by Guy Adams
“What are you talking about man?” Carnacki demanded.
“Pay attention and I will tell you,” Holmes replied, “though might I ask that you point that gun towards our fellows? I have no wish for them to interrupt.”
“If you think I’m going to let you just slander our names without interruption...” began Crowley.
But Silence was quick to speak this time. “Do as he says Aleister, and shut up. This has gone much too far.”
“Indeed it has,” agreed Holmes, “much too far.”
Crowley appeared on the cusp of arguing once more but then, unbelievably, his face broke out in a smile. “Very well,” he said, “you can have your moment, after all it’s much too late for you to do anything about it, even if you had proof, which I very much doubt.”
“I have none whatsoever,” Holmes agreed, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case. He never could explain himself without a cigarette in his hand. My friend was such an absurd creature of habit. “But I will tell you what I know, nonetheless.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE LAST SIGH
“From the first it was exceedingly suspicious,” he said, lighting his cigarette and exhaling a mouthful of smoke. “Why was the good Doctor John Silence on our doorstep? And in so uncharacteristic a state of untidiness? He hadn’t rushed to see us after the bizarre events he described, that much was clear both from his story and the fact that his legs were coated with the hair of his dog. He had come straight from his home in...” He looked to Silence. “I believe you told Watson it was on Reeves Mews?”
“It is.”
“Just the other side of Grosvenor Square. I take it that De Montfort was running to you for aid when he died?”
Silence nodded.
“Aid he would not have received,” Holmes continued, “but let us keep these matters in their proper order, they are complex enough without jumbling them up.
“The only other reason we can imagine you were walking around in such an unconventional state from your norm is that you were distracted, alarmed, worried. Not yourself in other words. What could be agitating you so? Surely not the details of your story, if your reputation is to be believed then the possessed and the phantasmagorical is your very bread and butter. Such matters – alarming as they may be to others – could hardly be thought of as a divergence from your usual routine. And yet, something clearly bothered you. Was it perhaps something so simple as your meeting with me? Something you had to do? Something that sat uncomfortably?”
“I have never been comfortable with this business,” admitted Silence, “but I was doing what I thought was right.”
“That excuse has been given for many atrocities over the years,” said Holmes. “Of course not a single word of your story was true, it existed solely to engage my curiosity, to get me involved. What other reason could there have been for your visit if we assume – as I began to do – that your intentions were not altogether honourable? At the time such an idea was supposition. It was simply the only logical reason if we come at matters from the assumption that you were a liar.”
“As a cynic always would,” I said.
“Indeed,” Holmes replied. “I said to you on the train that you must be willing to believe didn’t I? Yet a good deal of my deduction started from entirely the opposite viewpoint: if one assumed that none of what I was being led to believe was possible, what explanation could be found to explain the facts? It really is the only way to deduce anything. Assume everything is false until you cannot explain it any other way.”
“You’re saying this is all fabrication?” Carnacki asked. “What about everything we’ve seen?”
“Oh there is something out there,” Holmes said, “some kind of force that we may as well label as ‘supernatural’ for certainly we do not currently have the ability to explain it. Though I must admit,” he smiled at Carnacki, “I find your attitude – that all of this is merely science of the future – much easier to accept than the archaic superstition of your fellows.
“Anyway,” he continued, “let us not get side tracked. I have explained the position with which I approached everything. And from that perspective what do we actually know? Silence told us a story that is not a matter of facts, it is merely a ghoulish tale he wished us to believe. Likewise Crowley’s saga of supernatural attacks, they were no more genuine than his affectation of being a Scottish laird. They simply didn’t happen.”
“But what about what I saw then?” I asked, my mind reeling from all of this. “That was no lie.”
“My dear friend,” said Holmes, “it may not have been a lie but it most certainly was an exaggeration.
“It is all about belief. You explained that much to me last night, Crowley. And that, at least, helped explain the discrepancy between the deaths of Hilary De Montfort and Lord Ruthvney.
“De Montfort’s death was most convincing: bruises that were almost impossible to explain, apparently the result of a supernatural force. A force that Silence was at pains to tell us was the Breath of God.
“And then we travel to the country and see the scene of the crime at Ruthvney Hall. Again, there is plenty of evidence of a supernatural storm. And yet he was poisoned. Sent mad – just as Watson suggested – by a gas introduced into the room via his smoking chimney.
“Gentlemen, one has to wonder, if the very wrath of God is marching around the Home Counties, why it was necessary for Ruthvney to be killed in such a colourful, yet ultimately earthly manner. It didn’t make sense. So it was, once again, suspicious.
“On our walk in the grounds we find evidence of three people involved. Well that is useful, we know we’re looking for multiple assassins at least. One of whom lives up to the name by smoking a mix of tobacco and hashish.” He looked to Crowley. “You emptied your tobacco out on arrival at Ruthvney Hall and I can assure you that, had I not recognised it then, I most certainly would have done during our conversation in the coach earlier.”
I remembered Holmes and Crowley discussing each other’s tobacco during the journey to Inverness. Typical of Holmes, he rarely makes small talk without good reason.
