The Adventure of the Shattered Men
I
The Meeting on the Quay
Sherlock Holmes leaned into the brisk wind coming across the grey waters, one hand clutching the lapels of his greatcoat, the other gripping the brim of his hat. At his feet was the bag that had been his sole companion since leaving London far to the south.
He peered intently across the choppy wind-swept sea, hoping for a glimpse of the ferry from St John Island. The craft always came on Friday, he had been told at the inn, where he had passed an uncomfortable and wakeful night, but the exact hour was always a matter of conjecture.
To one so precise of mind as Sherlock Holmes, whose travels in and out of London were governed by the hands of railway clocks and the printed tables of his Bradshaw, such a lax attitude towards the only link between St John Island and the mainland was unfathomable, though not unexpected. All his life, he had lived with the knowledge he was unlike his fellow creatures, no matter that he shared their physical form.
While others lived in a universe ruled by coincidence, chaos and confusion, Holmes dwelt within a clockwork cosmos of fixed laws, of cause and effect, of action and reaction, of decision and consequence. Where others abided upon placid islands of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, unable to even correlate the contents of their own minds, Holmes often sailed far from safe shores. When an ordinary man saw a grain of sand or a drop of water, he saw nothing but grain or drop, but Holmes, looking upon the same evidence, saw all the world’s deserts and their geologic changes, all the deep seas that ever swallowed voyaging galleons or lost cities. People gazed blankly at each other and saw enigmas wrapped in familiar forms, but Holmes saw professions written in scars and calluses, life histories displayed in small movements and everyday gaits, crimes and secret sins in the twitch of an eye or a breath held too long.
Over the years, Holmes had learned to exist within the ebb and flow of human society, though he had never really felt part of it. He walked a solitary path even when surrounded by people who lived with as much purpose as the transient infusoria that swarm and multiply within a drop of water. It was this solitude that allowed him to study others so minutely, to ferret out all the secrets they thought so well hidden in heart and mind. His only fear was that one day he might encounter someone who was as much an Outsider as he was himself.
“Ye be up from London?” a gravelly voice asked from behind.
Holmes turned and saw whom he had expected. Even with the steady hiss of the wind in his ears, the footfalls upon the flagstones leading down to the quay were unmistakable. The sounds and the patterns of the footfalls gave him height and weight, the gait of a man more steady upon a pitching deck than he was on land. Holmes had noticed the man the previous evening, also sitting alone in the inn, but on the far side of the room, away from the light.
“You are far from Magadan, Captain,” Holmes said. “Autumns upon the Sea of Okhotsk are disagreeable, but visiting a Scottish village bordering the North Sea can hardly be more pleasant.”
The old, white haired man stopped in his advance, took a step or two backwards. He eyed Holmes suspiciously.
“Let us not be coy,” Holmes said. “You already know I arrived from London yesterday.”
“Ye don’t know me,” the old man blurted. “How could ye ken anything ‘bout me, ‘less that scurrilous…”
“No the innkeep did not betray your copper, Captain,” Holmes interrupted. “Besides, as you provided him with a false name, there is little he could reveal, even had I enquired.”
“Aye, he had no ken who I was,” the old man admitted.
“He might not have been so loquacious,” Holmes said, “had he known you escaped from a Russian labor camp…”
The old man sputtered incoherently.
“…but, then, perhaps not,” Holmes continued, “as you are not the first fugitive from the law to seek shelter under his roof.”
“The law!” the old man sneered.
“Nor the first smuggler,” Holmes added. “No doubt, smuggling is what led you to become a guest of the Tsar.”
Holmes met the fiery stare of the old man with a gaze as cool as arctic ice. Seeing neither fear nor alarm in Holmes’ demeanor, the old man backed down. All his life he had been a bullyboy, whether on the land or before the mast, but like most men of his kind he was at a loss when confronted by a will that refused to bend to his own. After a moment, the old man’s fierce expression changed to a sly grin, but only on one side of his face, giving him a reptilian cast.
“Aye, ye be as smart as paint, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” the old man said. “I heard say ye can see a man’s life in a glance, but I nae believed none of it…even now. How guessed ye about me?”
Sherlock Holmes withheld a sigh. Sometimes it was useful to see the reactions to his observations, but more often than not it all followed the same pattern. If he did not explain how he came to the truth, his deductions were nothing more than lucky guesses; if he revealed the steps by which he had laid bare the unknown, then the revelations became obvious and mundane. The real question, to his way of thinking, was how others could be so blind.
“Your walk reveals you as a man of the sea, accustomed to the pitch of the deck,” Holmes finally said. “Your countenance reveals a continuing life at sea, but your age and demeanor argues against an ordinary seaman and for one accustomed to command, obviously a captain of your own vessel until it was confiscated by the Russian Navy…naval officers in service to the Tsar are well known for dispensing stripes such as appear just above your collar.”
The old man quickly pushed up the collar of his heavy coat.
“There is a penal colony at Magadan, where you were interred for…” Holmes studied the old man’s face. “…no more than four months—it takes time to acquire, and dispel ‘prison pallor.’ On your left wrist there is a tattoo in Cyrillic applied by the authorities when you were incarcerated; on your right is a glyph tattooed by the Brotherhood of Thieves, with whom you naturally tossed in your lot for reasons of survival.”
