by George Mann
“Precisely so, Doctor,” confirmed Edwards. He knew the game was up, that the whole affair was at its end, and that his only recourse was to go quietly with the police. I respected him for that, at least.
“How dare you! How dare you do this to us!” shrieked Miss Maugham, wringing her hands in frustration. I thought for a moment that she would rush forward and attempt to strike Edwards, but she managed to regain her composure and remained where she stood, flushed with anger and glowering at the duplicitous solicitor. I was astounded by the change that had come over her, now that she had allowed her innocent facade to slip. She was not the woman I had thought she was, and I was somewhat ashamed of myself for having been taken in by her. Bainbridge, it seemed, was not the only one of us to make dangerous allowances for a woman in distress.
Edwards smiled sadly. “I do this safe in the knowledge, Annabel, that neither you nor your cousins are any more worthy than I.”
At this, Holmes threw back his head and issued a long, heartfelt laugh.
“Take them away, Harris,” said Bainbridge, shaking his head. “All of them.”
I watched as the constables assisted the ailing Joseph Maugham to his feet and guided him out towards the waiting carriage. Tobias Edwards and Annabel Maugham were escorted out next, in silence, and a moment later, Holmes, Bainbridge and I were the only people left standing in the Maughams’ sitting room.
“I can barely warrant it, Holmes,” I said.
“Greed can cause people to do terrible things, Watson,” replied Holmes.
“I’m only pleased that it’s over,” I said, relieved.
“Indeed,” added Bainbridge. “Your assistance has been most appreciated, Mr. Holmes. I fear I should never have got to the bottom of it without you.”
I saw the curl of a smile form on Holmes’s lips, but he remained silent.
“It’s a relief to know the matter is resolved,” continued Bainbridge. “I only wish I could say the same about this blasted iron men business.” He gave a weary sigh. “What is it they say? ‘No rest for the wicked’? I must have done something dreadful in a previous life.” He chuckled, but the laughter didn’t extend to his eyes. “Well, gentlemen. A good night to you. And thank you once again.” He started towards the door.
Holmes reached out a hand and caught Bainbridge by the shoulder. His smile broke into a grin. “Didn’t I read, Inspector, that Count Ferenczy would be exhibiting the Moon Star at his rented house in Pimlico tomorrow night, to a party of prospective buyers?”
“Yes, but...” Bainbridge started, frowning, but trailed off. “Of course!” he exclaimed a moment later, revelation lighting up his face. “You’re right. They’ll be there, won’t they? Whoever’s issuing their orders will be unable to resist such a grand prize. They’ll come for the diamond.”
Holmes laughed. “Quite so, Inspector.”
Bainbridge looked thoughtful. “Then I shall lay a trap,” he said, decisively. “I shall bring an end to their campaign of terror.”
I stepped forward. “I shall gladly assist you, Inspector,” I said. I turned to Holmes, expecting him to pledge a similar offer of support. “Holmes?”
“I fear I have a prior engagement,” replied Holmes, levelly. “Although I wish you every success, Inspector,” he added.
Bainbridge nodded in acknowledgement, while I stared at Holmes, utterly flabbergasted. Never before in all the long years of our friendship had I seen him turn away a good man so in need of his assistance.
“Well, thank you once again, Mr. Holmes,” said Bainbridge, heading for the door. “Dr. Watson - I shall be in touch with arrangements for tomorrow evening. Goodnight, gentlemen.”
“Goodnight, Inspector,” I called after him. I turned to Holmes. “Badly done,” I said, in an admonishing tone. “Badly done, Holmes.” And with that, I took my leave.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was a chill night, and I’d turned up the collar of my coat to stave off the penetrating cold. Frozen fog had descended over Pimlico and, even at this twilit hour, the pavements had already begun to succumb to a layer of hoary frost. My breath plumed before me and I found myself wishing for the second time that evening that I’d thought to bring along my hip flask. A nip of warming brandy would have been most welcome indeed.
