Sir Arthur gazed at Holmes for a long moment, then chuckled softly.
"I understand," he said softly. "I do understand."
"You understand that you have been tricked?" Holmes asked.
"I understand all. You need say no more. Some day, in the future, when you're persuaded of my complete goodwill, we'll have occasion to speak again."
Sir Arthur rose, crossed the room, and opened his desk. He drew out a sheet of paper, returned, and presented the paper to Holmes.
"This is a letter of credit," he said, "in payment for your services. It's sufficient, I hope?"
Holmes barely glanced at the paper. "More than sufficient," he said. "Most generous, I would say, from a client who believes I have been made a fool of by Martians."
"Not at all, Mr Holmes. I understand your reasoning. You are very subtle, sir, I admire you."
"Then you accept—"
"I accept your explanation as proof of my hypothesis," Sir Arthur said. "And I admire you beyond words." He smiled. "And now, we are all very tired. I must rest, and then—to work! To introduce the world to the wonders approaching us. I've taken the liberty of hiring a private train to return you to London. A token of my esteem."
Speechless, Holmes rose.
"Your luggage is in the autocar. James will drive you to the station. The autocar will not misbehave, because our visitors have gone home for the moment. But—they will return!"
Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle accompanied us to the drive, so graciously that I hardly felt we were being shown the door. I climbed into the motorcar, but Sir Arthur held Holmes back for a moment, speaking to him in a low voice, shaking his hand.
Holmes joined me, nonplussed, and James drove us away. The motorcar ran flawlessly. As we passed a field that yesterday had been a smooth swath of grain, but today was marked by a field theorem more complex than any before, we saw Robert and Little Robbie directing spectators around the crushed patterns in the field. They both had taken more care with their appearance than the previous day, and wore clothes without holes or patches.
His expression hidden in the shade of his new cap, Robert turned to watch us pass.
"Holmes—" I said.
Holmes gently silenced me with a gesture. He raised one hand in farewell to the farmer. Robert saluted him. A small smile played around Holmes's lips.
As soon as we were alone in the private train car, Holmes flung himself into a luxurious leather armchair and began to laugh. He laughed so hard, and so long, that I feared he was a candidate for Bedlam.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Get hold of yourself, man!" I poured him a glass of brandy—Napoleon, I noticed in passing.
His laughter faded slowly to an occasional chuckle, and he wiped tears from his eyes.
"That's better," I said. "What is so infernally funny?"
"Human beings," Holmes said. "Human beings, Watson, are an endless source of amusement."
"I do not like leaving Sir Arthur with a misapprehension of events. Perhaps we should return—seek out the raft on which he was held captive."
"It has, no doubt, been sunk in the deepest part of the lake. We would never find it . . . unless we could engage the services of Mr Verne's Captain Nemo."
"I'm astonished that you've read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," I said.
"I have not. But you did, and you described it to me quite fully." He sipped the brandy, and glanced at the glowing amber liquid in appreciation. "Hmm. The last good year."
I poured cognac for myself, warmed the balloon glass between my hands, and savored the sweet, intoxicating bite of its vapors. It was far too early in the day for spirits, but this one time I excused myself.
"When we return to Baker Street," said Holmes, "I might perhaps borrow your copy of War of the Worlds, if you would be so kind as to lend it to me."
"I will," I said, "if you promise not to rip out its pages for your files. Bertie inscribed it to me personally."
"I will guard its integrity with my life."
I snorted. The train jerked, wheels squealing against the tracks, and gathered speed.
"What about Sir Arthur?" I asked, refusing to be put off again. "He believes he's been visited by Martians!"
"Watson, old friend, Sir Arthur is a willing participant in the hoax."
"You mean—he engineered it himself? Then why engage your services?"
"An innocent, unconscious participant. He wants to believe. He has exchanged Occam's razor for Occam's kaleidoscope, complicating simple facts into explanations of impossible complexity. But he believes they are true, just as he believes spirits visit him, and Houdini possesses mediumistic powers, and I . . . " He started to chuckle again.
"I don't understand the purpose of this hoax!" I said, hoping to distract him before he erupted into another bout of hysteria. "Nor who perpetrated it!"
"It is a difficult question. I despaired of solving it. I wondered if Sir Arthur wished to pit his intellect against mine. If the journalists and photographers conspired to create a story. If Constable Brown wished to draw more resources to his district—and found he enjoyed the limelight!"
"Which of them was it, Holmes? Wait! It was the photographer—only he has access to flash powder!"
"And an intimate knowledge of Surrey fields? No. The flash powder is easily purchased—or purloined. It was no one you mention."
"Then who?"
"Who benefits?"
I considered. If Sir Arthur wrote of the events, he might make a tidy sum from a book and lecture tour. But Holmes had already stated that Sir Arthur was innocent. Still, what benefited Sir Arthur would benefit his whole family . . .
