In my heart, I prayed he had not seen me tear away the corner of his precious wrapper. His back was to me. How could he have noticed? I hate to think what would have occurred if he had.
“Thank you,” he said. Strange how heartfelt his gratitude seemed. He sounded as if I had just saved him from the gallows and I had an instant of guilt when I realized I intended to do just the opposite. Without another word, he drew his fist from the wall and disappeared through the door. The moment he was gone, my knees gave out and I would have plunged to the floor, except I knew I must observe all I could about the man, in the hope of catching him later. I staggered to the window and sagged into the very armchair I had thought to deposit Warlock in just that morning. The killer walked into the street, approached a waiting cab and called out loudly, so that all the street might hear, “3 Mayfield Place, Peckham, driver.”
All this in spite of the fact that there was no driver. After shooting a fleeting glance up and down the street, the old crone bounded up into the driver’s seat herself and whipped the horse into a gallop.
At least we had it right that the killer was a cab driver.
The urge to collapse overcame me. I staggered across the room to the brandy decanter, then back to the chair before the fire. Here at last, I allowed my legs to buckle and I fell in a heap, interrupting my tremors, from time to time, to pour a healthy draught of brandy down my throat.
It was nearly an hour and a half before Warlock returned. By that time, I had already turned away two other callers. One was some sort of insane baked-goods collector. The other had just come from my bank and claimed to be a Nigerian prince, in spite of the fact that he was clearly of Chinese descent. His family fortune had been seized, he said, and if only I would deposit a thousand pounds in my own bank account (the number of which was written on a crumpled piece of paper, clutched in his right hand), this would somehow allow him access to his own monies, ten thousand pounds of which he would immediately pay to me. Exhausted and by no account sober, I told him I would. The instant he left, I made a note to open a new account at my earliest convenience.
At last, Warlock burst through the door, in high spirits. He clucked, “Hi-ho, Watson! I’ve just had a merry chase. I quite forgot: Grogsson was headed out to the theater this evening! I checked a few, but never found him. Any luck here?”
I nodded.
“Did you encounter the killer?”
Again, I nodded.
“Tell me all, Watson! Tell me all!”
I shook my head.
“Perhaps tomorrow, then. You look quite undone, I must say.”
He leapt into the other armchair and poured himself a snifter of brandy. He had no intention of drinking it, I knew, but would often pour himself one whenever anyone else had a glass, so he could pretend to be joining in. He settled back, smiling, but then jerked forward, his reverie interrupted by sudden remembrance. After rummaging through his coat for a few seconds, he withdrew a small metal curio and said, “By the by, Watson, I found this queer little device in my pocket. Have you any idea what it can be?”
I can hardly describe the wave of fury that washed over me. If I had not been in an alcoholic stupor, I think I would have leapt from my seat and throttled him. Yet, in my current state, there was nothing I could do but say, “That, Holmes, is the firing hammer of a Webley-Pryse .455 revolver.”
His face contorted in a mixture of amusement and wonder. “Is it?”
“I am fairly certain.”
8
I AWOKE MUCH LATER THAN USUAL THE NEXT MORNING—just before 10 a.m. I had not meant to sleep so long, yet the body is always master of the mind and my own physical form was still in feeble shape. Having wasted so badly since being wounded, it was in no condition to receive the quantity of stimulation the previous day had yielded, and not half the brandy. I had the impression that my slumber had been deep and profound and I realized I had no idea what had wakened me from it.
Mrs. Hudson’s next shriek reminded me. Danger! Screaming! That was it. I rolled from bed and stumbled for the door, still dressed in the crumpled remains of yesterday’s suit. By the time I reached our sitting room, Warlock was already at the door to the hall, shouting, “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson, they are here by my invitation! Really, I hope in the future you will keep a more civil tongue in your head when you address my guests.”
