I rolled over and stared at him, blinking the sleep from my eyes. “What are you talking about, Holmes? What gift? What time is it?”
“Gift? There is no gift. Damn! You see? Now I can’t give it to you. I’ve promised you a gift and it wouldn’t work if this was the gift, would it? Ownership is damnably important in magical matters.”
“I have no idea what you are speaking of. I ask again: what time is it?”
“Two or so…”
Holmes had roused me from almost the exact middle of my slumber, to announce that he had chosen this moment to give me something, or not to. The revelation was not a welcome one. I think I yelled. Holmes merely raised a finger and said, “Just a moment, please; I shall be back presently.”
He leapt through my doorway and into the sitting room. He returned, not fifteen seconds later, with his shirtsleeves flapping freely about and declared, “There! As I said: a gift. For you.”
In my hand, he deposited a pair of cheap tin cufflinks.
“Why have you given me your cufflinks, Holmes?”
“No. They are your cufflinks. I got them for you.”
“Then why are they inscribed with an H?”
“Ah… well… because your middle name is Heimdal!”
“True, Holmes, but this is something I prefer to conceal—an undertaking which would not be aided by having to explain it over and over to everyone I met, from this day on, as evidence that I am not wearing another man’s cufflinks.”
“You have much to learn about gratitude, Watson,” Holmes huffed.
“Again, I ask: why have you given me your cufflinks?”
“Look, the important thing is that I have. I promised you a gift—now I have delivered one.” He beamed at his own cleverness and reached into his pocket. “It must therefore be a completely separate transaction when I mention that I have made you something. Oh! Damn! Well that won’t work either, will it? If I have made it for you, that’s as good as giving it to you, isn’t it?”
“I am going back to sleep, Holmes.”
“No you aren’t. Wait a moment, I’ll figure this out.”
With that, he scurried into the pantry. I could hear him banging about in there, occasionally calling, “You aren’t asleep, are you? Really, don’t make me fetch the accordion, John—you know I will.”
In less than five minutes, he returned, announcing, “There, I have made you something: this plate of toast.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Watson, don’t be difficult. Take it. Eat some—at least one bite—it is a matter of some importance.”
With a sigh, I reached over and snatched a slice of unbuttered toast from the plate he offered and bit into it with exactly no eagerness at all.
“There,” he said, over my dry, reluctant crunching. “That’s better. Now, as a separate matter—for we must admit that both previous issues have been brought to conclusion—I would like to inform you that I have made this.”
From his pocket, he drew a sort of amulet—an irregular yellow disc, hanging from an ornate chain.
“It is not for you,” he continued. “It is mine and mine alone. The magical protections bound within this amulet were granted to me and my possessions, not to any other man. Therefore, I do not give you permission to touch it, much less wear it always. But I do admit that it would be greatly beneficial to you if you did. It may even protect you from the foremost evils of this world, though such punishment would wear it out quickly. And now, I will leave it undefended, in your room.”
“You needn’t bother,” I snorted. “I have no desire to wear such a thing.”
“Damn it, Watson, yes you do!”
“It looks horrid! What is it anyway?”
“The rent,” he replied, raising his eyebrows as if he had just done a hideously clever thing. “So—though it is from you—it is a thing you owed to me, which makes it very much mine. Remember: I am not giving this to you; you gave it to me. Such matters can be of great magical importance.”
“Why is it all yellow and lumpy?”
The dangling abomination was indeed roughly the same shape and size as a one sovereign coin, but was encased in a rubbery coating that hid its true nature entirely. So hideous was the medallion that it took me a moment to recognize the beauty and intricate workmanship on the chain. Warlock had not deigned to answer my question, so I asked another. “I say, that is a singular chain. What is it made of?”
“Ah,” he said, “that was no small trick. Some links are copper, some are bronze, some iron. I had a devil of a time shaping such fine pieces, much less getting them to fit together.”