“Aye, ye be right on all counts,” the old man admitted. “It be a good game till Alexander’s ships done come upon me, tattled I was by a vodka-guzzler running both sides of the street. The Rus coves came by night, while I be let-to in a bay. Took me cargo, took me ship, carted off me lads—though ‘twern’t none of them worth a bent ha’penny—and, aye, a strong-armed Pryoushin striped me well with a cat. And there ye have it.”
“There is the matter of your escape,” Holmes said.
The old man made a dismissive gesture. “Ye know nothing of what happened in that prison camp, even with your tricks.”
“I know Tsar Alexander III is a much harsher ruler than his father, repealing many liberal reforms,” Holmes said. “And four months for smuggling…”
“Five.”
“A ridiculously short term, especially for a foreigner,” Holmes continued. “The Tsar believes in indefinite incarceration.” The man from London paused. “Are you on the black list of both the Tsar’s Secret Police and the Brotherhood of Thieves?”
The old man’s reptilian smile seemed to flicker for a moment, but he was a man accustomed to either talking—or battering—his way out of any situation. Holmes was lean, but it was clear he was a man used to hard-fisted scrapping; besides, if half of what he had heard about the detective was true, the goodwill of Sherlock Holmes was something worth having, especially at the start of a journey into darkness.
The old man shrugged. “Well, as the saying goes, Mr Holmes, it were long ago, in another country, and, besides, the wench be dead, as far as I be concerned.”
“Between Marlowe and Shakespeare, man finds absolution for a lifetime of sin,” Holmes commented.
“Aye, ‘tis true,” the ancient mariner agreed, hoping to hide his confusion. “ It were not for sport that I sought ye out on the quay, but to ask ye why ye be bound for St John. ‘Tis not a bright spot in the society of man, nor more than a jot on any chart. Now
, I admit I also await the blasted ferryman, but with me…”
“A homecoming,” Holmes supplied.
“Aye, a homecoming.” For a moment his eyes clouded and brow furrowed, but the moment passed. “But I need no ‘splanation of your music hall trick—a man may travel to the four corners and beyond, but his home always be on his tongue. Be I right?”
“Right you are, Captain…?” Holmes let the words hang.
“Captain Aulay Camshronack, late of the SS Ithaqua, at your service, sir,” the old man said, extending his hand. “Aye, a homecoming,” he repeated. “I felt me age afore the blasted Tsar gave me such wee and dismal quarters, and more so after.”
Holmes hesitated, then surrendered to custom.
“There be nothing like taking from a man all he calls his own to make him consider the life that led him to such a fate,” Captain Camshronack explained. “When I departed that hellish place—ye be right about the Tsar’s men and the Brotherhood, for I did great evil to escape—I wanted no more than to return to the isle of me birth, to live out the few years left me, and such be the length and breadth of me story.”
Holmes nodded agreeably as he thought: And yet you reveal nothing of the depth of your tale, which is abyssal and black.
“What, then, takes ye to St John?” Camshronack asked. “As I say, it be not a place to visit without reason.”
“I am visiting an old acquaintance of mine, a man I knew when I had rooms in London's Montague Street,” Holmes explained. “His name is Professor Jonathan Wilmarth. As he took up residence only five years ago, upon his retirement from the Ancient Manuscripts section of the British Museum you may not have heard of him.”
“No, canna say I have, but I do say your friend has a hard fit to fill,” Captain Camshronack said. “St John be a place where the new be not welcomed.” He uttered a brittle laugh. “I might be in for a hard fit me self, being gone so long as to be forgotten, lost to some who did not know me, put far out of mind by the many glad to see me go. But me sister, she lives there still, so any doubts about me belonging will be put to flight. Now, as to if Ailie will be glad to see me or no…” He again uttered a cackle like breaking glass. “Me money be on no...but we be blood.”
“Ah, the ferry,” Holmes observed, peering across the grey waters. “Finally.”
Holmes turned as sounds came to his ears. Though the innkeep had professed ignorance about the exact time the ferry would arrive from the island, it seemed well known to those who called St John home, who had come ashore the previous Friday to sell crafts and wares to the people of the mainland villages. There were about a dozen people assembling on the quay, all of whom maintained a healthy distance from the island’s prodigal son. It was clear from their expressions none of them had forgotten Aulay Camshronack, and none welcomed him back, but Holmes was not surprised. Even if Wilmarth had not told him as much about the islanders in his letters, before that last note imploring him to come, he knew from experience that in such places the past never truly died, neither the recent past of a man’s life nor the distant past where history gave way to myth. As for Camshronack, he regarded his one-time neighbors with a look of utter disdain.
As the ferry approached the quay, lines were tossed out by the two crewmen. Captain Camshronack reached down to pick up his luggage. His movement pulled up the back of his seaman’s coat, reveling a third tattoo to Holmes’ gaze. The Russians marked him a prisoner, and his fellow inmates marked him as one of their own, but this older sigil indicated a prior claim, not to body but to soul.