"Not Lady Conan Doyle!" I exclaimed, aghast.
"Certainly not," Holmes said.
"The butler? The driver? He would know how to sabotage the car—"
"Robert Holder, Watson!" Holmes cried. "Robert Holder! Perhaps—indeed, certainly—with help from James and the butler and other tenants in the neighborhood. But Robert was the mastermind, for all his rough appearance. A veritable Houdini of the countryside!" Holmes considered. "Indeed, he used some of my own techniques. And he almost defeated me!"
"He risked all by challenging you!"
"I was unforeseen—surely he intended Sir Arthur to conduct the investigation. When you and I arrived, Robert must have realized he would stand or fall by his boldness. He offered Sir Arthur a compelling reason to dismiss my solution—and me. Sir Arthur accepted the offering. How could he resist?"
Holmes gazed out the window of the train for a moment. Unmarred fields rippled past, like miniature green seas.
"If not for Robert's misapprehension about the velocity of light," Holmes said, "a misapprehension that I shared, I would have known what happened, and I would have known how—but I never would have been certain who."
"You sound curiously sympathetic, Holmes," I said with disapproval.
"Indeed I am, Watson. Robert is clearly an honourable man."
"Honourable!"
"He refused Sir Arthur's offer to relieve him of the year's rent. He has no wish to steal."
"Only to lie."
"Like Houdini. Like any entertainer, any storyteller. Shakespeare lied. You have lied yourself, my friend, in your descriptions of our adventures."
"I have disguised individuals," I said, taking offense. "I have, yes, perhaps, dissembled occasionally . . . " I hesitated, and then I nodded. "Very well. I have lied."
"Life is hard for people who work the land. You and I are prosperous, now, but remember what it was like when we were younger, scraping along from season to season, with never a new shirt or a pair of boots that did not let in the rain? Imagine seeing no better prospects. For the rest of your life."
I suddenly remembered father and sons, and their new clothes.
"Who can blame them for creating a diversion, a mystery to attract sightseers, people of leisure with money to spare. People," Holmes added, "with a blind eye to turn to the evidence lying plain before them?"
&
nbsp; "What of your commitment to the truth, Holmes?" I asked with some asperity.
"I know the truth," he said. "You know it. Sir Arthur knows it, but rejects it. I have kept the solution to other mysteries confidential; it is part of my duty. How is this different?"
I suddenly understood. Holmes's sympathy was not so much directed toward the hoaxers as away from the curiosity seekers who were willing, indeed eager, to be fooled.
"Very well, Holmes," I said. "I am content, if you are."
We rode in silence for some miles, lulled by the rocking of the train, enjoying Sir Arthur's excellent cognac and the peaceful English countryside. I wondered what the world would be like if beings from another planet did visit us.
"Holmes," I said.
"Yes, Watson?"
"Why was Sir Arthur so willing to pay you, when he did not believe your solution? What did he say to you, just as we left?"
"He said, 'I understand why you are such an extraordinary person. Like Houdini, you have good reason to hide your abilities, your true nature. I understand why Sherlock Holmes cannot be the one to reveal the truth about our visitors. I will do it, and you may trust me to keep your secret.'"
"Your secret?"
"Yes, Watson." Holmes smiled. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believes I am a Martian."
The Adventure of the Death-Fetch
by Darrell Schweitzer
Darrell Schweitzer is the author of the novels The Shattered Goddess and The Mask of the Sorcerer, as well as numerous short stories, which have been collected in Transients, Nightscapes, Refugees from an Imaginary Country, and Necromancies and Netherworlds. Recent books include The Fantastic Horizon, Ghosts of Past and Future, and Living with the Dead. Well-known as an editor and critic, he co-edited the magazine Weird Tales for several years, and is currently editing anthologies for DAW, such as The Secret History of Vampires and Cthulhu's Reign, and an urban fantasy werewolf anthology for Pocket Books.
We all have days when the world seems too much to bear, and all we want to do is lock ourselves in our room and not come out. It's an illusion, this idea that a foot of wood and plaster can seal us off from the troubles that beset us, but it's a comforting illusion, and it resonates. Authors have spun some wonderful dramatic scenarios out of this notion of a safe room within a hostile universe. H. P. Lovecraft's "The Music of Erich Zann" is about a violinist who plays unearthly tunes to keep hostile entities from invading his apartment. China Miéville's "Details" is about a woman who has plastered over all the visible lines and angles in her apartment, because those angles are traversed by the other-dimensional terrors that assail her. The movie Pulse features characters who must seal up their room with red duct tape to protect themselves from malevolent spirits. There's something instantly intriguing about a person who refuses to come out, and also about the idea that evil could be kept at bay by something simple, such as music or duct tape. Our next tale brings us a chilling new variation on this theme.