“We also find a ring, a pentacle in onyx with the inscription ‘To S.L.M.M.’ inside. A most unsubtle clue, gentlemen. Am I to accept that my enemy is wandering around the woods at night with illfi tting jewellery? We were always supposed to find it, of course, or rather I was, because it served one other purpose.” He looked to me. “When you picked up the ring what happened to you?”
“Well, I snagged my arm on the brambles,” I said, “it was hard not to, they were so thick.”
“Hard not to, indeed,” Holmes agreed, “and thus you took the first dose of a chemical agent that has been affecting your judgement ever since. It’s no coincidence that you hallucinated shortly afterwards, no coincidence at all.”
“I was poisoned?”
“Indeed, precisely why I have been keeping you away from any food or drink for the day, a singularly difficult task in your case.
“That was your first dose. Your second came from the newspaper vendor who so generously shared his rum with you.”
“The driver!” I shouted, pointing towards the head of the train. “I knew I recognised him!”
“An employee of Mr Crowley in fact,” Holmes said, “a fourth member of their gang.”
“Then on the train to Inverness?” I asked. “Surely we all saw something?”
“Well,” said Holmes “you experienced something, that’s for sure, every passenger in the restaurant carriage did. But again the food was poisoned, just as every morsel you ate at Crowley’s would have been.” He looked to Crowley. “I assume you were onboard the train?” Crowley nodded, a calm smile still in place. “Then you should have made a point of poisoning my veal,” Holmes said, returning the smile, “had you done so I might not have been able to retain the clearminded perspective from which all my deductions have grown.”
Behind Holmes the tunnel opened out into British Museum Station, lamps hang
ing around the nearly completed platform. In the sudden burst of light, I noticed at the rear of the train there was another carriage, wrapped tightly in tarpaulins. What were we carrying?
“I say again –” Holmes leaned forward in his seat – “I don’t for one minute claim that there is nothing unusual at work here, I may be a rationalist but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. There are powers at work that are beyond my reasoning, beyond my understanding... but those powers have been exaggerated and every encounter with them stagemanaged. Why? Because of something I do understand: greed.
“That’s what this has been about. This extended horror show, from the first death to that unholy act of terrorism on Oxford Street. All of it designed to make three people appear important, our future saviours, the masterful magicians: Aleister Crowley, Julian Karswell and Dr Silence.”
“No,” Silence insisted, “it wasn’t as petty as that. Civilisation is moving too fast! It’s forgetting all the powers and spirituality of the past. We needed to remind them, to make them remember what true power is, to relearn the lessons they have forgotten. We needed them to be afraid.”
“And, of course, the more people who believe how powerful you are, how powerful it is –” Holmes gestured out of the carriage window into the darkness outside – “the more powerful you all become. Because that’s how it works, isn’t it? Belief is key? Yes? On both sides?
“Hilary De Montfort believed didn’t he? And look how effective the Hellish wind was on him.
“Lord Ruthvney? Not so much, he was no occultist, sufficient digging by Langdale Pike was enough to confirm that. He was just a major shareholder in the line upon which we are currently travelling. I presume you wanted his papers? Forge authorisation for you to work here?”
“We needed his authorisation to have this train laid on for our use,” Silence said, “they weren’t planning on running anything along the tracks for months yet.”
Holmes nodded. “And once that was organised another death, particularly one as absurd as that, all helps the theatre doesn’t it? Keeps me involved, excites the readers of the popular press, has them eagerly awaiting the next grisly happening.”
“But why involve you at all?” I asked Holmes.
“We said it ourselves at the very outset of this case,” he replied, “I have become the detective who is known for solving the impossible. I would have become involved anyway. All the better if I was involved under their control, guided into accepting their side of the story. Then of course – as they have so frequently requested – I would endorse their actions with Scotland Yard and indeed the government. The word of Holmes? The most famous rationalist in the country? What better endorsement could they have!
“The only thing I don’t understand,” he admitted, “is why you involved Carnacki. I know it was Karswell who hired him, the stench of his outdoor temple, the yew tree and the verdigris sculpture gave that away.” He looked to Carnacki. “Congratulations on both the precision of your memory and the sharpness of your senses by the way, you’re almost to my standard.”
“Too kind,” Carnacki replied.
“But wasn’t he too much of a risk?” Holmes continued. “Someone who might see through what you were up to?”
“That was Karswell’s fault,” Crowley said. “I must admit I thought it was over-egging the pudding somewhat but he was convinced that if we could fool you then Carnacki would be no problem. And what harm could there be in one more recommendation? He is rather well thought of by a number of landed gentry, after all.”
“I’ve exorcised enough of them,” Carnacki said, “but surely there was more to it than that?”
“I hoped you might introduce me to your friend, the writer, Dodgson,” Karswell admitted, “with his connections at The Idler magazine I thought he might have helped me find a publisher.”
Holmes actually laughed at that. “Unbelievable,” he said. “You construct that entire shadowplay just to entice someone who may be able to help you get in print? Unearthly creatures appearing within the bookstacks! You killed a publisher doing so!”
“He’d already turned the manuscript down,” Karswell said with a shrug, “a short-sightedness he lived long enough to regret as I fed it to him, page by brilliant page.”