In principal, I agreed. In practice, I had no time to voice an opinion on the matter before I began screaming myself. In through the door streamed a swarm of rats—probably a hundred of them. They swirled into our sitting room. They scuttled over our table and into our cupboards, quite devouring the last of my crumpets. You must not think less of me for screaming at the sight of them. I am a grown man and have certainly seen rats before, but none like these. Each was afflicted in some unique and horrifying way. One had eight legs. One was the size of a dog, yet colored like a cow. One was inside out. One stopped upon my shoe and turned its eye up at me—it had only one, in the middle of its head.
A hand upon my shoulder stopped my screaming and I turned to behold Warlock who, with a hurt expression, said, “Watson, please, a little kindness to our guests, don’t you think?”
“What the hell are they?” I demanded, quite forgetting to be kind.
“Nothing so out of the usual,” Holmes responded. “These are some of the rats that live on Baker Street with us.”
“But, what’s wrong with them?”
“Watson! How rude! They are merely unusual. Rats, like people, are subject to accidents of birth. And just like people, the unafflicted members of society—the regular rat folk—quite unfairly disdain these good rodents you see here today.”
“So all these rats are…”
“The Baker Street Irregulars.”
I recoiled towards a chair, but it was occupied by a rat with long whip-like tails in place of ears and another with tiny stigmata. Reeling about the room with some care not to step on our strange visitors, I sought an unoccupied spot to rest myself, but found none. Holmes did not even try to mask his disappointment. He tutted loudly and turned to the one normal-looking rat in the room, saying, “There, Wiggles, do you see? Do you see what a stir they make? I am sorry, but in the future, you had best come up alone. The rest of you lot must wait outside, I fear.”
The normal rat looked up at him for a moment, then began to shift. The bones moved about beneath its skin. Its hair grew back into its hide, even as the body began to expand and contort into a bipedal form. In two winks, a young street urchin stood before me, clad in rags, with a battered cap in hand.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes, sir,” he said and smiled at me, devilishly.
I grasped my chest and fell into the nearest chair, sending six-eyes rat and open-sores-that-smell-like-chocolate rat scurrying for safety. Warlock asked the rat-boy, “Anything to report yet, Wiggles?”
“Nuffin’ yet, sir, beggin’ yer pardon. I gots all the boys gathered up and we’re on the streets. We’ll have him for you, sure as we’re breathin’.”
“I never doubted it,” Warlock confided. “Here is one day’s wages, in advance.”
From one of his pockets, Warlock produced twenty or thirty pounds of rotting cabbage (by means I still cannot explain) and began casting it about the room to the waiting Irregulars.
“Very gen’rous, sir,” Wiggles said, with a tip of his cap. “We’ll be off, then. Oh, brought yer paper, sir.”
Wiggles gave a nod to big-as-a-dog-but-colored-like-a-cow rat, who began a rigorous campaign of retching and choking. At last, with a final spasm, he regurgitated our paper onto the table, gave himself a congratulatory nod for a job well done, then turned to join the swarm as it scurried out the door and down the hall. I watched them go with horror and disbelief vying for control of my wits. Warlock only turned to the paper, wiped off some stomach acid and chewed-up cabbage, and began scanning the first few pages. Suddenly he piped, “Watson, look! We’re famous!”
After perusing the article for a few
moments, I was inclined to disagree. Though the case was causing quite a sensation, I was relieved to find neither Holmes nor I were mentioned by name. In fact, Holmes was mentioned by the wrong name, when the writer declared that the unwelcome consultant, Mr. Rache, had once again appeared and scrawled his name in blood on the wall. Lestrade and Grogsson fared even worse. It was clear the author believed one or both of them were guilty of the crime. He complained that they would probably “solve” it, as they usually did, finding a party who would prove more guilty than they, even if he seemed less. The article included a wealth of information, much of which we had previously lacked. The reporters had already uncovered the name of the deceased and the fact that he was traveling with one Joseph Strangerson, his secretary. Further, they had information as to where the two had been staying—Madame Charpontier’s boarding house in Toruay Terrace—although they had checked out the evening before the crime. The paper even detailed the last time Drebber and Strangerson had been seen together: just after quarter past nine on Friday night, arguing on the platform at Euston Station. The two men had then walked off in separate directions. On a whim, I flipped through the paper until I found the schedule for the trains. Likely as not, the two of them had just missed the Liverpool train. The question was, where had they gone after missing the train? Why not head back to the boarding house together? I was forming a strategy of investigation, when Holmes—sitting in his armchair by the window, picking cabbage from his shirt front—muttered, “Oh dear. It looks as if Grogsson has read the paper this morning.”