In retrospect, the most amazing thing is that Watson confided the story to me at all. I was nobody, a nineteen-year-old college student from America visiting English relatives during Christmas break. I just happened to be in the house when the old doctor came to call. He had been a friend of my grandfather long before I was born, and was still on the closest terms with my several aunts; and of course he was the Doctor John Watson, who could have commanded the immediate and rapt attention of any audience he chose.
So, why did he tell me and only me? Why not, at least, my aunts? I think it was precisely because I was no one of any consequence or particular credibility and would soon be returning to school far away. He was like the servant of King Midas in the fairy tale, who can no longer bear the secret that the king has ass's ears. He has to "get it off his chest," as we Americans say. The point is not being believed, or recording the truth, but release from the sheer act of telling. The luckless courtier, fearing for his life, finally has to dig a hole in the swamp, stick his head in it, and whisper the secret. Not that it did him much good, for the wind in the rattling reeds endlessly repeated what he had said.
There being no swamp conveniently at hand for Dr. Watson, I would have to do.
The old gentleman must have been nearly eighty at the time. I remember him as stout, but not quite obese, nearly bald, with a generous white moustache. He often sat smoking by the remains of our fire long after the rest of the household had gone to bed. I imagined that he was reminiscing over a lifetime of wonderful adventures. Well, maybe.
I was up late too, that particular night, on my way into the kitchen for some tea after struggling with a wretched attempt at a novel. I chanced through the parlor. Doctor Watson stirred slightly where he sat.
"Oh, Doctor. I'm sorry. I didn't know you were still there."
He waved me to the empty chair opposite him. I sat without a further word, completely in awe of the great man.
I swallowed hard and stared at the floor for perhaps five minutes, jerking my head up once, startled, when the burnt log in the fireplace settled, throwing off sparks. I could hear occasional automobiles passing by in the street outside.
Dr. Watson's pipe had gone out and he set it aside. He folded his age-spotted hands in his lap, cleared his throat, and leaned forward.
He had my absolute attention. I knew that he was about to tell a story. My heart almost stopped.
"I am sure you know there were some cases of Sherlock Holmes which never worked out, and thus went unrecorded."
I lost what little composure I had and blurted, "Yes, yes, Doctor. You mention them from time to time. Like the one about the man and the umbrella—"
He raised a hand to silence me. "Not like that, boy. Some I never found the time to write up, and I inserted those allusions as reminders to myself; but others were deliberately suppressed, and never committed to paper at all, because Holmes expressly forbade it. One in particular—"
At least I didn't say anything as stupid as, "Then why are you telling me?" No, I had the good sense to sit absolutely motionless and silent, and just listen.
It was about this same season [Watson began] in the year 1900, a few days after Christmas if I recall correctly—I cannot be certain of such facts without my notebooks, and in any case the incident of which I speak was never entered into them—but I am certain it was a bright and brisk winter day, with new-fallen snow on the sidewalks, but no sense of festivity in the air. Instead, the city seemed to have reached a profound calm, a time to rest and tidy up and go on with one's regular business.
Holmes remarked how somehow, in defiance of all logic, it appeared that the calendar revealed patterns of criminality.
"Possibly the superstitions are true," I mused, "and lunatics really are driven by the moon."
"There may be scattered facts buried in the morass of superstition, Watson," said he, "if only science has the patience to ferret them out—"
We had now come, conversing as we walked, to the corner of Baker Street and Marylebone Road, having been abroad on some business or other—damn that I don't have my notes with me—when this train of thought was suddenly interrupted by an attractive, well-dressed young woman who rushed up and grasped Holmes by the arm.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes? You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are you not?"
Holmes gently eased her hand off him. "I am indeed, Miss—"
"Oh! Thank God! My father said that no one else could possibly save him!"
To my amazement and considerable irritation, Holmes began walking briskly, leaving the poor girl to trail after us like a common beggar. I'd often had words with him in private about these lapses of the expected courtesy, but now I could only follow along, somewhat flustered. Meanwhile the young lady—whose age I would have guessed at a few years short of twenty—breathlessly related a completely disjointed tale about a mysterious curse, approaching danger, and quite a bit else I couldn't make head or tail out of.
At the doorstep of 221B, Holmes turned on her sharply.
"And now Miss—I'm afraid I
did not catch your name."
"Thurston. My name is Abigail Thurston."
"Any relation to Sir Humphrey Thurston, the noted explorer of Southeast Asia?"
"He is my father, as I've already told you—"
"I am not sure you've told me much of anything—yet!" Holmes turned to go inside. Miss Thurston's features revealed a completely understandable admixture of disappointment, grief, and quite possibly—and I couldn't have blamed her—rage.
The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Page 20