“You made this?” I marveled, staring at the links. They were minute, irregular shapes, joined together with such cunning that I am sure I could not describe the process, even if I understood it. Three shapes were repeated, over and over, in the three metals. They were familiar to me, but I could not say from where. A book, I realized. I had seen them in a book, somewhere. On numerous occasions. A medical book?
“Good lord, Holmes, are those… ear bones?”
“Well spotted, Watson! The hammer, the anvil and the stirrup—the tiny, calceous marvels that allow hearing!”
“But why?”
“It has often been said, Watson, that the ear is the gateway to the soul.”
“The eye.”
“What?”
“The eye, Holmes. The eye is the gateway to the soul.”
“Egads, Watson, don’t be disgusting! Anyway, it is the ear, I assure you. Whenever magics must be bound to a particular individual, the bond is always strongest if they are bound to the ear. Or hair. Or ear hair.”
“The ear? Well then… Oh God… Holmes! This is earwax! You have coated the sovereign I gave you in earwax?”
“Of course I did.”
“And you expect me to wear it? You wish me to clothe myself in another man’s earwax?”
“Well,” said Holmes, with a shrug, “not another man’s…”
“By God! Do you mean to tell me that you are holding in your hand a sovereign coated in roughly two tablespoons of my own earwax?”
“Just so.”
“It has often been said, Watson, that the ear is the gateway to the soul.”
“Well, you are lying,” said I, “or you are jesting with me. There is no possibility I ever had that much wax in my ears.”
“Not all at once,” Holmes conceded, “but you must realize that I was concerned for you before you even took up residence here. I must take some care to shelter all my living companions from harm. Thus, I began my harvest on the night you moved in.”
“You’ve been stealing my earwax?”
“Stealing is not a term worthy of a gentleman…”
“Since the day we met?”
“If you have been feeling a bit… dry… you now know the cause.”
“Damn it, Holmes!”
He gave me a hurt look and sat at the foot of my bed. “Watson, please understand: we are hunting dangerous prey. I have no idea where the true box may be hidden, but I know the thing inside has become used to regular human sacrifice. It might sally forth at any time it considers itself slighted or hungry or even bored. It would surely devour the first man it finds. I am not sure I could defend myself from such a beast and I know that I could not defend you. I only wish for you to be as safe as possible, Watson.”
My thoughts were sleepy and troubled. I did not know whether to yell at Holmes or thank him. As I struggled to decide, Holmes’s words closed a link for me. I made a sudden connection.
“I know where the box is.”
“How?”
“Think, Holmes: Blessington had no interest in Trevelyan as a lover, did he?”
“He doesn’t seem to have.”
“Then why did he want him? Why would he open his home to another man, support him and keep him?”
“I don’t follow,” said Holmes.
“The box!” I cried. “If Blessington—or Moffat, or whatever his name is—
if he knew the beast might erupt at any moment and slay the first man it found, wouldn’t he take care not to be that man? That’s why he wanted Trevelyan always to spend his evenings at home! He wished Trevelyan’s bed to be always occupied. That’s why his Gatling emplacement was set across Trevelyan’s door and not his own! Don’t you see? The box is built into the underside of Trevelyan’s bed! Blessington kept him not as a lover, but a sort of resident sacrifice, always on hand in case the beast got hungry!”
“By Jove, I think you’ve got it!” Warlock cried. “Come, Watson, let us go put a stop to it!”
“Right now?”
“How could you sleep at a moment like this?”
“But… it’s cold outside. How would we ever find a cab at this hour?”
“Tosh! It is less than an hour’s walk.”
“Holmes…”
“We are engaged in a race, Watson! If Moran is indeed seeking to reclaim that box, I am loath to surrender even a minute to him. If he finds it before we do, the box will disappear into Moriarty’s criminal empire and who can say how many innocents will be sacrificed to it, ere we have another chance to get our hands on it?”
I grumbled, of course, but he was right. Besides, I was firmly awake by that time and faced only an empty, sleepless night if I stayed. Though I bundled myself up tightly, the cold crept in at every seam as we walked the streets betwixt Baker Street and Trevelyan’s. My muffler continuously slipped down, revealing my nose—moist from my breath—to the mercy of the cold. I sniffled and snorted piteously as we approached our goal.