Rushing to the window, I beheld the massive form of Torg Grogsson coming down the street. He was beaming broadly, face alight with self-satisfaction, in spite of the fact that he was practically naked. His left fist was closed around the collar of a battered corpse, which he dragged to our door, before ringing the bell. Presently, Mrs. Hudson began her second screaming fit of the morning and a moment after that, Grogsson himself flung open our sitting-room door and shouted, “I win!”
He triumphantly tossed the body into the center of the room. Only when it gave a groan of protest did I realize the man was still alive. I bolted to my bedroom for my medical bag and then back to attend to him, while there was still time. One side of his face was half stove-in. I later learned that Grogsson had hit him—only once, with his fist—very nearly killing the man.
“Torg find killer,” Grogsson declared, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. “Is best ’tective evar!”
No. The man on my floor was younger, shorter and entirely less threatening than the killer had been. I had no idea who he might be, but I knew who he wasn’t.
“Good job, Grogsson,” said Warlock. “I had hoped Watson and I would capture him, but you’ve bested us entirely. Come in, why don’t you, and tell us how you did it.”
Torg Grogsson proudly recounted his morning’s adventure, but I will not relate the conversation. It was so riddled with grammatical and pronunciation errors, so horribly tainted by the most rudimentary attempts at speech, that I hope it is never committed to paper. Instead, I shall offer you my own version of events, reconstructed as best I could manage from Grogsson’s account, witness statements and the police report that Madame Charpontier later filed against him.
It seems Grogsson had arisen at roughly half past seven that morning and proceeded to read the paper (a feat I still can barely bring myself to believe him capable of). When he came to the mention of Madame Charpontier’s boarding house on Toruay Terrace, he became particularly excited; he knew the place. In his eagerness to apprehend the killer, he had neglected to dress and bounded into the street in his nightwear. Unfortunately, this consisted only of underpants, his bowler hat and a tie. After twenty minutes of running through the streets of London, howling his battle cry, he arrived at Madame Charpontier’s. Or rather, near it. He’d forgotten exactly which door was hers, so he frightened a number of her neighbors by bursting in upon them, before chancing upon the correct address.
Madame Charpontier was not overly glad to make his acquaintance, nor was her daughter, Alice, who was also present. This daughter must have been quite pretty, for Torg spoke of her much more than the story warranted, sometimes leering like a maniac, other times tracing delicate patterns in the air with his goat-sized hand, as if softly stroking her cheek. I was sure there was just the hint of a tear in his eye.
At first, communications were strained. Madame Charpontier—assuming herself to be under attack by a rampaging monster—shot Grogsson twice, in the chest. Only after he mentioned it did I realize this was true. One of the bullets had not even penetrated his tough, hairy hide. The other had left a comically small hole and a trickle of thick blood. Torg would not allow me to examine him. He protested that such things happened to him all the time and, in truth, it didn’t seem to have injured him much.
After plucking the offending revolver from the landlady’s grasp and bending it to useless scrap, Torg demanded to know where Enoch Drebber was. It seems he’d momentarily forgotten Drebber was dead and had come to apprehend him. Madame Charpontier also had a copy of the paper handy, and used it to convince Torg that Drebber was… no longer in residence. Torg does not respond well when his plans go awry (even though they usually do), so he began making quite a lot of noise at that point and smashing furniture. Odd as it may sound, this proved to be an adroit strategy. It turns out that if someone of Grogsson’s size, temperament and state of undress begins doing this in one’s company, one will tell him almost everything one knows, in the hopes of finding some tidbit of information that will please him enough to end the rampage.
