alt.sherlock.holmes

by Gini Koch

  Soon the fires were going, the hooch was flowing, and the evening was awash in sounds. The carousel continued its waltz while the carnies near the fire played their own tunes in a very different key. The cacophony of it was intoxicating as any moonshine, or the scent of Martha’s perfume. The music even enticed Maeve out of her den. (Of course I’m saying it’s the music, when it easily could’ve been the promise of time with her young juggling friend.)

  Round about sunset, I found Crash standing near the carousel, just watching others ride with a grin on his face.

  “I’m going to write to Moira,” he said quietly.

  “Are you now?”

  He nodded. “It’s like you said. She’s family. I’ll put the letter in the post some time tom—” He stopped abruptly, stare fixed at the center of the galloper.

  “What is it?”

  I may as well have been talking to that damn wax dummy again for all the good it did. Crash gaped, unmoving, the lights and glimmer of the mirrors around the middle of the ride flashing across his features.

  He cocked his head to one side. Brought up a hand. Waited.

  A heartbeat later, Crash was wearing the persona that fitted him best. Wild eyes widened, his demeanor blazed with a ferocious hunger. This was Crash, the molten core of his whole being.

  “That’s it!” he snarled. “That’s it!”

  He tore off then and I hustled to keep up with his pace as we made our way back to the wagon. Haus threw open a steamer trunk and rifled through it, tossing out bald caps and suspenders and tubes of greasepaint. He came up with a roll of ticker tape unspooled across his shoulders and a charcoal pencil. Without a word he was off again. He stopped only long enough to grab the Professor by his ear and drag him to the man’s own blue vardo.

  McGann, of course, sputtered curses and epithets as only a Scot can. Crash heard none of it, so fixated was he on the goal in his mind.

  “Crash,” I said, “you gonna let someone in on what’s going through that head of yours?”

  In answer, Haus kicked open the vardo door and threw the Professor in.

  “What the devil are you doing, Haus? What’s this about? I was only going to have a bit of a poke at the dame, nothing else.”

  Crash thrust the pencil into McGann’s left hand and spread out the ticker tape across the floorboards. “Draw!” he commanded. “Draw the figures in the precise order they appeared.”

  “All three of them? Crash, you didn’t drag me here for this, did you?”

  The Professor made to stand up but Crash knocked him back to sitting with an open palm to the chest. “No. They’re not the same. There are ten or eleven different drawings just in this wagon. You said it yourself, the first time you showed me, that each of them is different.”

  “Well, only by a slight angle of the arm or something.”

  “Draw them. Now.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes! Draw them all, it’s not like I’m asking you to copy a Rembrandt!”

  Crash poured his focus into the Professor’s shelves, searching the myriad contraptions collecting dust. “No, no, no... come on, I saw it here...”

  Eyes on his paper, McGann quietly asked, “What is it you’re searching for, Crash?”

  “Shut up and keep scribbling. Not this one, where is it? Damn you! Where the hell did you put it?”

  “Might help if I knew specifics.”

  “Ah-ha!”

  Crash pulled down a tiny replica of a carousel. Well, sorta. The carousel itself was a squat wooden cylinder with ornate embellishments and the customary horses and such painted on its slat-like sides. It was attached to a pedestal of polished wood. With a single finger, Crash set the ride to spinning on the pedestal just as easy as the behemoth version out on the lot.

  “Alright, Haus,” the Professor grumbled. He stood up and offered the ticker tape to Crash. “Now what’s this about?”

  Without taking the drawings, Haus used two fingers to slowly, reverentially lift the striped roof of the minute merry-go-round, revealing the inside of the contraption. Like our galloper, the center cylinder was a thick pole covered with mirrors. Around the inner face of the carousel itself, however, was nothing but blank white space. With the top off, I could now see the slits cut every inch or so along the wheel.

  Crash placed the tent topper down on the nearest surface, then placed the spinning wheel in my hands. He plucked up the ticker tape and spooled it in, tearing it off at the appropriate length, and pinned it into place with tiny metal prongs.

