothing. His run of fifteen-odd miles from the one location to the other was not even a blur; it was a complete blank. His last memory in the park was of eating his breakfast, then beginning to feel lightheaded. He had the vaguest recollection of hearing a voice repeating his name, which enticed him out from the thicket. The voice being familiar, he could not help but investigate its origin. If it was not that of Zikali himself, he had thought, then it was someone doing a very good imitation of the witch-doctor.
“At any rate,” said Holmes, “what remains beyond debate is that the murder weapon was this innocuous-looking cruet set, which Mrs Biddulph kept for her tenant’s use only. All Van Hoek had to do was unscrew the caps on each of the pots, pour in the Devil’s Dust, and let the unfortunate Wade do the rest himself. The real devilry of it was that in Ada Biddulph, Van Hoek had the perfect scapegoat, whether he realised it or not.”
“Because she was rumoured to have poisoned her husband,” I said.
Holmes nodded. “Naturally the police would leap to the conclusion that she was up to no good again, this time her victim being her lodger. When someone is already under a cloud of suspicion it doesn’t take much for a rain of accusation to start to fall. The poor woman might well have gone to the gallows for a crime she did not commit. Her great good luck was to be friends with Mrs Hudson, and Mrs Hudson’s great good luck was to have Sherlock Holmes as a lodger.”
“Mrs Hudson might dispute the second part of that sentence in general terms, but not in this specific instance.”
“Sharp, Watson. For one who has not slept in nearly thirty-six hours, you still have your wits about you.”
I yawned heavily. I would have been glad of my bed just then, were Umslopogaas not occupying it.
“I will apprise Lestrade of my findings,” Holmes continued, “and steer him towards Dick Turpin’s cave, where the mortal remains of our two miscreants await. I shall warn him about the wolves, although I imagine they will be long gone by the time he gets there. There is not much left of Zikali, of course, and I wonder if the wolves might not have visited the same depredations upon Van Hoek. Van Hoek’s boot, however, ought to be intact, and that is the clinching piece of evidence, along with the cruets.”
“What about the Fanthorpes?” said Quatermain. “They should face justice, should they not? Van Hoek and Zikali have paid the penalty for their crimes, but the Fanthorpes deserve punishment too.”
“But for what, Quatermain? That is the problem. It will be difficult, if not nigh impossible, to connect the Fanthorpes to anything Van Hoek and Zikali did. The three brothers sit in their ivory tower in Mayfair, insulated from the day-to-day running of their company. The nitty-gritty affairs, the things that actually go on at their mines in foreign lands, remain at arm’s length from them. Even if they did know about any shady activities or cruel practices, they can deny it with plausibility. They are, what is more, wealthy and powerful men. They are firmly entrenched within the nation’s elite and have the proverbial friends in high places. I fear that any attempt to prosecute them over this business will be doomed to failure. It is as Daniel Greensmith said: ‘Unless one possesses watertight proof of malfeasance, their kind are more or less untouchable.’”
“That is a damnable nuisance,” Quatermain said hotly.
“It is a regrettable fact of life,” Holmes said coolly. “Believe me, if I felt it was in my power to bring the Fanthorpes down, I would. We will just have to hope that some higher authority holds them to account for any wrongdoing they may have committed – even if that must occur not in this life but the next.”
A solemn silence settled over us, as outside a blustery rain began to rattle against the windowpanes. Holmes accordingly lit a fire, and together we three watched its flickering birth and growth.
Eventually we heard the sounds of Umslopogaas stirring, and soon the Zulu limped into the sitting-room. His face was wan but he braved a smile.
“Dr John H. Watson of the University of London and Netley Hospital,” said he, hands clasped at his chest as if in prayer. “I owe you my life and the continued use of my leg.”
“Hardly,” I said. “Any doctor could have done what I did.”
“But not nearly as well. Let me thank you, Doctor.” He did by means of a tight, back-slapping embrace. “I will tell everyone about your tremendous surgical skills. The name of Dr Watson will resound through all of Africa. You will be famed from Tunis to Port Elizabeth, from Sierra Leone to the Gulf of Aden. The same goes for you, the venerable Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, whose accuracy with a gun rivals that of Macumazahn himself.”
