by Clive Barker
“But where will you go?” I asked, hurrying past what he’d said – which had caused the hairs on my neck to bristle.
“I have always wanted to visit America,” said Henri. “It is one of the places I have not yet seen.”
“Very well, then I shall wish you well, Henri, and offer you my thanks once more. I owe you my life, and if there is ever anything I can do for you...”
He smiled and shook the hand I was offering. “Thank you, Dr Watson. And I hope all goes well with your case and Monsieur Holmes.”
I remembered then that there was something I’d been meaning to ask him. “I never did catch your second name, Henri.”
“It is D’Amour,” he said, still smiling at me. “It means love.”
“My, that’s a very striking name,” I told him and meant it; once heard it would never be forgotten.
We said our goodbyes not long after and I packed to head back home again, hoping against hope that I really wasn’t too late.
THE TRAIN RIDES and trip across the Channel allowed me time to rest up a little. My body would recover from Malahide’s attentions, and probably quite quickly, but my mind – that was another matter entirely.
When finally I arrived at Baker Street, however, I found no sign of Holmes, and Mrs Hudson was in a terrible state. “I just know something has happened to him, Doctor. I just know it!” That was exactly what Mrs Thorndyke had said, and I prayed that both these ladies were wrong. Upon searching the study, I found the telegram that Mr Summersby had sent pleading with my friend for his help – and I realised this was as good a place as any to start my search for him. I could visit the place mentioned in the telegram – The Prospect of Whitby – but I did not have a clue whether Summersby would return there, nor what he looked like even if he did. And in the meantime, what if Holmes should return to Baker Street?
So I sent an urgent telegram to the man via his newspaper and waited.
It took a further two telegrams to elicit any kind of response from Summersby, and when it did eventually come it was not in the form I had been expecting. Not a missive, nor a request to meet at the tavern or any other place; it was by way of a caller at our lodgings, a woman with auburn hair, clearly in a state of the utmost distress.
“I am sorry to inform you that we are not taking on any new clients at the moment, my good lady,” I told her as Mrs Hudson showed her in.
“I am already a client of Mr Sherlock Holmes’. You have been trying to reach me, Dr Watson. I thought it best to come in disguise.”
It seemed like a queer thing to say, but not when she explained that she actually was the reporter Summersby. As we sat and Mrs Hudson furnished us with a brandy apiece, for we both must have looked like we needed one, Miss Summersby – Josephine, as she insisted – informed me that she had indeed met with Sherlock and set him on a path she feared might have been his undoing; by sending him into Limehouse, where her colleague had disappeared looking for Inspector Thorndyke.
“I was so worried about Amelia, my writing partner Miss Kline, that I virtually begged for his help, Doctor.”
I assured her that Holmes had been on this path for a while before she even contacted him. “I myself have returned from my travels with information about the organisation involved in all this, and I’m sorry to report the news is not good.”
She hung her head, weeping. “I know, I know. You see, when he said he did not want me to come along, I followed his trail – just as he was following the Inspector’s and Amelia’s. I saw the men capture him, but then almost immediately someone behind me covered my mouth with a cloth and I fell into unconsciousness.”
“What happened next?” I enquired eagerly, inching forward on my chair.
“I was roused with strong smelling salts, and saw that we were in a tunnel. One of the underground train tunnels, for I was shoved into a nearby carriage. Mr Holmes was already part-way through a conversation with the most dishevelled-looking man I have ever seen. I swear to you, Doctor, he looked like one of the homeless.” My mind flashed back then to Mrs Spencer’s description of the intruder in her garden and I knew Holmes had finally encountered the man; that he was at the end of Holmes’ search. “He had the orphan with him, but he let the child go and gave him freely to me, saying that it was because they had taken something from me.”
My brow creased and I rubbed my chin. “That something being your partner, I assume?”
Tears tracked down Miss Summersby’s cheeks. “I took it to mean that, yes. But... but I am still hopeful, Doctor, in spite of it all. And in spite of everything Mr Holmes warned me about.”
“But now he has Holmes.”
She shrugged. “I did not see what happened after that, for I was drugged again and only woken by the boy shaking me and crying. We had been deposited by the river, not far from where I first met Mr Holmes.”
“So you have no idea where you were taken?”
Miss Summersby shook her head. “None whatsoever.”
“Where is the child now?”
“He is safe, with my parents – they have a small place in Brighton and I felt that the change of scenery and sea air would do the poor mite good.” She sniffed, drying her red eyes. “I questioned him before we left, but he is virtually a mute. Either he did not see a great deal, or he is too traumatised by the whole affair to speak about it. Doctor, these are incredibly dangerous people – I understand that now.”
“I see.” There was not much more to talk about after that; it was clear what my next course of action should be – to venture into Chinatown myself and see what I could find out. Miss Summersby was obviously known to these people, so I would go alone, and report back my findings. Regrettably, I knew even as I closed our front door, after saying goodbye, that my undercover skills were not a patch on Holmes’ – and he was much more familiar with such territory than I.