  “It’s a zoetrope,” I said. “I ain’t seen one of these since I was a toddlin’ babe.”

  “Aye,” McGann intoned, “and that one is older than you by a stone’s age, I’d wager. Belonged to one Phineas Taylor Barnum.”

  Crash shook his head. “No, it didn’t.”

  “It did! He put it in my hands himself.”

  “Impossible considering he died in ought-eight and the black, vomitous slime that spawned you didn’t do so until five years after the fact. Unless you’ve had congress with the Other Side, or PT Barnum was also a six-or-seven year old child named Maryanne Miller—whose name is inscribed on the bottom of the pedestal—you will shut your lying mouth until I bid you open it again.”

  The Professor snarled and spat, opening his gob to say something that might offer some satisfaction. But Crash of course wouldn’t allow it.

  “Now watch,” he said.

  He set the zoetrope to spinning, and the stick figures began to dance.

  “I’ll be damned,” I muttered.

  The Professor stared into the zoetrope, Crash looking ever like the Cheshire cat with a horned-moon grin. Together we three watched the little men. It quickly became apparent that they weren’t dancing, they were struggling. Two people, arms locked, punching back and forth until one ended up flat. Over and over the cycle repeated. Punch. Punch. Fall. Punch. Punch. Fall.

  “Incredible.”

  “Coincidence,” the Professor countered.

  “Coincidence?” Crash glowered at his foe. “You can’t possibly be so daft. The evidence is staring you in the face.”

  “But what does it all mean, Haus? Tell me, if you’re so bloody brilliant, what the blasted little pictures mean?”

  “It means that...”

  Once again his voice trailed into nothing and his eyes fell on something far, far away. When he resurfaced from the depths of his thoughts, he drew in a deep breath.

  “Oh. Oh, dear.”

  “What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  He clamped the top on the zoetrope and shoved me toward the door. “Dandy, we have to hurry. If we don’t set the trap soon, we won’t be able to work the miracle.”

  The Professor’s voice oozed with derision. “Miracle? Fishes and loaves again, Crash?”

  “Hardly. We’re going to solve two mysteries tonight, and you’ll be on the road by breakfast.”

  fourteen

  I FOUND CRASH by the campfire with Mrs. Hudson. Crazy and unnecessary as it may have been, I felt a stab of jealousy in the gut to see them looking so chummy. The moment passed, however, the second she looked up and saw me over the flames.

  “Crash, what’s—”

  He shushed me by shoving a flask into my hand. “Never mind, Dandy. You shouldn’t be working tonight. None of us should.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re lying.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You’re lying or you’ve done hit some righteous high.”

  He waved me off. “Honest, Dandy. Look over there.”

  I followed Crash’s gesture and saw Jonathan and Artemesia, snuggled up on a bench together, enjoying their first night as a wedded pair. The smiles were plastered on their faces, along with a dreamy look in their eyes any time they happened to glance at each other.

  “Remember what’s important,” Crash said. “Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to tell me about Moira and such? This is a wedding feast, not an inquisition. Go on. The stick fi
gures will be there tomorrow. Tonight enjoy yourself.”

  “He’s right,” Martha said, nudging me in the ribs. Her fingers slipped through mine. “More important things.”

  Crash clapped me on the shoulder and waded into the crowd. Martha drew me over to the bench that had become our own of late. Darkness fell over our little lot and the party had yet to reach its full swing. Though the carousel continued its jangling waltz in the distance, the campfire attracted a squeezebox, drums and fiddle, like honey draws flies.

  The familiar tunes played and the missus and I danced our awkward steps. Stories were swapped and new ones formed. Sooner, rather than later, Crash jumped up on a chair and rose above the crowd. He drew everyone’s attention to him with a ripping arpeggio on his violin before handing the instrument down to Slaney.