Holmes’s urge to hurry proved prophetic. As we rounded the corner onto Moffat’s street, we beheld a trio of shapes emerging from the bullet-riddled ruins of his door.
“Stay close by me, Watson,” said Holmes, stepping out into the middle of the street. Through the patchy clouds, enough moonlight shone down that the intruders could not help but notice him. He threw open his overcoat and let it flap about his shanks as he advanced slowly down the street. This Holmes did to show himself unarmed but his steely gaze declared that he had no need of pistol or blade. He himself was the weapon. I scurried from the shadows behind him, wary of danger and longing for the warm bed I had left behind.
The first of the three figures instantly beheld Holmes and turned his steps to intercept our own. Behind him, the others followed, though with less zeal. As he neared us, I got my first look at an adversary who would haunt several of my future adventures. His hair was chestnut, shot with gray at the temples; he wore it in a short, martial cut. Indeed, everything about the man was short and martial. Though he stood no more than five foot three, he had the bearing of a soldier. His gaze was cold and unwavering, devoid of all fear. He did not walk; he marched. Something in his stride gave the impression that you might shoot him two or three times in the chest and not arrest his progress. I couldn’t recommend shooting him a fourth time—he might be very cross with you indeed. He wore a gray bowler at what would have been a rakish tilt, if it were not for the fact that rakishness, happiness, hope and humor all withered away within a twenty-yard radius of the man. As he drew up before us, Warlock announced him: “Sebastian Moran.”
“Warlock Holmes,” Moran replied. A shudder passed through his two companions and they exchanged glances. They must have recognized Holmes’s name, I realized. They must have feared it. One of Moran’s companions was commonplace in the extreme—an old man with a bushy white beard. Over one shoulder he carried a short stepladder and in the other hand, a box of tools. Judging by Trevelyan’s descriptions, I supposed this to have been the man who passed himself off as Monsieur Me’doreux, with Moran himself as the “unworthy” accomplice.
Moran’s other companion was horrific. He was shorter even than Moran, a fact accentuated by his deformed spine, which hunched him forwards and well off to the right. His hair hung in greasy black strands and his skin—even in moonlight—gave the impression of a greenish tint. In his right hand, he held a dagger. His left hand walked nervous fingers up and down the blade. The knife was clean, but his right trouser leg was not. With horror, I noted the dark stripe where he had wiped the blade upon his trousers. I was sure it must be blood. He smiled at me—a goblin’s grin.
Nodding his head towards Moran’s empty grasp, Holmes noted, “I see you’ve failed to find the box, eh?”
“I do not answer to the unworthy vessel,” Moran said, “but—” and this still to Holmes “—it is good to see you, Master.”
Suddenly, Moran, his confederates and the street behind them lit with a green glow. Though I was behind him, I could tell that Holmes was the source of this illumination, so I knew the voice that would come next. A deep, slow laugh escaped Holmes’s lips and in the creeping tone I had heard just three times before, Moriarty spoke, “Faithful one, you please me.”
“You are well, Master? You are sheltered?”
Moriarty did not answer; instead Holmes slumped forward, then staggered to one side. It was common for him to be weak when Moriarty departed, even for him to be rendered entirely insensible. Yet this time, Holmes did not fall all the way to the ground. Even as he stumbled, he slapped aside Moran’s outstretched hands and declared, “I’m not sheltering him, Moran; I’m digesting him.”
“Time shall choose a victor,” said Moran, then turned his eye on me and asked, “And who is this new face?”
“Tell him nothing, Watson!” Warlock urged, struggling to reclaim his balance. “And for God’s sake, John, don’t let him learn your name!”
Moran smiled. I sighed and shook my head. Then, since it seemed I had nothing to lose by it, I extended my hand and said, “Dr. John Watson, at your service.”
