by Paul Kane
“Indeed,” Holmes concurred. “I have heard of several members of the fair sex – especially in America – reporting on topics that are more usually reserved for the male members of staff. Sports, for example... Forgive me, I did not mean any disrespect. Quite the contrary, Dr Watson and I have become quite enamoured with your work.”
She nodded. “As we have always been with yours. In fact, I have studied your methods closely, via Dr Watson’s tales. Will he not be joining us?”
“He is occupied with other matters, not entirely unrelated. It is a pity, for he would have liked to have met you, I think. All of you being writers – though obviously yours and Miss Kline’s area of expertise leans towards the more factual.”
Summersby’s brow furrowed. “How did you –”
“Your writing style,” said Holmes, waving a hand. “In your missive to me, the hand of a woman is easily detected by the expert eye. And in your accounts, which I am assuming are submitted by post or delivered by a third party? The empathy you both have for your subjects, for example; something that is sadly lacking in that of your male colleagues’ work, Josephine.” The woman looked even more perplexed at the mention of her first name, so Holmes continued. “I’m sure you are not unfamiliar with deduction yourself, given your occupation and what you have just told me. Your chosen seat, for example, giving you a full view of the tavern. Quickly, the man off to your right: his business.”
Without even hesitating, Summersby replied, “He’s in the market for stolen goods, and the man opposite is selling. There, see, he has a sample – a brooch in his palm, though he is doing his best to conceal it. He is dressed in muted clothing, is probably the burglar himself, hoping to pass off the items as quickly as possible – judging from the way he keeps looking around him, looking to the door. The police can’t be far behind.”
Holmes clapped his hands together, beaming like a proud parent – or teacher. “Bravo! You see, it is instinct – in your nature, Josephine. You take in details, the same as I, and you register their significance. But I would not worry if I were him, the police probably haven’t even realised there has been a crime committed yet.
“Now, then. To work. I am assuming you have contacted me about Miss Amelia Kline, a surname she changed from the usual spelling to conceal her German heritage. It is one thing to try and sell your stories when you are a woman, quite another to be of German descent as well. You were both following the case of the detective, Inspector Thorndyke. We met with his wife a few days ago; charming woman.”
Summersby agreed. “One of our sources informed us that they’d last seen Thorndyke heading to Limehouse, in the East End.”
“London’s Chinatown,” mused Holmes, rubbing his chin. “I know it well.”
“We tossed a coin to decide who would go after him and make enquiries, undercover, naturally –”
“And you lost. Or won, in hindsight,” said Holmes.
“She was supposed to leave a message to let me know she was all right, and what progress she was making... but I have received no such communication, Mr Holmes. I thought about venturing in there myself, alone; I could not call upon any of my colleagues, for obvious reasons.”
“It would be a sign of weakness,” Holmes concluded. “Not to mention giving away your secret.”
Summersby pursed her lips, then reluctantly nodded. “But I thought perhaps, as you are also engaged in searching for Thorndyke – unless I am mistaken – then you might be able to help. That perhaps we might explore the area together?”
“Your concern for Miss Kline; would I be right in thinking it extends beyond that of a mere friend?” Holmes sat back and waited for his answer.
“We... we are as close as any two people might be, Mr Holmes, if that’s what you mean. I would have thought you, of anyone, would be able to appreciate that.”
Holmes said nothing in return.
“We work together and –”
“Not many writers work so well together,” Holmes observed, flatly. “Let alone write as if they were one. It is a rare thing.” He said no more on the subject than that; for there was nothing more to say. “I feel it only fair to inform you that I believe Inspector Thorndyke not only to be missing, but deceased. That I believe the same fate befell Mr Monroe before him.” He did not mention the others, for Holmes did not know how much the reporter had found out.
Summersby opened her mouth, then closed it again, clenching her jaw. It looked like she was trying not to cry. Then she said, “Miss Kline is not dead. I would... I would know it.”
“It is a belief you share with Mrs Thorndyke,” Holmes informed her, but did not belabour the point. Summersby was used to confronting the harsh realities that life had to offer, used to dealing with facts – unlike a lot of her contemporaries, who seemed to think it was acceptable to write stories even more fictionalised than Watson’s accounts of his exploits. Holmes was not going to lie to the woman. He was aware of the irony; he had lied to Watson on many occasions, especially recently.
Summersby’s eyes narrowed. “She is not dead,” the woman repeated and Holmes gave a curt nod. If nothing else, she was living proof of the existence of faith in lieu of evidence. Perhaps he should be taking a leaf out of her book?
“I once knew a reporter, a long time ago,” said Holmes, “who went undercover to experience what life was like for the dispossessed. But, because he was not like the others – even with his make-up, his grotesque but false twisted lip – he drew attention to himself. It earnt the man money from passers-by, enchanted that he could recite poetry and famous quotes from books... More money, actually, than he was able to earn in your profession, as incredible as that might seem.”
“I am familiar with the story, Mr Holmes. The wife reported that she thought him dead, but he was discovered alive, if I remember rightly?”
“That is quite so,” Holmes replied. “The point I was making was that he drew attention to himself, and it was a novelty. If Miss Kline was to do the same during her covert mission, I am not sure the end results would be quite so favourable.”
