“Yes, sir, The Dove is at the juncture of the two malls,” he said “I know it quite well.”
“Off with you now—make your arrangements quickly.”
When McBane had scurried on his way, Bronislav stood at his study’s bull’s-eye window gazing across the cesspool of London. Even under the bright noon sun the city was a hive of darkness, infested by the benighted beast called man, an unruly beast who awaited only the proper master. He frowned at the dark smear that was the rolling Thames. The clotted waters held such secrets as man was not yet prepared to know, and if he did not get his hands on that blasted idol those secrets would be revealed. Damn the deep-dwellers and those fools who still thought them gods, including the deep-dwellers themselves.
Chapter Eight
When Challenger returned to Baker Street from a brief but necessary visit to his oft-neglected London home, he found Holmes bidding farewell to a short red-faced man. Coming down the stairs, the man tossed Challenger, coming up the stairs, a suspicious glare, then hurried on.
“Who the devil was that?” Challenger asked.
“Chief Inspector Durant of the Special Branch,” Holmes replied, closing the door.
“Because of the Dynamiters?” Challenger said.
“Precisely,” Holmes answered. “Ostensibly, he was here to ‘pump’ me for whatever information I might have about the attack, but I received more information from him than he from me. Still, he will crack his case, amid accolades, I am sure. These Scotland Yard men are, for the most part, dull and unimaginative, flawed in their logic, and distrustful of deduction and scientific criminology, but they are dogged and unrelenting, straight as a knight’s lance.”
“I imagine the Special Branch is somewhat on the spit over this,” Challenger offered.
“Voices are already being raised in Parliament over the failure of Special Branch to anticipate and prevent what happened, hence Chief Inspector Durant’s visit,” Holmes said. “He does not like me much, does not trust my methods, but he does respect the results I achieve. He still does not understand that he already possesses all the information he needs to beard the Irish in their den, but he might now that I’ve drawn a few connections, pointed out relationships he thought trivial and unimportant.”
“And he’ll probably grab all the credit,” Challenger growled.
“And that is how it should be,” Holmes asserted. “I neither need nor desire any degree of fame. For me, it is the case itself, the reward of successfully winding my way through a labyrinth of clues and by logical deduction arriving at a solution. It is the mental stimulation I desire. When that stimulation is absent, I at times despair of life itself, though I am, thanks to disciplines learned in Tibet, no longer a slave to the seven-percent solution.” He was quiet for a moment. “Besides, Challenger, what is more beneficial to society, that they should they think themselves well-served by the police force entrusted with their protection, or beholding to a civilian dabbler with no official status?”
Challenger nodded. “What about our own case?”
“We have no lack of clues, but their relationships to each other are still in doubt,” Holmes answered. “I have not yet discarded the mundane in favor of the fantastic.”
“Ah, when all impossibilities are eliminated, whatever remains, no matter how fantastic, is the truth,” Challenger said, smiling.
Holmes did not return the smile. “There are times I wish Watson had aspired to be a carpenter rather than a writer, or solely devoted himself to his medical practice. It was not precisely what I said, but it will suffice.”
“Where do we stand then?” Challenger asked.
“We have a dead sailor, India Jack Neville, who obtained an ancient idol in the Maldives and brought it to London, probably in the employ of Laslo Bronislav,” Holmes said. “Before it could be delivered, the sailor was attacked, possibly by the same creatures seen at Rotherhithe. Dying, Neville decided, for whatever reason, to involve me in the matter.”
“Perhaps to avenge his death,” Challenger suggested.
“Possibly.”
“Or he might have come to fear the idol’s occult power.”
Holmes cast Challenger a curious glance.
“I believe your acquaintance Crowley is a superstitious fool and his aristocratic acolytes sheep,” Challenger said, “but I would not immediately dismiss the unknown simply because it is unknown. I know several native witch-doctors who would assert the power of magic over science, I have witnessed the effects of magic over the lives of primitives. And I think we have already agreed that primitive does not mean stupid.”
