Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God

by Guy Adams

  “Oh yeah,” he replied, “bearings is it? I always keep mine close to hand.” With that he proved my earlier guess accurate by removing a hip flask from his pocket, unscrewing the cap and taking a big slug. “Bearings is easy to find if you always keep ’em in the same pocket.” He grinned at me and showed two large gaps in his front teeth. Diabetes, the medical man in me decided, probably caused by his diet, or lack of it... He held the hip flask out to me and, somewhat to my own surprise, I moved forward and took it. I drank a mouthful. Cheap rum, that burned rather than warmed. A man of the ocean I decided, revising my opinion, nobody but an ex-sailor would find comfort from this rough stuff. I handed the flask back and checked his wrists for tattoos as he took it from me. Sure enough, the fine curl of a rose stem peered out from beneath his cuff. Rum and tattoos, I thought, if he were any more obvious I would be able to smell the salt.

  “Better?” he asked, and despite the roar in my stomach that spoke of indigestion to come I found that the answer was yes and told him so. “I reckon it’ll cure almost anything,” he said with a knowing twinkle in his eye, “or make it so you don’t much care. Liquor’s like a politician that way. It don’t always fix things but it makes sure you don’t notice what’s broke.”

  “You might benefit from a square meal to soak some of it up every now and then,” I told him.

  “Yes, doctor,” he said and for a moment I studied his face, nonsensically believing it might be Holmes in disguise. Of course it wasn’t, Holmes was about better business than this.

  “Look after yourself,” I told him and walked off into the crowd.

  Unlike my friend I did not have a bottomless bank account so I took the underground train rather than a cab.

  The experience of descending beneath the streets into the tiled corridors of the underground stations is one that is both alarming and invigorating. There can be few that are not impressed with our capital’s subterranean travel system. As limited and restrictive as it may currently be, there is no doubt in my mind that it will one day expand, triumphing over its initial difficulties to become the preferred method for all. Its detractors point to thirty years of staggered development and the king’s ransom that’s been ploughed into it. When will they just give up? they wonder. But in my experience that’s something that the British in general and Londoners in particular have never been very good at. It’s just not in our nature to accept defeat – we bang our heads against a problem until it has the good grace to acquiesce.

  Soon they say the lines will be filled with the new electric carriages, strange beasts that whine endlessly as they carry themselves to and fro beneath the city. Until then we are stuck with steam trains and the air in the tunnels is as poisonous as if we were burrowing through an alien world.

  I worked my way through the crowds towards my platform, the thick smell of smoke and sweat clinging to me as I stood waiting for the next train.

  I held onto my hat as the wind began to build, forced along the tunnels by the train as it approached.

  “Enough to knock you off your feet so it is!” cackled a woman to my right. I offered her a polite smile as she eyed me up. Judging by the state of her painted face it was clear that she considered me a potential client. She gave a grin that showed yellow teeth stained by carmine lipstick, the smile of a clown or a cannibal. She pushed down her skirts as the wind grew even stronger, as if afraid they may blow up around her. I looked away, on the off chance that she was right.

  A young couple stood hand in hand, a handsome pair, on a day trip I guessed. They had that awkward air of a fresh couple, excitement tempered by nerves. It made me think of my darling Mary, now lost to me, and I was somewhat ashamed to realise my eyes were watering as the oncoming train’s whistle howled. “Your feelings are showing, John,” she would have said, reaching out to dry the tears with a soft, gloved thumb. Like Holmes, she had always accused me of keeping my emotions so close to the surface you could read them from a mile away. I couldn’t argue with her, it was true enough. But then what Holmes frequently saw as a failure she saw as an asset. I am as yet undecided as to my own opinion on the matter.

  The train pulled into the station and we climbed aboard. Sitting down on the upholstered bench, I looked at the wooden panelling of the carriage and was uncomfortably reminded of the inside of a coffin, all walnut, velvet and sweet, damp earth.