Nevertheless, I tried. My enquiries in Limehouse led nowhere, perhaps because I made people nervous, or maybe it was simply that questions about the Order – no matter how subtly they were broached – instilled terror in even the stoutest of hearts. I could understand that completely. After much searching, I considered descending into the underground tunnels and looking there, but where to start? I began to fear I would get nowhere with my investigation, especially without Holmes on hand to offer his unique assistance. Indeed, he had become the very focus of this case for me – to discover what had happened to him after he’d spoken to the vagabond.
Luckily, upon a brief return to Baker Street, Mrs Hudson told me that one of Holmes’ urchin boys had left a sealed message for me, in exchange for Mrs Hudson parting with another shilling. It said there were rumours Holmes had paid for a new, private room in one of the houses not too far from Upper Swandam Lane, which meant that my old friend was still alive at least. I grabbed my coat, and was about to leave, when something made me go back and fetch my pistol. I had, of course, lost my Webley Bulldog back at Malahide’s Institute, but I am nothing if not prepared. I had a Tranter tucked away at the back of my wardrobe which would serve my purposes adequately enough. I tried to put its necessity down to the fact that the neighbourhood I was venturing into was far from pleasant, but I had been in much worse without my pistol and felt less ill at ease. No, something was about to happen – I felt as sure about that as Mrs Hudson did that something had befallen Holmes... or was about to.
After a few hours my enquiries had brought little result: it was the same as Limehouse, either people were too scared or my manner was off-putting. Then, I was approached by a man called Tanner, who said he might be able to help me for the right price. When I handed over the money, and he still wanted more, I’m afraid my temper went.
“Will this be sufficient?” I asked him, pushing him against a wall and bringing out the pistol. As a physician, I swore to do no harm – though I have broken that promise, on occasion, to save others or myself – but I had been through a lot in a short space of time and my patience was wearing thin. It transpired that a pers
on matching Holmes’ description had rented not only a private room, but an entire house from him for a considerable amount, on the understanding that it would remain a private transaction. The very fact that this miserable excuse for a human being had been trying to wheedle more money from me to do exactly the opposite, just made my blood boil all the more. Little wonder it had not remained a secret for very long. In the end, I got the address and told him to be on his way before I changed my mind.
The building itself looked like a good breeze might blow it over, but when I came to try the front door I discovered it was locked tight. I had more success with a window on the ground floor, smashing it with my elbow and reaching through to open it, being careful to avoid the smashed shards of glass on the ground, as I clambered in. After searching the lower portions of the building (with my gun leading the way), and finding nothing – the place had obviously been used at some point for various nefarious activities; storage for one, as I found a few empty crates scattered about similar to the one Simon had been imprisoned inside – I made my way to the bottom of a rickety staircase. Holmes had always taught me never to ascend to another level of a building until I knew nobody would be following me from below.
Only now, as I walked through the house once more, did I hear the bell tolling. A strange sound, as if from far away, but also coming from very nearby.
From upstairs, unless my ears were deceiving me.
It was as I placed a foot on the bottom step that the house began to shake, like a minor earthquake was occurring – not something that is usually associated with these isles; I had only heard of a handful up to that point, the last being in Carmarthen, Wales, a few years previously. It also felt very localised, as if it was in the vicinity of this building alone. Ignoring my better judgment, I continued on up those stairs, but a tremble sent me sideways and I found myself hanging on to the banister for dear life. I almost dropped my Tranter at this point, but managed to keep a grip on it long enough for the ’quake to subside.
I raced up the next few steps, which was yet another mistake – as my foot crashed through the rotting wood of one. I scrabbled to haul myself out of this fix, for I would be no use to Holmes if I broke both my legs coming to his rescue. The rattling of the house appeared to have died down for now, so I crawled up to the top of the stairs, to the darkened landing. There was light coming from one of the rooms, through the gaps between the frame and the door itself. A blue light, as if the room beyond had suddenly become submerged.
As I crept closer, I detected that now familiar scent of vanilla. If that wasn’t enough to spur me on, then the noises emanating from behind the door were the final straw. Voices, but also a banging and clattering; definite sounds of a struggle. I knew that at this moment, Holmes was facing an unspeakable menace and I had to help. I tried the door and found that it was locked. No, not locked, merely jammed. For, as I put my shoulder to it, the barrier gave and suddenly I was inside the room, staring at more sights that shouldn’t have existed.
No skinless men this time, but on a par with it. Four figures illuminated by the blue light coming from – through? – the walls, especially from one large rent in the back one. The first, and closest, figure was the largest of the four. Clothed in a vest and trousers, he was well-muscled but there was something very wrong with his head – perhaps some sort of birth defect, I wondered, akin to that of poor Joseph Merrick, the so-called Elephant Man? His head resembled a closed hand ready to strike, so I silently named him: ‘Fist’. There was a woman, pale with ruby lips, dressed in a corset and skirts, brandishing a deadly whip. She, I labelled ‘Madame’. A third looked to me like he was suffering from every kind of malady known to man! He had been disfigured by some form of flesh-eating affliction, which had destroyed his nose. ‘Plague’ I named him. But it was the final figure, dressed in some sort of religious garb, including a flowing black robe, that was the most bizarre – for he had what looked like the remnants of the window I had caved in downstairs embedded in his neck and head. ‘Glass’ was the moniker I gave to this individual.