“Yes, of course,” Holmes said. “But I think you were much closer to the mark the other evening in your argument with Wilkins over the evolutionary nature of the world and the ability of the past to survive into the present.”
“Orms?”
“Orms, dragons, wyrms—call them what you will,” Holmes replied. “There is in Britain, and elsewhere, a long tradition of belief in such beasts, intelligent animals that held dominion over men in remote antiquity. It is beyond even my reputed arrogance to believe humanity alone in possessing a cunning intellect and predatory instinct. A highly ambulatory breast of massive size, having natural weapons, an instinct for herding and even a rudimentary tribal organization would be more than a match for our spear-wielding ancestors. Such a persistent belief—remember the place-names engendered by the tradition—bespeaks a measure of substance behind the legend. To deny such evidence, even given its ambiguous nature, it is to deny the science of deduction.”
“All right, if we allow for the existence of Orms,” Challenger said, “then it must follow that humanity somehow broke free of them, learned how to defeat them. The most pervasive image in the romantic imagination is of the armor-clad knight tipping his lance against Satan in the form of a dragon or serpent.”
“The antiquity of the place-names would argue against a medieval venue,” Holmes pointed out. “It would hardly be the first time an ancient legend had been absorbed into the religion of a later people. The British countryside is rife with relics from earlier times that have attained Christian significance, and the same could be said for the British psyche.”
“If the Orms exist,” Challenger mused, “the tales of knights and dragons could represent events of much earlier times, when some measure of human ingenuity drove them from the land, perhaps even drove them to seek the lonely places of the world where it might be easier to masquerade still as gods.”
“Precisely, Challenger,” Holmes agreed. “Beasts wearing the masque of godhood. Religion is a realm where what is known to be true must always be subordinate to that which is believed to be true. If I recall my history, were not the Inca natives of South America subjugated by a much smaller force of men mainly because they were perceived not to be men?”
“For the most part,” Challenger agreed. “There were other factors, such as weaponry and local uprisings by slave tribes, but, yes, the Spaniards were viewed as gods—the Inca were beat from the outset.”
“Who can prevail against the gods?” Holmes said thoughtfully. “It would be a most unusual man who would rise to become a god-killer, wouldn’t you say?”
Challenger nodded. “But tell me, Holmes, what does the idol have to do with these so-called gods? Surely Bronislav does not believe possession of the idol would give him some control over the creatures. And why would these Orms, after so long an absence, return to the Isle? What interest would they have in the idol that would draw them across the leagues?”
“Consider that these Orms have been extant among men for a very long time,” Holmes mused. “During a great portion of that early history they moved among us like gods, demanding obedience and sacrifice—remember all those legendary maidens trussed up for the devouring dragon. If humanity accorded these creatures the status of gods, could the creatures see themselves in any other role? It would quickly become a cyclic existence. Their desires are supplicated by victims who become devotees, encoura
ging a mythos in which they are gods. The Orms are then trapped in that mythos, in time adopting the arrogance that seems to come to all gods.”
“Arrogance might have been the genesis of their downfall,” Challenger suggested. “Pride before a fall, and all that.”
“Perhaps,” Holmes admitted.
“Considering themselves gods,” Challenger continued, “they might view their expulsion from Britain and banishment to remote lands as Christians view the expulsion of humanity from Paradise. Like man, they would forever yearn for restoration.”
Holmes scowled. “Wilkins would consider your analogy in poor taste, but I think it is merely unfounded, unsupportable by deductive reasoning, and not pertinent to this case. What is supportable, however, is that beings who view themselves as gods, even banished gods, would view an image of themselves as holy, a valuable object to be retrieved at any cost.”
“And Bronislav’s interest in the object?”
“I took the liberty of engaging an Inquiry Agent who has served me well in the past, an American named Barton, an associate of the Pinkerton’s office in London,” Holmes said. “I asked him to gather as much information as possible about the elusive Laslo Bronislav, beginning with the address in Kensington.”