“Steady there, Umslopogaas,” said Quatermain mock-sternly. “You can take bongering too far, you know.”
Umslopogaas chuckled. “If you gallant gentlemen ever should come to my country, rest assured you shall be received as heroes. Nowhere will you not be made to feel at home. Nowhere will the finest meals not be given you and the loudest songs not sung in your praise. So I swear, upon my life.”
“One day we may well hold you to that promise,” said Holmes.
After I had checked the dressing on Umslopogaas’s wound, Quatermain began making noises about leaving. “We have imposed upon you long enough, gentlemen, and are in danger of outstaying our welcome.”
“Not at all,” I said, but Quatermain’s mind was made up.
“You are well enough to walk, Umslopogaas?” he said.
“I am as fit as a fiddle!”
“Then let us make for King’s Cross. I believe we may catch the early evening train to York if we hurry.”
Farewells were said, hearty handshakes shared, and off went Hunter Quatermain and his companion out into the squall.
Holmes and I watched them from the window as they headed off down Baker Street, shoulders hunched against the weather. Each carried his preferred weapon, wrapped in a length of canvas supplied by Mrs Hudson. Each walked with a hitch in his stride.
“Odd couple,” Holmes mused. “Quite unalike, yet both benefiting from the differences between them, the one making up for that which the other lacks.”
“Not so unusual really,” I said, but the subtext of the remark seemed lost on my friend.
“Quatermain is quite the contradiction, isn’t he?” he said. “He is the British colonialist writ large, thrusting like a dagger into our overseas dominions, taking what he can with barely a glimmer of conscience. Yet one is hard pressed to dislike him and may even find him admirable. He has few illusions about himself. He is devoid of self-doubt. He means well. That said, he is amongst the last of his kind, part of a dying breed. His era is slowly but surely coming to an end, and I wonder what will replace it. An era of intellect and uncertainty, maybe, for the two things invariably go together. A new age of conscience and questioning. It seems as unavoidable as the turn of the seasons.”
His sigh was melancholy and a tad wistful.
“But I think, still, that Allan Quatermain – antiquated though he is – has one great adventure left in him yet. His time is not quite through.”
AFTERWORD
Holmes was correct in his prediction. Allan Quatermain did have one great adventure left in him. It has been chronicled by the author Henry Rider Haggard under the somewhat uninspired title Allan Quatermain. Indeed, Haggard has by now – 1904 – published some nine volumes detailing Quatermain’s exploits, based upon notes left by the man himself and upon the recollections of his friend Sir Henry Curtis, and I am sure there are more to come.
Allan Quatermain tells of Quatermain’s final trip to Africa. Not long after parting company with us, he set off with Sir Henry and Captain Good in search of a fabled white race living in a remote, unexplored territory beyond Mount Lekakisera called Elgumi.
The book also tells of Quatermain’s death on that expedition, from a wound to the lung gained valiantly in pit
ched battle. Umslopogaas’s death is likewise recorded in the book, it, too, the result of battle. I cannot help but think that neither Macumazahn nor the old Zulu warrior would have wished to die any other way.
Certain parts of the narrative of Allan Quatermain are at odds with the facts presented here in this book of mine. For instance, Quatermain sticks firmly to the story that the cause of his son Harry’s death was smallpox. Perhaps the truth was too painful for him to enshrine in prose.
Similarly, he recounts meeting up with Umslopogaas in an early chapter of Allan Quatermain as though the two of them had not seen each other in years; whereas, as the evidence in these pages shows, they had been in England together not long beforehand. Why Quatermain omitted to mention their recent escapades upon these shores – or make any reference to Sherlock Holmes and myself – I do not know. Again, I suspect it is because his son’s death cast such a grim pall over the events. He would rather not think about Harry, Bradford Wade, Daniel Greensmith, Starkey, the Devil’s Dust or any of it. He would rather draw a discreet veil over the whole proceedings.