They were clearly members of the Order of the Gash. They wore their – more than likely – self-inflicted wounds with pride, like military medals. What on Earth kind of organisation were we up against?
My eyes found Holmes last, bare-chested, bloodied from their attentions and held fast by hooked chains that had torn through his arms and legs. He was doing his best to appear defiant, but I could tell he was in agony.
I fired a warning shot into the ceiling and everyone turned to look in my direction. I demanded that they let my friend go, struggling to keep the hitch from my voice. I was confused, petrified and angry all at once.
Glass – who had more than an air of their leader about him – glared at me as if to say, ‘How dare you interrupt?’
“I said –” I began, but was swiftly cut off.
“This is not for you to witness. It is none of your concern,” the man told me. “Leave, before you make it ours.”
“My friend is being tortured! That is what makes this my concern.”
“Very well,” he said curtly, nodding at the largest of the figures.
“S-stay where you are! I’m warning you.” But the deformed man paid me no heed. Could he even hear me? Now Fist was only a few feet away, leaving me no choice, so I fired two bullets.
Nothing happened. At this close range I couldn’t have missed, yet he did not stop advancing. I went for a headshot, but nothing happened again. He just kept on coming.
I moved away from the door, immediately regretting the fact that I’d sacrificed our only escape route. Now Plague lunged at me, but I shifted my weight to the side and backed off – having enough wherewithal to understand that one touch from him would be lethal. Indeed, hadn’t I spied amongst Holmes’ wounds one on his chest that looked like a bubbling patch of diseased skin? Not to be left out, Madame directed her whip towards me. I ducked, losing my bowler hat in the process, firing at her and Plague with the last of my bullets. These had no effect either and I tossed my empty pistol in their direction.
One thing I did notice, which encouraged me somewhat, was that this distraction had allowed Holmes to complete the unenviable task of pulling out those hooks and freeing himself. I did not have long to rejoice, however, because the members of the Order were converging on me. How long now before I myself was the victim of those chains and hooks?
Crawling backwards, I reached around for something – anything – I could use as a weapon. It was then that my fingers found it: the box
I brought it around in front of me, mesmerised by the gold leaf on the black, lacquered ornament. It was our murder weapon from those earlier crime scenes, it had to be: the Lament Configuration Lemarchand had spoken of; the means to make control easier. A distant part of my mind realised Holmes must have solved the puzzle of this box, and that was the reason all this was happening, but I did not have much time to ponder such thoughts, because Glass said, “No – put that down.”
It broke me out of my reverie, and I held the box up before me. “What, this?” It was obviously important to them, my new trophy. Perhaps I could use it as a bargaining tool? Getting to my feet, I brandished it and the figures nearest backed off, as if I were holding a hand grenade. Maybe that was it – did this have some sort of explosive capacity?
“Watson...” said Holmes. “Be careful.”
Still, I used the box to clear a path to my friend.
“Let us go!” I demanded. “Or... or...” To be honest, I did not know what I would do. In the end it was of no consequence, because I felt something wrap itself around my wrist tightly and yank. The box flew out of my grasp, and I looked down to see the end of Madame’s whip curled around my forearm; squeezing hard. Quickly, Holmes untangled me from its grip before it could do any more damage, then pulled me by the coat-sleeve into the fissure in the wall before any of the others could react. With the deformed man still barring our way to the door, it was our only means of escape.
&
nbsp; “This way, Watson!” he urged me, though I had very little choice.
Then we were in a secret passageway much like the one back at Monroe’s; a stony corridor stretching out in front of us. I heard laughter coming from behind. Glass spoke once more, the words echoing after us.
“By all means, explore. We will find you. Then we shall spend an eternity exploring your flesh!”
I glanced across at Holmes, who didn’t even register the words; he was too busy driving us forward. Too busy pulling me along for the ride, as always. But where were we? Where were we going?
The answer to the first question was too impossible even to contemplate, but I would have to come to terms with it eventually.
You see, we were in Hell.
We were both in Hell.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Hound
SHERLOCK HOLMES WOULD have been lying if he’d said he was not happy to see his old friend again.
It didn’t matter that he’d sent the man away to try to keep him out of all this; Watson had been pulled back. And his timing had been impeccable, as always – both good and bad. (But hardly a coincidence, surely? Drawn together at that precise moment – had that been the reason the box hadn’t responded to his touch more quickly?)
Now, here they were, running down dusty, old corridors that should not even exist, arches opening left and right, junctions, turnings which they took with no notion of how they might retrace their steps, trapped in the place those four figures had originated from. The place they called home.
They had been running, half-stumbling, for some time, in an effort to put as much distance between themselves and the members of the Order when Watson pulled up sharply. “Holmes?” he said. “Holmes, enough. I need to stop for a moment.”
He was holding his wrist where the whip had caught him, reminding Holmes of the wounds he himself had endured back in the room; his back raked, his chest poisoned – though the further away from that diseased creature he was, the less its effects were felt – the hooks in his arms and legs. The niggling sensation of pain was returning, but he beat it down.