  The young couple sat down across from me. The doxy a few feet to my left, a puff of cheap lavender toilet water erupting from the folds of her clothes as she rearranged herself on the seat. In front of her an ageing minister, his grey-and-white curls bobbing around his pink face as the train began its shaky journey, scanned the pages of his well-worn bible. Every now and then his lips quivered as he read the words, a soft, sibilant noise coming from him, like a dying breath, as he nearly spoke aloud. An elderly lady sat next to him, picking at loose threads in her bonnet, her face was vacant and dreamy as if she imagined herself to be anywhere but here. At the end of the carriage a pair of young lads laughed and cuffed each other playfully, standing up to “ride” the unsteady train as it shook on the rails.

  I closed my eyes, and listened to the rattle of the wheels on the track, the eager chuffing of the engine as it ate its coke and its heart blazed hot within its iron cage. I could imagine it as a voracious creature, consuming all it could swallow, burrowing through the earth, a never-ending beast of appetite.

  “It will kill us all,” said the doxy and I opened my eyes to look at her. She writhed against the bench as if being tugged by invisible hands, her back arched, her mouth opening and closing as if eating the air. “It will blow hard and sweep us from the earth,” she continued, “the Breath of God cannot be stopped, it curls hot in the lungs of the world.”

  “Is nobody to help her?” I asked, reaching across to hold her thrashing arms.

  “There is no help,” said the old minister, as if reading the words from his bible, “we’re all going to burn.”

  “Let her die,” said the young couple, in impossible harmony, their eyes rolled up into their sockets, their mouths flapping open in perfect unison to let the words tumble out. “She is a harlot and not worth our attention, she deserves no more than the touch of hot pokers, the searing, cleansing fire on her diseased body.”

  I continued to wrestle with the prostitute, made all the more determined by the callous words behind me.

  “Oh God, John,” she said, and it was Mary’s voice, my poor dead Mary. “I can feel their hands, feel their black nails piercing the skin. Can nothing be done to save me?”

  “Mary!” I cried, delirious now in the confined carriage that burrowed itself deeper and deeper into the ground.

  “She’s ours,” said one of the young boys.

  “We will play with her until she breaks,” agreed the other as they walked over to join us, “your little rag doll, your little Mary.”

  The train shook violently and I lost my footing, letting go of the woman who had my deceased wife’s voice trapped inside her. I fell to the floor, rolling towards the far window as the carriage continued to buck and shake.

  “Beware!” cried the old woman, unspooling great strands from her bonnet, strands I now realised were red and wet as she peeled herself like a Christmas orange. “Beware!”

  Everyone on the carriage stood up, their mouths opening to reveal great black holes like the tunnels through which we travelled. Out of those tunnels a wind began to blow, whistling past teeth, billowing out cheeks, swelling their bodies to absurd, distorted balloons as it filled them.

  The carriage filled with the unnatural wind, a wind that brought on its back the smell of the grave and of the bloodstained mud of the battlefields of my youth. It was the percussive wind of cannon fire, the raging storm pushed before the explosion of gunpowder, the storm of death, and I couldn’t bear the thought of inhaling it. If it entered me, contaminated my body with its funeral taint, I was convinced I would be forever lost.

  I pulled myself to my feet, yanked dow
n the window and breathed deep of the black smoke that flooded the carriage.

  “’E’s gone mad!” someone shouted, and that was enough to bring me back to my senses. The hands of the young man yanked me back from the window even as the old minister pulled it closed, coughing in the clouds of smoke that I had allowed into the carriage from the confined tunnel outside.

  It was one of the young lads who had spoken and I held my hands up, trying to reassure my travelling companions that I was now as restored to sanity as they clearly had been. But they knew nothing of my delusions, that much was clear from the startled looks on their faces. They were all sat as they had been before I had closed my eyes, looking on me with a mixture of terror and pity. My eyes met those of the prostitute and there was no trace of Mary in their open mockery.