Summersby fell silent, as if digesting the information, then asked, “Will you help me or not, Mr Holmes?”
“I will indeed, Miss Summersby. I will venture to Limehouse first thing in the morning and –”
“The morning?” Summersby snapped, then looked about to make sure she hadn’t drawn any undue attention. More softly: “What is wrong with right now? We should –”
Holmes held up a finger. “I am expecting a telegram from my companion, Dr Watson, who is playing his own part in these proceedings, as I have said, albeit from some considerable distance away. Therefore, in the morning, I shall set off and begin my search for Miss Kline. Alone.” Miss Summersby opened her mouth to speak, but Holmes cut her off again. “It is a stipulation of securing my services, I’m afraid.”
Summersby nodded, and Holmes wished then he would be able to bring her back better news. But, as with the other connected cases, he already knew that the fate of Miss Kline would not have been a pleasant one. It was the same fate he was expecting himself, in the end, when he caught up with the Order – with this Engineer.
A fate, though he used the phrase sparingly if at all, worse than death itself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Chasing the Dragon
SHERLOCK HOLMES DRESSED appropriately for an undercover assignment on the streets of Limehouse; in ragged clothing, as dishevelled as possible.
It did not matter that he was heading out early in the morning to begin his search, for the people who sought out the secrets of this place did so at all hours of the day – many did not even realise what hour of day it was, once they had tasted the ‘delights’ it had to offer. Holmes would be doing so himself soon enough, to build trust and to follow whatever leads there might be.
All of which would take time, he realised. He had some contacts already in the area, and called upon those to begin with, asking if any of them had seen a ‘slight gentleman, boyish-l
ooking, who seemed out of place.’ The trail led him to one opium den after another, where he partook of the drug – having already built up a resistance to it. Holmes was beyond such petty triflings, was now used to much stronger fare than he could find inside those pipes, laying beside others in basements or crowded lodgings, wrapped in blankets and staring out into space.
Holmes observed the comings and goings of those who traded in such pleasures; caught whispers, half-heard rumours and tall tales. It was clear to him when he overheard mention of the Order that he was in the right place. Perhaps it was their plan to ensure that the whole of London was addicted to these substances? Maybe that was their primary form of control?
It was on the second day – and after finally answering Watson’s telegram, expressly forbidding him to take any action – that he grew nearer to his enemy. He had heard talk of a tea shop owned by someone called Kircher. A place where one might go to speak to a representative of a new faction that was making waves in the area – indeed, across London.
A recruitment office, by any other name.
Once there, Holmes made discreet enquiries – and was offered food and drink while he waited for his answers. It was clearly laced with something; an ingredient not even he was familiar with, but he was confident that his body could endure.
He was wrong. It began working on him almost immediately, dulling his senses, leaving him incapable of defending himself when he was dragged roughly from that place and deposited in the back of a cart. He did not know whether they had seen through his ruse, or they were just being cautious, but in the end it did not make much difference. He slipped in and out of consciousness, and when he woke for the final time, he was being manhandled through a dark passage. No, more of a tunnel; underground. For there, ahead of them, was an abandoned rail carriage, dimly lit. Was this where the Order ran things from? Holmes wondered. But there seemed to be only one solitary figure inside, sitting with a blanket wrapped around itself.
Holmes was shoved through the door and deposited unceremoniously on the floor in front of the figure, who rose now, still clutching the blanket. Blinking, Holmes looked up and stared into the cool blue eyes of a bearded man dressed in rags. It had to be the vagabond Mrs Spencer had described: able to hide in plain sight amongst the lost and forgotten, the perfect place to enlist more like him.
“Welcome,” said the man, taking a step towards Holmes.
“Wh-where...”
“Where are you? I hardly think that important, do you? You are where you need to be. Where you always wanted to be, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
So they knew who he was, in spite of his efforts. He did not ask who this man was, because he already had a clue to this part of the puzzle and thought he would return the favour.
“And you... you are the Engineer,” stated Holmes.
The man grinned through his filthy matted beard, revealing rotten teeth. Then he patted his chest with a gloved hand and shook his head. “You flatter me.”
Not the Engineer. Then who? Kircher? Holmes attempted to stand, but only got as far as one knee.
“I,” said the man, “am merely a guardian.”
Was that what they called the officers in this Order of the Gash? Holmes wondered. A title for the higher-ranking soldiers? “You... you are the one who cleans up,” Holmes managed. “Afterwards.”
The man cocked his head. “In a manner of speaking. I also broker deals.”
Definitely high up in the organisation. A second-in-command, then?
“I can see you want to ask me. So ask,” said the man, now only a few feet away from Holmes.
“Inspector Thorndyke...?”
The derelict shook his head.
“Miss Kline...?”
Another shake of the head. “They made their own bargains, Mr Holmes. Just as you will make yours.”
Holmes looked up at the man and sneered. “The boy?”