Beside me, Inspector Bainbridge seemed twitchy and on edge. It was understandable, I supposed - if this operation did not go according to plan, many lives would be at stake. I’d seen men like this before, out in Afghanistan on the eve of battle, and I recognised the haunted look in his eyes, the burden of responsibility. It was a sign of his character that he cared so deeply about his fellow men.
Around us, hidden in the formal gardens of the square, were uniformed policemen, each of them wrapped in thick, woollen overcoats and bearing pistols. It was approaching half-past eight and we’d been in situ for over an hour, observing the grand townhouse that had been let by Count Ferenczy. There was a growing numbness in my legs, which felt as if they were slowly transforming into solid blocks of ice. I stamped my feet in the muddy loam in an effort to get the blood circulating. I hoped that this endeavour would not be in vain, and that we should not find ourselves suffering from hyperthermia for nought.
I was still furious with Holmes for his decision not to accompany us that evening. To my mind, it showed an utter disregard for the efforts of Inspector Bainbridge and his men. Worse, I fully suspected his “prior engagement” was nothing more than an excuse to lose himself to the vagaries of his addiction. At times, the man could be most infuriating. His expertise might have proved invaluable.
Presently, two figures emerged at the other end of the street. From my vantage point I found it difficult to discern the exact nature of the newcomers, although from their size and gait I knew them to be human and not the automata for whom we laid in wait.
Sure enough, as the two figures drew closer I caught a glimpse of their faces in the thin glow of a street lamp: two men, smartly dressed in overcoats and top hats. They paused for a moment by the curb and one of them withdrew a cream-coloured notecard from inside the breast pocket of his jacket. The two men consulted it carefully for a moment, and then turned and examined the numbers on the doors of the nearby houses. A few seconds later they had selected their destination: Count Ferenczy’s residence.
The first man returned the notecard to his pocket while the other rapped on the door. Within moments the door opened, spilling light into the street, and the two men were admitted by a butler. I admit I felt a momentary pang of envy for the warmth and shelter, then the door closed and we were alone again in the quiet street.
Events continued in this vein for nigh on another hour. Occasional figures would emerge from the gloom, select the house in question, murmur a few words to the butler and then be permitted inside. Clearly, the Count’s advertisement in the newspapers had worked. These people, I gathered, were prospective buyers of the Moon Star, come to witness its unveiling.
“I hope we can stop those machines before it’s too late,” I whispered to Bainbridge, who glanced over at me, a question in his eyes. These were the first words spoken in hours, and I rather think my statement caught him a little off guard.
“Too late?” he asked.
“There’s more than the diamond at stake here,” I replied, levelly. “Think on it. The Count’s guests must be among the richest denizens of the Empire. If they are able to even consider the purchase of such a magnificent gem, well - consider the nature of the jewellery that they themselves will be wearing this evening, or the contents of their wallets.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Bainbridge, a little louder than perhaps he’d intended. “You’re right. It won’t be just the stone they’re after. Whoever’s behind the automata will be unable to resist such rich pickings. There’ll be no need for them to burgle the houses of these people - the Count has conveniently brought them all together under one roof!” He gritted his teeth and frowned, as if silently cursing himself for not seeing it earlier. “W
e must be ready,” he said, firmly. “We must stop at nothing to protect these people who’ve walked unwittingly into a trap.”
“Quite so,” I said, my gloved fingers closing on the handle of the revolver in my pocket. I would assist Bainbridge any way that I could, although in truth I feared that my weapon would prove ineffective against the machines. Then again - what weapon existed that could stop a man of iron? I had grave doubts that anything we could do would prove effective.
Soon, I knew, we were likely to find out.
* * *
It was around thirty minutes later that I became aware of the imminent danger. It began with the far-off clanging of metal against stone: a repetitive pattern that grew steadily louder. Soon enough, these ominous footsteps were joined by the angry hiss of escaping steam, and we knew then for certain that the iron men were upon us.