  “Could tell ’e weren’t right the minute I set eyes on ’im,” she said, looking me up and down with open contempt as the train slowed to pull into the next station. “’E’s like a man I used to know.” A client, I thought, perhaps uncharitably. “Used to scream the ’ouse down on a full moon so he did, right off his onion, mad as Swiss eggs.”

  As the train came to a halt I grabbed my hat and cane and dismounted, unable to travel any further with them, too embarrassed to sit in their company. I pushed my way past the people wanting to get on and made a run for the surface. I still coughed, the sharp sting of blood at the back of my throat, the thick, poisonous smoke clinging to my insides.

  I came up near Regent’s Park and I made my way there, to sit a while on one of the benches and regain my breath and composure.

  Had I fallen asleep? No. I was sure I had not. Then what was the explanation for two such experiences in one day? What was happening to me? I was only too aware of the similarity between what I had experienced and the surreal visions described by Dr Silence. Had I been influenced by him somehow or – a much worse proposition and one that did not sit well with my rationalist beliefs – had we shared a similar visitation? I resolved to observe Dr Silence later that evening and try to make my mind up about him.

  Eventually I walked through the park and along Baker Street. I would tell Holmes about what had happened – he would treat the account with utter scepticism, naturally, but I was hopeful that he might be able to present a logical solution. Try as I might, I certainly couldn’t.

  On my return, it soon became clear that conversation with Holmes would have to wait. He had returned home while I was out, a note pinned to the mantelpiece with a blowdart: “Meet at the station, bring your revolver.”

  Typically erudite, I thought, screwing the note up and casting it into the fire.

  I went to pack.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JOURNEYING NORTH

  With a small holdall packed (my old service revolver wrapped snugly in a clean shirt), I made my way to St Pancras and the rendez vous with Holmes and Silence. My experience on the Underground still fresh, I decided to forgo the saving to my purse and hire a cab.

  The station was as busy as always. I dislike train stations, they are full of lost people, running here and there, fearful of missing their connections. It is a contagious atmosphere of confusion and dread and I’m always relieved when my train pulls away from the platform.

  I stood in the queue to purchase my ticket. I had adequate time to reach the platform but the impatience bred of waiting soon affected me and I was tapping my foot as an elderly lady craned her neck so as to face her least defective ear towards the guard, all the better to hear him with.

  “Inverness,” she shouted, so that none of us were in any doubt as to her destination. “I can’t manage all these bags though.”

  “I’ll gladly help with your bags,” I insisted, if only to get things moving. The old lady looked at me and there was a distinct twinkle to her eye as she gently pressed her hands together as if in prayer.

  “Such a kind gentleman,” she said and I couldn’t help but smile. I remembered the time when, running for our lives, Holmes and I had arranged to meet on the continental train from Victoria. I had believed my friend to be absent until an ageing cleric sat across from me revealed himself to be Holmes in disguise. I was certainly not to be fooled twice.

  “When you’ve quite finished,” said a young man behind me. I turned to look at the fellow, immaculately dressed with hair so perfectly oiled he could have been sculpted. He checked his pocket watch, a gleaming half-hunter with an arcane-looking symbol etched onto the back. “She’s not the only one who would like to make the next train to Inverness.”

  “Indeed not,” I replied, “I’m travelling there myself.”

  “Such an optimist,” the young man replied holding out his watch for me to see, “it leaves in ten minutes. Do you think you and your lady friend may have concluded your business by then?”

  “What’s he saying?” the old lady asked – if indeed she was an old lady.

  “No matter,” I replied, eager to have the whole affair done with. “Could you please supply me with two tickets for Inverness?” I asked the guard. “One for this lady and one for myself.”

  “Thank you,” said the old lady. “If you could bring my bags too, young man.”

  With that she wandered off across the concourse leaving me stood face to face with the guard and in charge of one leather suitcase and three hatboxes. It must be Holmes, I thought, no-one else would have the damned gall to abandon me in such a manner.

