Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

by Clive Barker

  My brow furrowed at that, for I had thought it was only Lemarchand’s blood that could do such a thing – and he was gone.

  “Perhaps even your blood, when I am done with you. It matters little whose it is.” He let my chin drop and I had neither the strength nor the inclination to raise it. “There again, maybe when I am finished I will simply lock you up down here to rot and throw away the key? In any event, you will not be around to witness what we have in store for your friend, the great detective Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

  Malahide laughed again, much more gruffly, and this time Gerard joined in. Then I heard the door to the Chamber slam shut.

  It might have been then that the torches went out; or I may have lost my fight to hang on to consciousness. Either way, and with no moon to guide me, I was now, finally, pitched into total darkness.

  PART TWO

  Sherlock Holmes

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Falls

  SHERLOCK HOLMES WAS comforted by the knowledge that his friend, Dr Watson, was safe.

  Far away from London, engaged in a fact-finding mission, yes, but safe. Holmes had made sure he would be comfortable, in one of the finest hotels in Paris, and ensured that – even though Watson was visiting the institution connected with the case – people knew where he was. There was no possible way he could come to harm over in France, if he did as Holmes had instructed; which was more than could be said if the man remained by Holmes’ side, he felt sure.

  It was simply too dangerous for Watson to stay. Already he had been placed in far too much peril; had more knowledge of this new game than was good for him, which was why Holmes had to steer him towards the gallery, then the Institute. He had already been through the papers they’d managed to salvage from the Vulcania, of course, had already found the receipts and paid a visit to the gallery alone (ahead of Mrs Thorndyke’s mention of the place, thankfully). It was as he was sifting through the information in that back room the first time that Holmes struck upon the idea of directing Watson to France. He would need to follow up the lead at some point anyway, and his companion was more than capable of doing just that – it would have been suspicious if Holmes had simply created a false trail for him to follow.

  While Holmes remained, and faced what was to come. The true trial, the real danger. Just one more lie to keep Watson out of harm’s way, he told himself. Just one more deception...

  It had begun the moment he held his tongue about the letter. Even as the boy had handed it over, and they’d read it, Holmes had known there was no sick Englishwoman waiting for Watson back at the Englischer Hof in Meiringen. Yet he’d allowed his friend to trail off to see to the imaginary lady, girding himself to meet for one final time with his great nemesis, Professor Moriarty. To protect Watson, to keep him out of harm’s way. It was the only reason he’d asked his friend to accompany him in the first place to Strasburg, since to leave him and go alone would have meant also leaving him to the tender mercies of the Professor’s accomplices.

  The note Holmes had written himself had been the hardest thing he had ever set down. He acknowledged that his actions would bring great pain to his friends, especially to Watson – but the alternative was unthinkable. His sacrifice was tolerable, if it meant that those friends would remain untouched. If there had been any other way... But there hadn’t, and as he signed off Very sincerely yours his thoughts had remained with the best, perhaps the only true friend he’d ever had.

  And then: the fight.

  Moriarty’s anticipation of his every move, even the baritsu techniques Holmes was using. He’d seen no possible way of ridding the world of the monster without seeing his task through to the bitter end; that of all the things he had done in his life, this one action would make the greatest difference. So, Holmes had grabbed hold of Moriarty’s collar, stepped back, let gravity take its course, and –

  The fall.

  Holmes and Moriarty hanging on to each other, even with death rushing to meet them. Then suddenly, he was alone – his rival falling away through the gushing, almost glowing water. Alone, as one expected to be when meeting the Grim Reaper. Except –

  He had survived; had woken up on the rocks a little way from the base of the falls, drenched but otherwise intact. Holmes had staggered to his feet, almost slipping and thinking to himself what an irony it would be to break one’s neck now, after falling so far.

  Later, he’d read Watson’s account of this adventure: ‘The Final Solution.’ Read his description of the Falls as an abyss, a dark chasm leading to a boiling pit. The memories had flooded back, of that terrible, terrible place; of realising how very little his life and his struggles had actually meant in the greater scheme of things.

  Yet he’d at least been comforted by the fact that his impending doom would afford him a glimpse of something beyond all this – then surely everything would make sense. He, Sherlock Holmes, would have finally solved the last, greatest mystery.

  For a short while, at least, he did think that perhaps he’d been delivered into some kind of Heaven – a Valhalla, as the Vikings called it – such was the scene that greeted him when he shook himself off and stumbled away from what should have been his watery grave. Was death just like life, only richer? A bolstering of the senses, even more than his were already? Everything was brighter, sharper; smells and sounds enriching his nose and ears.

  Was death merely a continuation of the story you were telling when you were snatched from the world? A hallucination, a spiritual experience? He even entertained the notion – momentarily – that he might be a ghost, that only his spirit had survived the dreadful business and his body was at the bottom of that abyss, battered, bloodied and beyond any hope of rescue, along with Moriarty’s.

  How could he be alive?