  “Ladies and gents,” Crash said, “I wanted to thank you all for the hard work of making Jon and Artemesia’s wedding go off with nary a hitch. Mr. Slaney tells me that he and Diamond Joe’s gang would tear down the whole carousel tomorrow, but I wanted to let you all know that... well, that won’t be the case this time.”

  A chorus of intrigue went ’round the fire.

  “Do tell,” Artemesia called.

  Crash fixed me with his stare. “I know you didn’t want me to announce it yet, Dandy, but... what better time is there than this? Friends, tomorrow Dandy will ride the carousel, and our dear Mrs. Hudson will become Mrs. Walker.”

  As if the cheers weren’t deafening enough, Martha clapped her hands over my ears and pulled my face to her lips in a searing kiss. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck. With her lips against my ear, she whispered, “Just go with it. He’s got a plan. Now make it look good, Dandy, and kiss me proper!”

  I couldn’t very well turn down a request like that. I dipped her low and laid one on her, much to the amusement and joy of the assembled crowd. Before I could catch my breath, it felt like they were all there, pressed in a circle around me and my lady. Drinks were taken, toasts given and congratulations offered for what seemed a god’s own time. Truth be told, I started to enjoy the idea. Hell, I’d thought about it already, hadn’t I? Why not take her for my wife? Tomorrow was just as good a day as any, right?

  When the scrum peeled back, Crash stood thumbing his suspenders. “I couldn’t be happier,” he bellowed.

  I pulled him into a brotherly embrace and asked in his ear, “What the hell are you on about, Crash?”

  “Solving mysteries, I told you.”

  “You also said we wasn’t going to bother with that tonight.”

  We pulled apart and his face was boyish guilt.

  “You lied,” I confirmed.

  “Of course I did.”

  “And you let him?” I asked Martha.

  My faux fiancée bowed. “If it gets a girl what she wants, I don’t suppose I’ll complain.”

  I smiled at her. “Is that so, Martha?”

  “What can I say? I like it when you call me missus.”

  We would’ve kissed if that bastard Haus hadn’t pushed me off to the side of the lot where we could speak a little more candidly.

  “So, here’s the plan... what?”

  He’d just noticed me glaring at him.

  “What? What is that face?”

  “I was going to kiss my fiancée, Crash.”

  “Don’t bury yourself in the part on my account, Dandy, I need to talk to you about... oh; oh, dear. I’ve gone and bungled things haven’t I?”

  “You mean other than proposing to Martha on my behalf before I had the chance to do so? For starters, yeah.”

  His mouth flopped open and shut like a cod’s. “You’d... but I didn’t think... you haven’t even—”

  “Do you think I sat in our wagon every night pining for you to come home, Crash?”

  “Oh, my. Really?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it’s about bloody time, then.” He hugged me, genuine glee in his smile. “Tomorrow? You’ll go through with it tomorrow?”

  “Life’s too damn short.”

  “So is she,” he countered jovially. “Here I thought you’d never get off your ass and so much as dance with her by the fire!”

  “Strange days we’re livin’ in, Crash. There are more important things than rules and the laws I was brought up with, I suppose.”

  “Well, here’s to more important things,” he said soberly.

  “Now, you were sayin’ something about a plan?”

  “Oh, right!” He clapped his hands together and looked about to make sure we weren’t overheard. “So, here it is, then...”

  NIGH ONTO THREE strikes after midnight, the lot was a very different place. The carousel stood still and empty, its lights dim. The campfire long-since doused and the band’s last note long gone, the Wonder Show’s residents had returned to tents and wagons for warmth and sweet slumber.

  Martha and I had taken to her tent at a reasonable hour, but hadn’t had the chance to dally. Before long Crash had rolled the old knife wheel up to the rear of the tent. Carefully, quietly, we’d set it up behind Martha’s bed.

  “Odd sort of headboard,” she observed, “but it could have its purposes.”

  “Really, woman,” I said, “you are a wondrous creature.”

  She pinched me on the rear.

  “Later, you two,” Crash warned. “It all needs to be in place with you lot out of the tent before the vandal comes.”