I glanced at Bainbridge, who gave a single nod and hefted his pistol, bracing himself for what was to come.
They came from the same direction as the other visitors, the far end of the street - four of them. They were hulking metal monsters, larger than a man and twice as fearsome. I had read about them, of course, and had listened studiously to Bainbridge’s reports, but nothing could have prepared me for my first proper sight of the machines. Their red eyes were like beacons in the gloom, and I shuddered as I considered what the next few moments would bring. How could we ever stop such things?
The iron men moved with single-minded intent. They approached the door to the Count’s property, where now a party was in full swing. Bathed in the light of the tall windows, their metal armour glinted with a polished sheen.
As described in the various police reports, they appeared to completely disregard their surroundings. Unlike most criminal gangs I had encountered, they did not post lookouts at either end of the street, and cared little for subtlety. They simply began pounding on the door, striking repeatedly with their fists until the wood itself began to splinter.
The miniature furnaces on their backs glowed with the heat of smouldering coal. This, of course, was the source of their power: pressurised, heated water that enabled their mechanical joints to move.
Within moments they had reduced the door to splinters and were forcing their way inside. I pulled my revolver from my pocket and stood, intent on tackling these monstrosities before they could do any real harm.
“No!” hissed Bainbridge, grabbing my sleeve and dragging me back behind the cover of a hawthorn bush. “Wait until they’ve gone inside.”
“But all those people,” I said, frowning. “We can’t leave them to face those things alone. The Count has a full house.”
“I know,” said Bainbridge, levelly. “But once they’re inside we have them trapped. Tackle them here in the street and they can get away. With them cornered we can block the exits and try to contain them.”
I nodded, conceding the point, although I admit I was dubious as to whether these things could be contained at all. I watched, tense, as the last of them fought its way through the ruins of the door, disappearing within.
“Now! Go!” shouted Bainbridge, and all around us the bushes erupted as uniformed men burst forth from their cover and rushed the house. Bainbridge himself led the charge, orchestrating his men. “Block the exits,” he bellowed, indicating for three of them to take up posts by the door. He led the others inside and I brought up the rear, my weapon ready.
Inside, chaos reigned. I found myself in a large reception hall, from which an impressive, galleried staircase swept up to the first floor. Civilians were screaming and fleeing in terror as the four iron men marched relentlessly towards their prize: a glass cabinet in the centre of the hall, within which the Moon Star rested upon a blue velvet cushion. It was immense - the size of a duck’s egg - like no gemstone I had seen in all my years.
The noise was disorientating, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. It was only the report of a pistol to my left that brought me round, and I turned to see the bullet rebounding harmlessly from the shoulder of the nearest iron man. It whirled around, flinging out its arm and striking a civilian - a bearded man in black evening dress - who went down heavily with a spray of blood, rendered immediately unconscious.
Around me, there was a riot of truncheons and revolvers as the policemen charged the iron men. The machines were cumbersome and slow to react, but it mattered little; the policemen’s attacks proved utterly ineffective. Their truncheons rebounded with dull clangs, bullets failing to pierce the thick iron plating and ricocheting dangerously into the fleeing crowd.
“Hold your fire!” I shouted, turning around my revolver and brandishing it instead as a club. “They’re impervious to our bullets!”
I glanced at Bainbridge, who was across the other side of the hall, grappling with one of the automatons. It grasped his cane in both of its metal claws and lifted him a clear inch off the ground as he held on, struggling to reclaim it. Escaping steam hissed from small imperfections at the machine’s elbows and shoulders as it hoisted him higher and higher, gears whirring. I watched, stunned, as it raised its arms almost fully above its head and heaved Bainbridge backwards, flinging him across the room. He soared through the air, arms flailing, and collided noisily with the display case containing the Moon Star. It shattered beneath the impact, sending broken shards shimmering into the air. Amongst these glittering fragments was the diamond itself, which tumbled from its perch, skittered across the marble floor, and spun off into the chaotic furore, finally coming to rest near the foot of the stairs.