  He shouldn’t be. By the time he had finally made his way back up to where he knew Watson would return and find the letter, seeing him there eventually and witnessing his grief, Holmes had already decided not to alert him: even before a fresh encounter with Moriarty’s henchman persuaded him of the danger that still attended his companion. He had decided that he needed time to unravel what had happened, why he was still walking around and breathing the sweet, sweet air when the professor was not.

  They had both fallen. But only one of them now remained.

  That is what had been the fundamental driving force for his actions, to travel, to try to uncover the meaning of it all. For what purpose he might have been spared. Part of what Watson believed was true, that he had been learning how to control his body, testing the limits of it; though he suspected his friend thought he was pursuing suicide by degrees. But he was not trying to end his existence, merely investigating the boundaries of his life – to try and provoke whoever, or whatever, had saved him into revealing itself.

  He had never done anything as reckless as putting a loaded gun to his head and pulling the trigger, but he had played a deadly game of chance in Russia with men who bet on the results. He had survived many, many rounds when others had not. They’d died in front of him, their brains splattered all over the table and the walls.

  He had not lain on the tracks in front of trains, to be run over, for that might put others’ lives at risk, and those were not his to gamble with. But he had engaged in a deadly form of harness racing in America – another underground activity the authorities tended to frown upon. Being pulled along by a horse at tremendous speeds around a track with other competitors, some of whom were armed, it was more like the ancient chariot races of old than any kind of civilised sport. Holmes had been thrown clear from his ride on many occasions, but walked away with only minor injuries every single time.

  He graduated from bare-knuckle street fighting – which had allowed him to refine and build on his initial baritsu training – to sparring in the fighting pits; emulating the gladiators in their use of nets, swords and spears. Here he would also face ferocious animals and best them, though often not without the scars to prove it.

  All the while painfully a
ware that he was becoming addicted to the thrill, to the rush of excitement, as his other addictions also grew in scale. Moving on from trying every kind of drug he could lay his hands on, to dosing himself with poisons and toxins – increasing the amounts every time. It was true, some of them had made him incredibly ill, had caused him to see things that could not possibly have been there. Yet they also facilitated his efforts to touch the darkness that he had seen during his time with medicine men around the world, in sweat lodges and freezing cold lakes. Increasing his sense that something was on its way, something he had been spared to face.

  Something he would need to be prepared for.

  Hence what Watson would call his ‘self-harm,’ he saw as anything but. It was only strengthening him. In the East he had allowed practitioners to cover his body in pins; in Polynesia, he had spent time with a tribe who walked across hot coals and swallowed fire, so as to experience such things himself (taking their exercises to extremes, it had to be said). He had practised the Okipa ceremony more times than he cared to recall, allowing his body to be pierced and suspended by hooks and chains, something he continued to do privately upon his return to London.

  Unmaking himself, so he could piece himself back together differently.

  He hadn’t been able to share any of this with Watson, of course. He simply wouldn’t have understood. Not the fall, nor what came afterwards: his penchant for standing on the edge of great heights, for instance, and looking down; wondering if he would survive should he step off, but at the last moment pulling back. Submerging himself in water to bring back more memories, trying to recall what had sparked all this; to remember what it was like to drown...

  So, he had deceived his friend once more, made up a story about defeating Moriarty, sending him spiralling into the waters on his own – a story his friend wrote up practically word for word. A romanticism he hoped Watson might appreciate if he were ever to discover the truth of the situation.

  Nor could he disclose why he’d returned to London, when his quest was only just beginning. It was true that he’d heard of Moran’s exploits and saw a chance to relieve the world of the last of Moriarty’s accomplices, thereby making it safe for himself to return – and for Watson, who had not even realised how much danger he’d placed himself in by taking up the case. But there were more weighty matters at stake than the capture of one sniper. The evil had he felt approaching, massing, was about to target his city. He’d heard rumours of a group, a sect, who would offer riches and delights beyond imagination, make people ‘vanish’ if they stood in their way. More than a criminal organisation: fanatics, dedicated to the virtues of pain. And their leader? Someone known only in whispers as ‘the Engineer.’ It was this, more than anything, that provoked Holmes to come back – otherwise he might have stayed ‘dead.’ This, he felt, he remained certain – more certain than anything in his life – was the reason.

  This was his purpose, something that would make his existence worthwhile.

  Being back, however, he could not hope to mask his presence from Watson – so he had chosen to reveal himself to the doctor, quite literally by peeling off his disguise in front of him. Ever the performer, always the theatrics. By returning to his old line of work, he could also keep an eye on his friend, manoeuvre him away from the terrible conflict when it presented itself. They had taken on cases in the meantime, mere distractions for Holmes – some mind-numbingly so – and he had attempted to continue his own training, conscious that Watson was watching him closely in turn. The doctor had even tried to follow him on a number of occasions, employed the services of others to track his movements. Yet still Holmes had kept Watson mostly in the dark as to what preoccupied him; distanced the man, in fact, believing it would make it easier when the threat reared its ugly head. Easier for Watson to accept Holmes’ actual death – for he was aware that at some point he would have to make the sacrifice he’d prepared for at Reichenbach. That battling this new menace might mean the end of him.