  “I say...” I called after the retreating old lady, but she was either too deaf or too content with her own good fortune to hear me.

  It must be Holmes.

  “Now nine minutes,” said the young man behind me.

  “For goodness’ sake.” I paid for the tickets and gathered up the bags. If that wasn’t my friend then I was now sorely out of pocket and fast losing patience.

  I shuffled after the elderly figure, managing to reach our platform after only dropping the hatboxes once.

  Silence was hanging out of the window of one of the carriages, clearly convinced that neither Holmes nor I intended to keep the appointment.

  “Dr Watson!” he called, opening the door and stepping down to help me with my burden. “I fear I may have packed too lightly,” he said, casting his eyes over the baggage.

  “It’s not mine,” I insisted, calling to the elderly figure who was shuffling along to the far end of the train.

  “We should sit near the front,” it called, “my grandson says that’s safest.”

  “You know this lady?” Silence asked.

  “I have a terrible suspicion I do,” I replied. “Come on, we’ll move up.”

  Silence grabbed his overnight case and the hatboxes and we walked along the platform, breaking into a slight jog as the conductor whipped his flag in preparation for the train departing.

  “Get on!” I shouted at the figure. “This is far enough, surely?”

  “No need to shout, dear,” she replied, pulling at the door handle and struggling to clamber aboard. Just as it looked as though she was going to fall back onto the platform a pair of arms shot out of the open doorway and grasped her firmly.

  “Holmes?” I asked, staring at the familiar figure helping the elderly lady aboard.

  “Watson!” he replied, “I was beginning to fear you would miss the train, now I see that chivalry delayed you both.”

  We all climbed aboard and I set to wedging the old lady’s belongings on the baggage rack.

  “How on earth did you end up travelling en masse?” asked Holmes, taking a hatbox from me and putting it away.

  “I...” I considered lying but decided against it, knowing Holmes would catch me out. “I thought she was you in disguise.”

  Holmes erupted into laughter, clapping his hands and ushering Silence and I from the carriage. “If you need anything else, madam,” he told the lady, “don’t hesitate to call on my friend, we’ll be in the next carriage along.”

  “Wait a moment,” I said, thinking of the rail fare.

  “Don’t mind me,�
� the old lady said. “It’s most kind I’m sure, but I can’t have you pestering me all the way to Scotland, you get on with your business and leave me in peace.”

  I stared at her, dumbfounded, before following a still-laughing Holmes out into the corridor and towards the next carriage.

  “I’m flattered,” said Holmes, “that you think I could pull off such a convincing impersonation.”

  “It has been a trying day.”

  “The last few minutes seem to have been hard enough, poor chap. Let’s hope this interminable journey gives you adequate time to recover.”

  “As long as there’s comfortable seats and a restaurant carriage, I assure you I will arrive north of the border in fine fettle.”

  We sat down and Holmes filled his pipe.

  “So,” he said, once relaxed and beginning to fill the carriage with the clouds of Turkish tobacco smoke, “perhaps we might best spend the time between now and dinner by catching up on what we’ve been up to since this morning.”

  For Dr Silence’s benefit he then began to inform him of what we had learned at Ruthvney Hall, up to and including my “turn” in the forest.

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple – and quite benign – medical explanation for it,” I said, aware even as I spoke of how pompous and silly I sounded. In truth I felt even more foolish now it was being discussed in front of Silence. I felt like the weak heroine of a pulp tale fainting at suitably dramatic points within the narrative.

  “Well then perhaps we could avail ourselves of an expert opinion?” asked Holmes. “In fact a qualified second opinion.” He looked to Silence.

  The man, no doubt sensing my discomfort, attempted to back away from the challenge. “I’m quite sure that if Dr Watson, as a medical man himself, is at ease with what happened...”

  “Oh come now!” said Holmes. “You’re a doctor, you must have met countless intelligent patients who attempt to dismiss important symptoms through a misguided sense of embarrassment?”