One final note. The Fanthorpe brothers did get their comeuppance, after a fashion. All three succumbed to a violent bout of gastroenteritis after luncheon at their headquarters. So severe were the effects of the illness, blamed on spoiled shellfish, that they fell into comas and perished within hours of one another.
The fact that Mrs Biddulph’s cruet set was no longer in our rooms after Quatermain departed has, I am sure, no bearing whatsoever on the above.
J.H.W.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Justin Webb for his help translating the title phrase of the novel into the Zulu language, and to Titanic editorial tag-team Ella Chappell and Joanna Harwood and copy-editor Sam Matthews, who between them rigorously vetted my references to Conan Doyle, Haggard, and geographical and historical fact, and who have spared me more than a few blushes.
J.M.H.L.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Lovegrove is the New York Times best-selling author of The Age of Odin, the third novel in his critically-acclaimed Pantheon military SF series. He was short-listed for the Arthur C. Clarke Award in 1998 for his novel Days and for the John W. Campbell Memorial Award in 2004 for his novel Untied Kingdom. He also reviews fiction for the Financial Times. He has written Sherlock Holmes: The Stuff of Nightmares, Sherlock Holmes: Gods of War, Sherlock Holmes: The Thinking Engine and Sherlock Holmes: The Labyrinth of Death for Titan Books; his new series, The Cthulhu Casebooks, launched in 2016 with Sherlock Holmes and the Shadwell Shadows.
SHERLOCK HOLMES
CRY OF THE INNOCENTS
Cavan Scott
It is 1891, and a Catholic priest arrives at 221B Baker Street, only to utter the words “il corpe” before suddenly dropping dead.
Though the man’s death is attributed to cholera, when news of another dead priest reaches Holmes, he becomes convinced that the men have been poisoned. He and Watson learn that the victims were on a mission from the Vatican to investigate a miracle; it is said that the body of eighteenth-century philanthropist and slave trader Edwyn Warwick has not decomposed. But should the Pope canonise a man who made his fortune through slavery? And when Warwick’s body is stolen, it becomes clear that the priests’ mission has attracted the attention of a deadly conspiracy…
PRAISE FOR CAVAN SCOTT
“Many memorable moments… excellent.” Starburst
“Utterly charming, comprehensively Sherlockian, and possessed of a wry narrator.” Criminal Element
“Memorable and enjoyable… One of the best stories I’ve ever read.” Wondrous Reads
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SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE PATCHWORK DEVIL
Cavan Scott
It is 1919, and while the world celebrates the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, Holmes and Watson are called to a grisly discovery.
A severed hand has been found on the bank of the Thames, a hand belonging to a soldier who supposedly died in the trenches two years ago. But the hand is fresh, and shows signs that it was recently amputated. So how has it ended up back in London two years after its owner was killed in France? Warned by Sherlock’s brother Mycroft to cease their investigation, and only barely surviving an attack by a superhuman creature, Holmes and Watson begin to suspect a conspiracy at the very heart of the British government…
“Scott poses an intriguing puzzle for an older Holmes and Watson to tackle.” Publishers Weekly
“Interesting and exciting in ways that few Holmes stories are these days.” San Francisco Book Review
“A thrilling tale for Scott’s debut in the Sherlock Holmes world.” Sci-Fi Bulletin
TITANBOOKS.COM
SHERLOCK HOLMES
LABYRINTH OF DEATH
James Lovegrove
It is 1895, and Sherlock Holmes’s new client is a high court judge, whose free-spirited daughter has disappeared without a trace.
Holmes and Watson discover that the missing woman – Hannah Woolfson – was herself on the trail of a missing person, her close friend Sophia. Sophia was recruited to a group known as the Elysians, a quasi-religious sect obsessed with Ancient Greek myths and rituals, run by the charismatic Sir Philip Buchanan. Hannah has joined the Elysians under an assumed name, convinced that her friend has been murdered. Holmes agrees that she should continue as his agent within the secretive yet seemingly harmless cult, yet Watson is convinced Hannah is in terrible danger. For Sir Philip has dreams of improving humanity through classical ideals, and at any cost…
“A writer of real authority and one worthy of taking the reader back to the dangerous streets of Victorian London in the company of the Great Detective.” Crime Time
“Lovegrove does a convincing job of capturing Watson’s voice.” Publishers Weekly
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SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE THINKING ENGINE
James Lovegrove
It is 1895, and Sherlock Holmes is settling back into life as a consulting detective at 221B Baker Street, when he and Watson learn of strange goings-on amidst the dreaming spires of Oxford.