Bainbridge slumped to the ground, dazed and semi-conscious, but apparently - miraculously - unhurt.
The iron man’s gaze swivelled in the direction of the diamond.
“Oh no, you don’t!” I bellowed, rushing at the machine and presenting my shoulder, hoping to unbalance it and topple it to the floor. I barrelled into it, my shoulder striking it hard in the back. The iron man, however, simply disregarded my attack as a man would disregard a buzzing fly. It shrugged me off with a swipe of its arm, starting away in the direction of the jewel without even glancing back.
Smarting, I fell to the floor, clutching my shoulder as it blossomed in pain. My heart sank. We were done for. I could see no way of stopping the machines. All around me, our small contingent of policemen was being forced back, their weapons ineffective against the dreadful, metal monsters. Some of them lay unconscious on the floor; others were running for cover. Bainbridge was still picking himself up from amongst the ruins of the display case, and I was on my knees, my revolver hanging limp from my fingers, my upper arm burning with pain.
My efforts had proved futile. I watched, horrified, as the iron man reached the foot of the stairs, crouched low, and scooped up the precious stone in its skeletal fist. It straightened up again with a series of jerking, mechanical movements, and beckoned to its cohorts, gesturing to the door.
Once again, it seemed as if the machines would escape with their plunder, and there was nothing we could do to prevent it.
The four iron men trudged across the sea of broken glass, stepping over the heaped forms of three policemen and the civilian I had seen struck down a few moments earlier. Cursing, I hauled myself to my feet, meaning to assist Bainbridge, but froze when I heard a sudden shout from above.
“Now!”
I glanced up at the gallery, surprised to see the figure of a man, dressed in an evening cape and top hat, silhouetted against a moonlit window at the top of the stairs. He was flanked by a small army of youths, ranked in a long line that followed the balustrade around the edges of the landing. There were a dozen or more of them, each of them holding what appeared to be wooden pails, although it was difficult to make out any further details in the dim light.
At the command of the man - whom I took to be Count Ferenczy himself - the youngsters all hefted their buckets and overturned them in synchronised fashion, tipping gallons of freezing water down upon the gathered assembly below.
I bellowed in shock as the icy fluid sloshed
over my head and shoulders, drenching me. Many of the constables around me issued similar, colourful curses, some of them in considerably more purple language. The water swilled across the marble floor, pattering down from the heavens like a terrible rainstorm.
“What the devil! I cannot begin to fathom -” I started, wiping water from my eyes, but stopped short as I realised with absolute stupefaction the truth of what had just occurred.
The four iron men stood rigid in the centre of the hall, steam gushing in great, swirling clouds from their doused furnaces.
For a moment everyone stood in silent shock, as if we were holding our breaths, anxious to see what would happen next. Then one of the uniformed men on the floor issued a heartfelt groan and stirred from unconsciousness, and the spell was broken.
Seemingly the first to regain my senses, I tentatively approached the nearest iron man. It appeared unmoving, as if frozen in mid-movement, its arm raised, a clawed finger pointing in silent accusation at the man at the top of the stairs. It was perfectly still and silent, as if now rendered completely incapable of movement. I noticed the cogs and wheels at its elbow and shoulder joints appeared to be seized in position.
I reached out a hand to touch it, but as my fingers drew within only an inch or two of the dull iron surface, the arm suddenly fell, dropping to swing loose by the automaton’s side. I started in shock, fearing the thing had once again regained some semblance of life. I admit, I may have even issued a startled cry.
I stepped back, wary, as Bainbridge rushed to my side, clutching a constable’s baton in his fist. We hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if it would react.
“It’s dead,” he said. “Just the weight of the arm, causing it to drop now that there is nothing to keep it suspended.” He used the edge of the truncheon to nudge the shoulder of the stationary machine. It did not respond. The crimson lights that had previously burned in its eyes were now extinguished, I noted. The scent of the damp coals was thick and pungent.