  That the endgame was almost upon him.

  Imagine his excitement when Laurence Cotton contacted him (My brother has vanished... Those exact words in the telegram!), and he realised this was the start of it – after nearly two years! The infiltration had begun, and he saw more signs of it with the Spencer, Monroe and Thorndyke disappearances. It was no coincidence that this was happening, that the fate he’d tempted for so long was now tapping him on the shoulder. It was almost time for his curtain call. The pieces were falling into place, being arranged just so. More information, more clues – and he was easily able to uncover the name of the sect: the Order of the Gash. That, and their weapon of choice: some sort of mysterious box. Innocuous as it appeared, it was apparently lethal – though information about it was vague in the extreme. As his obsession grew with these cases, so too did his desire to ready himself. To be prepared. Poison was not enough now, and so he exposed himself to infection as well. He had to be able to face whatever was coming.

  And he had to get Watson away from its focus, before it erupted outwards like the fire at the Vulcania. Needed to send him on a fact-finding mission, even though Holmes knew some of the facts already. The information Watson had gathered about Lemarchand was interesting, and filled in some of the blanks – when there was time he would look into the relationship between this aristocrat and Lemarchand’s great-grandfather, the origins of the box; or as Watson had called it, the Lament Configuration. The name was apt: certainly, its victims and those left behind had cause to lament.

  He had finally shared some of this with Mycroft, when he went to see him after the blaze. If Watson had felt slighted because he was the one Holmes turned to during the ‘hiatus,’ then the conversation they’d had that day would have made the man livid.

  “You are aware, of course, that the business with Monroe is only the tip of the iceberg, brother?”

  Mycroft had shifted about in his seat uncomfortably, the leather making terrible squeaking noises. “I had suspected as much,” said the large fellow, with a sigh.

  “Then you are also aware it is connected to a new ‘power’ at large in London.”

  Mycroft didn’t answer that one either way, he just asked, “What do you know of it?”

  “That it is unlike anything we have ever encountered before. That it is like a virus which spreads, but needs to be stopped. That I will be the one who has to do it. And that it is something I have to see through to the end... alone.”

  “I understand. How does the good doctor feel about that, pray tell?” He studied Holmes’ face. “Ah, you haven’t told him – at least not everything. You wish to keep him out of this affair as well.”

  “To keep him out of it. And keep you out of it.”

  Mycroft nodded sombrely. “For very different reasons, I’ll warrant. Little brother, I’m sure I don’t need to inform you of the consequences should you fail in your task.”

  “You do not.”

  “Then all I can do is wish you luck, and say that you know where I am if you need me.”

  It was Holmes’ turn to nod. “Where you always are, Mycroft.”

  They’d parted ways, then, and Holmes had spent the next day – after paving the way at the gallery – in a chemically-induced haze (something of his own making), in one of his secret rooms. It was not, for once, intended to prepare him for things to come, but to distract his mind from them.

  Now, however, with his friend safely out of the picture, the finale could begin. And it was no coincidence that less than twenty-four hours after he had bid his companion farewell – knowing but not revealing this would, more than likely, be the last time they ever saw each other – he received a telegram asking for a meeting.

  It was not from the Order itself, but Holmes knew that in answering it, he would draw closer to his prey. Just as Thorndyke had been lured to his end by the boy – something also on Holmes’ agenda; he hadn’t lied to Watson about that – he himself would answer one final entreaty to look for a missing person.

  A
missing reporter by the name of Kline.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Devil’s Tavern

  THE REQUEST FOR a rendezvous came from Kline’s investigative writing partner, J. Summersby. It was not asking for an audience at Baker Street, but to meet with Holmes at a public place. A public house, in fact, called the Prospect of Whitby, which Holmes was well-acquainted with – as he was with all the establishments in London and their history. This was something he commented upon when, having entered the shadowy inn – on the banks of the Thames, in Wapping – he spied Summersby sitting at a table in the far corner.

  Holmes purchased a pint of ale to blend in, and joined the reporter.

  “Interesting choice of venue,” he offered. “Formerly known as the Devil’s Tavern, due to its associations with thieves and murderers. It survived the Great Fire of London, only to burn early this century – when it was rebuilt and renamed.”

  Summersby, wearing a cloth cap and jacket that appeared to be made from the same material, looked up. “You’re not so bad at surviving fires yourself, Mr Holmes – not if the rumours are true.”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean,” Holmes replied and offered the reporter a thin smile. “Any other journalist might have asked to see me at the Old Bell, Fleet Street – but then I doubt very much you frequent the place. There is more than a chance, if you did, that your true identity would be revealed, Miss Summersby.”

  The woman sitting opposite him, who on a cursory glance might well have passed for a man, scowled. “I have never done anything to hide that from anyone,” she informed him unfalteringly.

  “I must have missed your current attire in the society papers,” Holmes immediately rejoined, “incidentally the more usual breeding ground for female reporters.”

  “At present,” spat the woman. “But it will not always be that way.”