A Professor Quantock has built a wondrous computational device, which he claims is capable of analytical thought to rival the cleverest men alive. Naturally Sherlock Holmes cannot ignore this challenge. He and Watson travel to Oxford, where a battle of wits ensues between the great detective and his mechanical counterpart as they compete to see which of them can be first to solve a series of crimes, from a bloody murder to a missing athlete. But as man and machine vie for supremacy, it becomes clear that the Thinking Engine has its own agenda…
“The plot, like the device, is ingenious, with a chilling twist… an entertaining, intelligent and pacy read.” The Sherlock Holmes Journal
“Lovegrove knows his Holmes trivia and delivers a great mystery that will fans will enjoy, with plenty of winks and nods to the canon.” Geek Dad
“I think Conan Doyle would have enjoyed reading this story: the concept of an intelligent, self-aware Thinking Engine is brilliance itself.” The Book Bag
TITANBOOKS.COM
SHERLOCK HOLMES
GODS OF WAR
James Lovegrove
It is 1913, and Dr Watson is visiting Sherlock Holmes at his retirement cottage near Eastbourne when tragedy strikes: the body of a young man, Patrick Mallinson, is found under the cliffs of Beachy Head.
The dead man’s father, a wealthy businessman, engages Holmes to prove that his son committed suicide, the result of a failed love affair with an older woman. Yet the woman in question insists that there is more to Patrick’s death. She has seen mysterious symbols drawn on his body, and fears that he was under the influence of a malevolent cult. When an attempt is made on Watson’s life, it seems that she may be proved right. The threat of war hangs over England, and there is no telling what sinister forces are at work…
“Lovegrove has once again packed his novel with incident and suspense.” Fantasy Book Review
“An atmospheric mystery which shows just why Lovegrove has become a force to be reckoned with in genre fiction. More, please.” Starburst
“A very entertaining read with a fast-moving, intriguing plot.” The Consulting Detective
TITANBOOKS.COM
SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES
James Lovegrove
A spate of bombings has hit London, causing untold damage and loss of life. Meanwhile a strangely garbed figure has been spied haunting the rooftops and grimy back alleys of the capital.
Sherlock Holmes believes this strange masked man may hold the key to the attacks. He moves with the extraordinary agility of a latter-day Spring- Heeled Jack. He possesses weaponry and armour of unprecedented sophistication. He is known only by the name Baron Cauchemar, and he appears to be a scourge of crime and villainy. But is he all that he seems? Holmes and his faithful companion Dr Watson are about to embark on one of their strangest and most exhilarating adventures yet.
“[A] tremendously accomplished thriller which leaves the reader in no doubt that they are in the hands of a confident and skilful craftsman.” Starburst
“Dramatic, gripping, exciting and respectful to its source material, I thoroughly enjoyed every surprise and twist as the story unfolded.” Fantasy Book Review
“This is delicious stuff, marrying the standard notions of Holmesiana with the kind of imagination we expect from Lovegrove.” Crime Time
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SHERLOCK HOLMES
THE SPIRIT BOX
George Mann
German zeppelins rain down death and destruction on London, and Dr Watson is grieving for his nephew, killed on the fields of France.
A cryptic summons from Mycroft Holmes reunites Watson with his one-time companion, as Sherlock comes out of retirement, tasked with solving three unexplained deaths. A politician has drowned in the Thames after giving a pro-German speech; a soldier suggests surrender before feeding himself to a tiger; and a suffragette renounces women’s liberation and throws herself under a train. Are these apparent suicides something more sinister, something to do with the mysterious Spirit Box? Their investigation leads them to Ravensthorpe House, and the curious Seaton Underwood, a man whose spectrographs are said to capture men’s souls…
Sherlock Holmes--The Devil's Dust Page 24