When Camshronack noted Holmes’ gaze upon him, he quickly straightened and made his way to the ferry, pushing aside islanders too slow for him. There were, however, few who did not give the island’s notorious son a wide berth.
Holmes boarded quietly, taking a position where he could study Camshronack and the returning inhabitants of St John Island. It was like putting a cobra in the midst of a rabbit warren. But there was something else, he noticed, a subtle look of horror and dread that had nothing to do with the repellent mariner.
II
The Strange House High in the Mist
“Thank you for coming, Holmes, it’s so good to see you again,” Professor Jonathan Wilmarth said, wringing the detective’s hand. “I had all but given up hope of seeing…”
“Did you not receive my letter, Professor?”
The elderly academic frowned and shook his head. “No, but as you may have gathered, communication is rather spotty. Compared to the bustle of the City, life all but stands still. Shall we…” He paused and looked toward the disembarking islanders. “I say, something seems to have agitated the locals. They are a furtive folk, but usually mild of manner.”
“An island man has returned to the fold after a long absence,” Holmes explained. “He made himself known to me while I waited on the quay for the ferry.” He paused. “As to why he chose to contact me, I am yet unclear, but I do know the reasons he gave for returning are not accurate…or at least are incomplete.”
“Who is it?” Wilmarth asked. “I know all of the families.”
“He gave his name as Aulay Camshronack,” Holmes replied.
“Camshronack?” Wilmarth breathed. “Are you certain?”
Holmes lifted a wry eyebrow.
“Yes, of course you are; that aspect of you will never change,” Wilmarth sighed. “Camshronack is an old island family, perhaps the oldest. Once a powerful force, it is now—or was—represented by a single survivor, Ailie Camshronack.”
“The sister,” Holmes murmured.
“Yes, they are twins, Aulay and Ailie,” Wilmarth said. “Or so I have been told, though not by Ailie. His departure, some described it more as an expulsion, marked the final decline of the family in some way. What was the reason he gave for his return?”
“He has fallen upon hard times and wants a homecoming ere the end,” Holmes replied. “While it is true he lost his ship and wealth to the deprecations of the new Tsar, and possibly his health as well, I suspect his reason for returning to St John has less to do with resignation from life than a desire to regain what was lost.”
“This complicates the situation greatly,” Wilmarth said. “The house in which I live is the ancestral home of Clan Camshronack. If Aulay has not been in contact with…”
“His sister does not know he is coming…”
“She will know long before he reaches her door—it is that kind of a village,” Wilmarth explained. “He might have hard feelings about the passing of the house and land, but it was hers to sell.”
“How well do you know her, Professor?”
“Not at all,” Wilmarth admitted. “The transaction was handled by a mainland solicitor. She moved out long before I arrived. I tried to meet with her. She will not have it. I’m told it is not me, but her, as she strictly keeps herself to herself. The other villagers are just as happy at that—the name Camshronack is an old one, but it is more feared than respected. Something to do with an island legend about…” He paused. “You intimated he was a sailor?”
“Captain of a screw steamer, confiscated by the Tsar for smuggling.” Holmes added: “His ship was the Ithaqua.”
“Good lord,” Wilmarth breathed.
“Yes, knowing your speciality and your interests, I thought you might find that of particular interest.”
“Yes, indeed,” Wilmarth said. “Come, let us be on our way. It is but a short walk to my house. Of course, on St John every destination is merely a short walk.”
The retired academic moved with a spryness unusual in a man more than ninety. Even Holmes, who himself was sound of wind and an inveterate city walker, struggled to keep up with the old man. St John Island was a long sprit of land, wider at the inhabited south, narrowing as it stretched northward, rising steeply all the way. The protected harbor at the island’s southern extremity was home to a dozen fishing vessels, the main source of sustenance for the islanders. Pasturages behind the neat but ancient houses held a small number of goats and she
ep, and it seemed almost all the inhabitants raised chickens.
“Quite a hardy and self-sufficient people,” Wilmarth suddenly said. “The only foodstuffs in short supply are vegetables because of the very short growing season, and processed goods. They import what little they need from the mainland, including ale and whiskey. Can’t live in a place like St John without alcohol…or religion.”
Holmes nodded. He had observed two small taverns near the waterfront, a pub a little further along the high street, and two chapels. It was an amazing concentration on an island populated by less than three hundred souls, but as the Professor had indicated, both were as necessary for survival as bread and water.
They quickly left the village behind. Side lanes fell away, and the main street became a graveled path. The wind picked up, a mist closed in, and Holmes became aware of continuous low crashing sounds on either side—waves endlessly assaulting the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. They approached a low wall composed of angled rocks and passed between stone posts upon which were carved figures so heavily weathered there was no deciphering them. Attached to one post was a brass plate announcing SPINDRIFT HOUSE, its brilliance incongruous against the ancient stone.
“These posts were placed by the first Camshronack who settled the island in antiquity,” Wilmarth explained. “No one knows when, but it had to be at least eight centuries ago, judging by the lines of the house, which we will see shortly.”
Sherlock Holmes: Cthulhu Mythos Adventures (Sherlock Holmes Adventures Book 2) Page 13