This surprised Moran, who stared at me as if trying to decide whether it was madness or boldness that lay behind the gesture. He crept slowly forward and took my hand in his. The grip was firm, but more remarkable was the steadiness of his hand. I had thought that only a surgeon could cultivate such absolute stability. Only later did it occur to me that a sniper might, as well. As we shook, he leaned in and stared unblinkingly into my eyes, taking the measure of me. After a time, he said, “You call yourself a doctor, but I think you are a brother of mine. Are you not a son of Mars, Dr. Watson?”
It took me a moment to fathom his meaning. Mars? The planet? No, the Roman god of war!
“Very astute,” said I. “I was a soldier for a brief time.”
“How many have you slain?”
I was taken aback. “Well… I prescribed morphine to a sunstroke victim once; that did the trick.”
“You jest with me, but I perceive that this hand has sent many to the grave. Either it has, or one day shall.”
I pulled back my hand and cried, “No, sir! It has not and it shall not! I am a doctor! I took an oath. Yes, I have seen battle, but I did not revel in it. I have no love of war!”
“That is ungentlemanly, sir, and unkind! He loves you!” For just a moment, Moran’s inexpressive façade cracked and he fixed me with the look most people would reserve for someone who had just called the queen a common street harlot. It took him only a moment to recover his composure. He stared coldly up at me and added, “Perhaps one day you and I shall meet upon the bloody field to see whom he favors more.”
I stared at him a moment, then whispered, “You, I expect.”
“I expect so, too,” said Moran.
Turning to Warlock, I noted, “Really, Holmes, the quality of people you associate with leaves much to be desired.”
Holmes snorted and said, “Who? Moran? Think nothing of him, Watson. I’d say he is merely a lapdog, but surely a dog would have been able to sniff out the box before now.”
“No need to worry, Holmes, I expect the box shall soon make itself known,” said Moran, turning to smile at the smaller of his two companions. The stunted man raised his dagger and tapped it twice against his own chest. I turned back towards Holmes to ask what the little creep meant, but found he had gone. Holmes was no longer by my side, but pelting down the street
in the direction of Trevelyan’s house. For lack of a better plan, I took to my heels as well. One cannot run with a walking stick, so I was forced to waddle after Holmes as best as my wounded and wasted frame allowed. I am sure my progress must have been more amusing to Moran than frightening. Over my shoulder, I could just hear him call, “Until next time, Doctor…”
My first instinct would have been to run up the stairs and search Trevelyan’s rooms for the missing box, but as I entered by the shattered front door, I heard Warlock cry out from within Moffat’s rooms downstairs. Bustling in after him, I beheld a horrible sight. I’d not had time to guess what purpose Moran had for the ladder and toolbox his elderly hireling carried. Now I saw his reason and—even as a doctor, accustomed to blood and viscera—it turned my stomach.
Moran and company had taken their time with Moffat. Four sturdy anchors had been affixed to the ceiling in the bedroom. From these hung iron chains; tangled within them was Moffat himself. He had been stripped to his undergarments and hung spread-eagled over his precious cashbox. He was soaked in blood. His face was pale. He had been stabbed in several places—on the inside of his thighs, the base of his neck, and the inside of his arms, just below the armpit. Though the wounds were small, they told a clear tale to my doctor’s eye. Moran’s little knifeman had nicked both Moffat’s jugular veins as well as his femorals and axials. It must have taken him some time to bleed out—indeed, he may have still been alive—but the wounds were mortal. Compounding this cruelty, the cashbox had been opened and placed directly beneath Moffat. The chains were arranged such that he could pull himself to one side, while he had strength, causing the blood to drip beside the box, rather than into it. As most of the blood soaked the carpet, I could see that Moffat must have struggled as long as he could to see that no blood touched the tousled wads of banknotes within the box. Yet, as his blood had drained, the strength left him. He must have slumped into unconsciousness even as we entered, for the thin red stream that dripped from his vast belly had only just begun to paint its crimson upon the money. From the floor above us, there came a terrible rumble. The house creaked and squealed, as if all the boards of her frame had warped, pulling at the nails that bound them.
Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone Page 13