“What did you tell him about Bronislav,” Challenger asked, “or about these beasts…that may or may not exist?”
“As little as possible,” Holmes replied. “The Inquiry Agent is, for the most part, good at what he does, but, in essence, he is the antithesis of the consulting detective. Whether privately employed, as is Barton, or semi-independent, as would be a Yardsman earning a few quid on the side, they serve better as legs, hands and eyes rather than brains. Intelligent and quick, yes, but still prevented by the shackles of mundanity from making leaps of brilliance and connectivity. It’s much better that Barton know only that I need information regarding Bronislav and his movements, and not be hampered by too many unrelated facts.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Holmes encountered a uniformed, not-quite-elderly Commissionaire bearing a telegraph envelope. Holmes gave him three pennies, closed the door and tore open the envelope.
“I suspected the cab driver servicing our shadow outside the British Museum was Alfred Paisley,” Holmes said.
“The chap who brought us the mystery to begin with, so to speak,” Challenger said.
Holmes nodded. “Because of the weather and the perpetually inclement nature of the cabman’s trade, one bundled-up shape appears anonymously like any other, but there are always small differences, such as stance and mannerisms, that separate them into individuals. I suspected the driver was Paisley, but did not want to commit myself without further information.”
“So you believe Paisley is in the employ of Bronislav?”
“Perhaps not directly,” Holmes said. “And not any longer. This message is from Barton. The body of Alfred Paisley was discovered earlier in an alley off Cannon Street Road. His throat had been cut.”
“But if he was working for Bronislav, even indirectly…”
“There will be nothing to connect Paisley with Bronislav,” Holmes declared. “I have terribly underestimated our adversary, but I shall not do so again. Very shortly, he will make an attempt to take the idol, for he will be aware of what happened in Rotherhithe, will know that the forces which he hopes to control through possession of the idol have appeared upon the scene.”
“If the case cannot be further served by our keeping the idol,” Challenger said, “we should consider entrusting it to the safety of the police.”
“A good idea, but your suggestion of Scotland Yard as its caretakers leaves much to be desired,” Holmes replied. “They will not protect what they do not believe is a clue in what they do not believe to be a case,”
“What about the British Museum?” Challenger suggested. “Surely the security there, where they already have care of so many treasures, would be adequate.”
“Perhaps, but presenting the Museum with the idol might be akin to delivering candy into the hands of an avaricious child.”
“Where then?”
“That impregnable redoubt of British security,” Holmes said. “The Bank of England.”
They shrugged on their coats, donned their hats, gathered up the idol, and started out the door. Then Holmes paused.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Paisley died because he briefly served Bronislav’s interests,” Holmes mused, “Obviously, though, Bronislav was not the passenger in the hansom, so he could not have been killed for any direct knowledge of Bronislav’s activities. The man in the hansom would not have killed Paisley directly. Unless there was some dire need to make a statement, the man in the hansom would have had an agent commit the deed.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The hansom’s passenger is a gatherer of information, content to shadow us, but not bold enough to take by force what is being guarded by only two men, able men though we be,” Holmes explained. “He gave Paisley Bronislav’s address, let himself be taken there, then allowed Paisley to depart from the area of Kensington for his licensed Whitechapel area. He would only do so if he were secure in the knowledge that the cabman would be dealt with immediately after his return to Whitechapel. He likely reported the severing of the link with Paisley even before the murder had actually been committed. That betokens a network that Bronislav, a loner by Crowley’s account, and only a sometime visitor to England, should not possess.”
“Who is the man in the hansom?” Challenger suggested.
“Within Moriarty’s criminal organization, and also later under Colonel Moran,” Holmes said, “there was a gatherer of intelligence so adept at what he did that those two criminal minds were able to succeed in several instances where even their great intellects should not have prevailed,”
“Who was he?”
“I never discovered his identity,” Holmes admitted. “Not even the end of Moriarty’s organization and the ultimate apprehension of Moran brought it to light.”
“Due to this unknown man’s great cunning and penchant for anonymity, I’ll wager.”