The bearded fellow paused; then he retreated to the dark recesses of the carriage. But he returned, bringing a child with dark, tousled hair. The vagabond was holding his hand, ushering him forwards. The child stared at Holmes, terrified. “All links in the chain,” said the man, “and at the other end –”
“A hook,” Holmes finished for him. Like a fish on a line, his investigation had led him inexorably to this place. “Let... let him go,” Holmes demanded.
“That was always our intention,” said the man, spittle flecking his beard. “We are just waiting for... Ah, here she is.”
There was the sound of a scuffle behind him, and Holmes looked over his shoulder to see Josephine Summersby being jostled into the carriage. Perhaps she’d been following him, in which case Holmes applauded both her obstinacy and her stealth – nevertheless, she’d still been caught. What was the Order going to do to her? That was the question. One which was answered fairly swiftly.
The tramp let the orphan boy go, shoving him in the direction of Miss Summersby. “There is no room here for innocents,” he said.
The lad ran past Holmes and into the waiting arms of the reporter. She gathered him up, looking over to Holmes questioningly – wanting to know what had happened to her partner. “That is the bargain: we have taken something from you, and give you something in return.” It was all she needed to know for the tears to break free. Holmes thought for a moment she was going to abandon the frightened boy and fly at the men on either side of her, but instead she shook her head in resignation. The risk to the child would be too great. It would have been hopeless anyway.
“You bastards!” she shouted instead.
“Take the boy and leave us,” the bearded man said, bluntly. She didn’t really have a choice, because again Miss Summersby was being ‘escorted’ out by the men in this guardian’s employ. “I have business to conclude with Mr Holmes.”
Holmes realised that even if the reporter did know the whereabouts of this place, even if she returned with all of Scotland Yard in tow, there would be nothing more here than there was in the deserted gallery. Not even receipts as evidence. The vagabond had been right when he said that their location was not important.
But what happened next was.
The bearded man crouched, so that he was on a level with Holmes – commanding his attention. The detective sniffed the air, but could smell nothing of the vanilla that had surrounded the deaths, from Cotton to Monroe. No, this man simply smelt of decay, and at these close quarters Holmes couldn’t help but notice living things in the fellow’s beard.
“This has all happened before, many times,” said the man absently. “And it will do so again... I know what it is you really hunger for.”
Holmes had a feeling he knew that about most men.
“It is not pleasures of the flesh, like so many, but... knowledge. Matters of life and death, and everything in between.” The man fumbled about inside his pockets, and when he brought his hand out he was holding something.
Holmes’ first glimpse of the Lament Configuration was nothing short of magical. A revelation. Like the man’s speech, the eloquent beauty of it was at odds with everything about the vagrant. Though the light was poor in this place, the gold shone brightly from every surface of the lacquered box. And the vagabond seemed to know exactly which way to tilt and turn it to entice.
Memories raced through Holmes’ mind as the light flashed across his eyes. Memories of childhood rivalry with Mycroft, of a desire to discover how things worked: mechanical devices like wind-up toys; cause and effect; the world around him, but also the people in it. Now the Falls, the massive body of water rushing up to meet him as he tumbled down with Moriarty; as the man fell away from his grasp and Holmes thought he saw something... Then nothing: only blackness. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he let out a yell at this point.
The vagabond patted the box with his other hand, running filthy nails over the surface. Drawing attention to the details: the tiny shapes in black etched into the gold; one side with a wheel in its centre, another with a square – both with matching twins on
the opposite sides to them; two more with smaller circles in the centre, the patterns spreading out almost into leaf-like shapes. It captivated Holmes – and he didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything so badly in his whole life.
“Inside, you will find the answers you seek,” promised the man.
Holmes squeezed his eyes shut, snapping out of the trance. In a way, Watson had been right. This thing, and its owner – if indeed it had an owner – could beguile even the strongest of minds. The did use mesmerism as part of their sideshow act. “Like Cotton and Spencer found their answers? Like Monroe, Thorndyke and Kline? And how many others?” This box brought death, not answers – though some theologians would argue they were one and the same. A murder weapon and yet not.
“Each one is taken on its own merits,” the guardian replied. “Yours... is a special case, Mr Holmes.”
The detective surprised himself then by reaching out to snatch at the box. He did not really know why, perhaps simply to get it away from here – to ensure that this weapon (for what else could it be?) was never again used to harm anyone. The Lament Configuration was pulled away from him, though, and he knew his motivation had nothing to do with any of that. He simply wanted it; wanted to feel it, to solve it – to uncover its mysteries, whatever the repercussions.
Again, he surprised himself by whispering, “Please...” Weak in more than just physicality.
“What is it worth to you?” asked the man with piercing blue eyes.
Holmes still had some money on him that he hadn’t yet spent on intoxicants, which he began dragging out of his pockets and spilling onto the floor.
The vagabond laughed.
“I have more,” Holmes told him. “If you just let me –”
“No need. This,” said the man, bending to pick up the money, “is exactly the amount I had in mind. Take the box, it is yours.” He handed Holmes Lemarchand’s puzzle – sending a crackle of electricity through his entire body and sobering him up a little. For long moments Holmes just held the thing, staring at it. Then he looked up and realised that the vagabond was gone, leaving a parting line that echoed around the empty carriage. “It always has been.”