Madame Charpontier related that Drebber and Strangerson had checked out Friday night and that she was almost as glad to see them go as she would be to see Grogsson leave. Strangerson was a reasonable enough fellow, it seemed, but Drebber was prone to drink and carousing. Happy as Madame Charpontier had been for the near-criminal pound per day she had from each of them, she made it clear that they were not welcome to return. They had both left on Friday, just after eight in the evening to catch the train to Liverpool at a quarter past nine. (I took some satisfaction that I had guessed their purpose.) Some hours later, Drebber returned, much the worse for drink. It seems the two had missed their train by the matter of a few minutes. Strangerson had left for alternate lodging, thinking to meet Drebber there. Drebber had returned to Madame Charpontier’s boarding house claiming to have forgotten one item: Alice Charpontier. What Drebber lacked in sobriety, he made up in obscenity, offering a few choice suggestions for an… unconventional courtship.
Upon hearing this, Torg swore to kill Drebber (already dead) and, according to some sources, proposed marriage to young Alice once the deed was done.
She declined.
However, during this polite rebuff, Alice Charpontier let certain interesting facts come to light. Her honor had already been defended, she said. It seems the exchange with Drebber had awakened her brother Arthur. He was on leave from the Royal Navy and had turned in early, as the military schedule had become his custom. Though he had missed the earlier conversation, Arthur soon caught the gist of it and escorted Drebber out with some alacrity. In the street, Drebber offered a few parting comments that sent Arthur back inside to fetch the family cudgel. Arthur then claimed to have chased Drebber all the way down the street and halfway back up, until the latter staggered into a cab and made good his escape.
All of this was related to Torg, who gleaned nothing from it, except that Arthur Charpontier had motive, means and opportunity to kill Drebber. He elected to take young Arthur into custody, a process that consisted of a single blow to the face and a long drag across town to our place. It never occurred to Grogsson to take him to the police, his urge to brag being a larger portion of his character than his grasp of judicial process. Most of all, he seemed eager to talk to Lestrade.
“Stoopid Lestrade! Stoopid!” Grogsson laughed. “Him think Strangerman did it. Him chasing all over town when Torg have criminal! Torg!”
; I had to approach my next sentence very carefully. “So, Grogsson, it is your opinion that Mr. Charpontier here poisoned Mr. Drebber?”
“Yah!”
“With a cudgel?”
“What you talking, Watson? Stick for hitting.”
“That’s right, Torg,” I agreed, “but remember: Drebber was not found beaten to death; he had been poisoned. Probably not with a stick.”
Torg stood for a moment. Blinked.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
He raised his giant fists to smash the closest piece of furniture he could find—likely our table—and, for the first time, I got to see Warlock employ his gifts on purpose.
“Stop,” said Holmes, and Grogsson immediately did so, but not by choice. Understand that no visible force restrained him—it is hard to conceive of one that could. Not chains, but merely the shadows of chains sprung from the darker corners of the room and twined themselves not around Grogsson, but his shadow. He roared in frustration and strained with all his might, but could not move an inch.
“We’re not going to have any of that in here, Grogsson,” said Holmes. “Watson raises a fair point. Also, I like that table. Now, I’m going to let you go and we’re not going to have any more of this nonsense, are we?”
“But… but Lestrade make fun of me!” Grogsson complained.
“He may indeed,” Holmes agreed. “He’ll be here soon. He’s coming. I can feel him.”
Looking out the window, I realized he was correct. Lestrade was turning the corner onto Baker Street.
“No, he won’t make fun of you, Grogsson,” I told the giant. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so downcast. Something has happened.”
Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone Page 6