  “You’re sure he’s going to?”

  “Sure as fire burns.”

  Martha retrieved a dress from one of the steamer trunks at the foot of the bed. The gown had yellowed over time, but there was no doubt in my mind that it had once been white as starlight. And by the look of it, Martha’d probably shone just as lovely when she wore it on her wedding day. Satin cut just to her unorthodox size, with long sleeves and a veil made of a fabric sheer as a whisper.

  Her hand lingered over a velvet box inside the trunk. Beside it was a photo of a handsome fellow barely old enough to call himself a man. He wore the uniform and a new recruit’s innocence. She gave the picture a glance, the box a tiny pat, then closed the trunk.

  “Here ’tis, Crash,” she said, offering him the dress.

  “You’re sure?” he asked. “I can find something else if this is too much to ask.”

  She shook her head and stared at me, eyes moist but full of hope and affection. “I’ll not wear it again, Sanford. If it turns out unharmed, that’s fine, too, but it’s just fabric, ain’t it?”

  He placed a kiss on her forehead. “Remarkable woman.”

  “Aye, Boss, and don’t you forget it.”

  Once the trap was set, we three dashed out of the rear of the tent and waited out the rest of the night in the storage shed. The missus and I sat on a pile of canvas, enjoying the relative quiet together and the obvious strain on my roommate. By his own reckoning, we had to keep mum as mice for his plan to unfold. It must’ve pained Crash something fierce to keep silent all that time, what with not hearing the sound of his own voice. He paced and plodded between stacks of wood and towers of metal poles.

  Gradually the noise died down, and that’s how we found ourselves skulking on the lot at three in the goddamn morning when all sane folks was sleeping off the buzz.

  We set up watch from a spot not too far off the circle of tents and wagons, where we could observe Martha’s tent unnoticed. Just about the time my leg began to cramp up from taking a knee for so long, a figure moved through the darkness on a course for my lady’s home.

  Steel glinted in the moonglow. It was the last I saw of the silhouette before he drew back the flap and entered the tent.

  I rose to my feet, ready to swoop in and catch the vandal red-handed. Crash stayed me with a hand on the shoulder.

  “They’ve taken the bait,” Martha said. “Now what?”

  “Bide,” Crash answered. “The deed’s not yet done. Mrs. Hudson, dear? Would you be so kind as to go rouse the Professor? Tell him I’d love to speak with him a
t your cart.”

  She nodded and waddled off toward McGann’s vardo.

  “She’s out of harm’s way. Let’s go.”

  “Patience, Dandy. Don’t you want to relish this? Savor the suspense a moment longer and let it wash over you before we draw back the curtain and see the gears and cogs at work?”

  The thick noise of a blade sinking into wood cut through the night air.

  I burned with the idea that, had we not been expecting just such a thing, my beloved might have taken that knife to one of her more tender parts.

  “That,” I said, “is all the suspense I care to relish. I’m going in.”

  It was Haus’s turn to keep up with me for a change. I ran to the tent and burst through the flap, my flashlight beam catching the vandal in the act of carving a new symbol into the knife-thrower’s wheel.

  Between the culprit’s black clothing and the shadow cast by my light, he looked small and large all at once. Our presence didn’t stop him neither. He kept on carving, the only sounds his rapid, feral breathing and the splintering of the wood.

  The symbol was a house. Two lines for the walls, two coming together in a point for the roof. Crudely drawn flames sprouted from the top of the sigil.

  “What the hell?” I asked.

  Startled by my voice, the carver whipped around to stare at me over a shoulder. She regarded me with dark eyes that glittered with malice.

  I drew in a quick breath and let it out. “Maeve?”

  “Shh!” Crash put a hand to my lips. “Silence,” he whispered.

  Maeve—staring coldly, her fingers still wrapped tight around the hilt of her knife—swayed where she knelt on the bed. After gazing at us for yawning minutes, she came to some sort of decision and returned to her artwork.

  I glanced at Crash uncertainly.