Holmes sneered in disgust. “You petty little man.”
“Don’t you dare call me that or I swear you’ll regret it!” Karswell shouted, pointing menacingly at Holmes. “Nobody insults me and lives!”
“I’ve been threatened by much worse than pathetic little bookworms like you,” Holmes said dismissively. “Now,” he looked to me and Carnacki, “the chemical that they have been poisoning you both with, as well as gassing the poor survivors of the bomb explosion above...”
“The nzembe,” Carnacki said.
Holmes nodded. “Nothing of the sort, just hallucinating victims, more theatre, briefly glimpsed, to build up to their grand final act.”
“Which is?” I asked.
Holmes nodded towards the rear of the carriage. “You’ll notice we’re pulling a freight container. I imagine it holds more of the gas we saw used above.”
Silence nodded. “I synthesised it myself. You’ve seen the sort of hallucinations it can cause.”
“Indeed. Am I right in thinking you plan to release it at Bank?”
Silence nodded again. “From there you can access the entire Underground, the gas would float up all over the city, contaminate thousands.”
“Mass murder,” Holmes said. “I hope your conscience burns, Doctor.”
“The gas doesn’t kill,” Silence insisted, “Watson’s proof of that. But the things they’ll see!”
“Enough to convince anyone of angels and demons.” I said.
“Precisely,” Silence agreed, “and with the whole city convinced of the supernatural, we will come into our own, happy to save their lives and souls and bring society back to a more cautious, spiritual level. What we’re doing is for the benefit of mankind, however it may appear to the contrary.”
“The gas was enough to kill Ruthvney,” Holmes argued, “driven to grotesque suicide by his visions. Many more will die as you subject the capital to your brutal empire of fear. Kindly don’t attempt to hold any moral high ground Silence, your hands are as bloody as those of your fellows. But no matter, we shall see the gas is never released.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Crowley said. “I don’t think we’ve quite run out of options yet. I haven’t been entirely idle while Holmes has been preaching from his pulpit.”
Light suddenly burst through the windows as we appeared at Chancery Lane Station and Crowley’s face bore a terrifying rictus of ill humour. “I have summoned our faithful servant to once again assist in our efforts.”
The train bucked violently as that terrifying force, the so-called Breath of God, hit us from the rear. Carnacki toppled forward, the gun falling from his hands. The train’s metal wheels screeched on the rails as the driver hit the brakes. For a moment all was chaos. Holmes rebounded off the wall, Crowley reaching for his throat. Silence held his head in his hands and rolled along the floor towards the driver. I was pressed back in my seat, reaching out for Carnacki in the hope that I could help break his fall. Karswell did the best of us all, he jumped for the gun.
“No!” Silence cried, lying on his back by the front exit. “This has gone too far!”
Karswell pointed the gun and fired, shooting Silence right between the eyes.
“Nobody tells me what to do!” Karswell shouted. “Nobody!” He turned the gun towards Carnacki but the younger man was already on the move.
“Quickly, Doctor!” he yelled, flinging Holmes’ dropped cane at Karswell. “The door!”
The tip of the cane jabbed Karswell in the face and his hands went up with a startled cry. His clenched fingers pulled the trigger and a bullet went into the roof of the carriage, sending out a shower of wood splinters and dust. Taking the moment of grace offered, I opened the door closest to me and both Carnacki and I toppl
ed out onto the platform.
The wind was still curling around the walls of the station, sending the various cables and posters flapping against the tiles or whipping around our heads.
“We need to keep moving,” Carnacki shouted over the noise. “Come on!”
“But Holmes!”
I turned back to see him through the carriage window wrestling with Crowley. I also saw Karswell raising the gun to fire once more.
“Duck!” Carnacki cried. We both ran up the platform towards the exit. Two bullets ricocheted off the tunnel wall sending fragments of tile and plaster tumbling into our hair.
The exit was sealed, no escape that way.
“The track,” said Carnacki, snatching a lantern, “no other choice.”
He pulled me past the front of the train. Through the window I saw that duplicitous old sailor cowering from the threat of gunfire. Carnacki aimed towards the edge of the platform. “Careful!” I warned him, yanking him back. “The central rail is electrified.”
We slipped down as carefully as we could and ran ahead into the darkness, the sound of the wind growing louder and louder behind us.
“We can’t possibly outrun it!” said Carnacki, passing me the lantern. “Our only chance is to fight it.”
He removed his cufflinks, kissed them tenderly then turned and threw them into the tunnel behind us, muttering an incantation under his breath as he did so. In the low light it was impossible to tell precisely what was happening, but a shimmer of light passed across the whole tunnel as if a firework had been ignited in our wake. There was a deep bellowing sound that I could only imagine was the Breath of God colliding with some form of barrier, though there was nothing I could see.
“Keep moving!” Carnacki insisted. “I don’t know how long that will hold.”
My ears had popped as if something had sucked the air out of the tunnel and I massaged them as we ran, trying to get my hearing to return. Slowly they cleared, in time to hear the thing I had feared, that dull hum of electric current. Crowley had gained control once more.