“A wager you would lose,” Holmes replied. “True, there were advantages to him remaining in obscurity, but the real reason his name never came to light was because he was considered such an insignificant member of the organization, kept far from the center of power. His organizational skills were formidable, but his leadership abilities were nil, so he was always a remora to his master’s shark.”
“Always the moth and never the flame, eh, Holmes?”
“Quite. And if Bronislav has taken this particular moth into his employ, he will be an even more dangerous adversary.”
Immediately after leaving Baker Street, Holmes dispatched three short, hurriedly composed notes. They were, he explained, warnings to both Crowley and Whitecliff and a request to Barton to quietly ensure the safety of these two men.
“Because of their connection to Bronislav?” Challenger asked.
Holmes nodded. “That connection, tenuous though it may be, places them both in peril, Crowley because of what he may or may not know about Bronislav, Whitecliff because of what he may yet know of M’tollo.”
“Should we not seek them out, warn them, question them further?” Challenger suggested.
“Not at this time,” Sherlock Holmes said. “We have another, more important errand.”
Chapter Nine
The Bank of England at that hour of the day was surrounded by a deafening hubbub of human activity as befitted the central banking establishment of the most powerful, both militarily and commercially, nation on earth. Hansoms and growlers and private carriages, along with the occasional horseless transport, constantly arrived and departed, conveying lords and ladies, as well as bankers, clerks and businessmen, the true lords of the realm. There were in the vicinity of the bank several constables from the City of London Police, but more numerous were the Bank of England guards in their familiar waistcoats.
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The fleet hansom in which Sherlock Holmes and Professor Challenger rode traversed Lothbury Street, past the ornamental façade of the northwest corner, copied from the Temple of the Sibyl at Tivoli, past the low blank wall of its northern exposure, and toward busy Threadneedle Street, Before the cab came within view of the Hellensitic-motifed doors, however, Holmes instructed the driver to pull over and stop.
“The safest place for this object is the Bullion Office,” Holmes explained in response to Challenger’s puzzled expression. “If these fellows can be relied upon to safeguard twenty millions of bullion, they may be entrusted with this.”
Challenger looked to the arch in the wall at the end of a short roadway, beyond which was a small courtyard, guarded within and without by a military garrison. The archway, Challenger noted, had been copied from Constantine’s arch in Rome.
“Have you contacted officials of the bank already, Holmes?” Challenger asked. “If an introduction is needed for access to more than just the principal offices of the banking establishment, I would have thought a pass from the Lord of the Exchequer might be necessary for entrance to this more sensitive portal to the Empire’s economy. One can hardly expect to casually stroll into Bullion Court, if any of what I have heard is true, and I expect it is since the Bank of England has never been robbed.”
“Normally, you would be correct, but I am not unknown here,” Holmes explained. “As to its reputation for having never been robbed, that is not quite accurate.”
“Surely you don’t mean that sewer worker chap who supposedly popped up through the floorboards in the bullion vault, back in ‘49,” Challenger said with no small measure of surprise.
Holmes shook his head. “I doubt there is much more than a rumor behind that yarn. The incident I allude to, and I cannot say more about it, is one of which the public and most members of the government are ignorant. Suffice to say, I know of it, which is the reason why I am not unknown here.”
Directing the cabman to wait for them, Holmes and Challenger walked toward the entrance to the nation’s chief gold depository, Holmes in the lead. Challenger, holding tightly to the paper-wrapped image of the loathsome M’tollo, moved quickly to keep up with his long-strided colleague. Suddenly it seemed as if a giant cleared his throat. Simultaneously, the ground moved beneath the two men, nearly throwing them down. Smoke billowed outward from the bank’s busy Threadneedle Street entrance and almost immediately they were pelted by debris thrown up by the explosion, primarily street paving stones. The soldiers guarding the entrance to Bullion Court did not leave their post, but were very quickly reinforced by other members of the military garrison from within. Two items that were not part of the streetworks crashed near the courtyard arch—a fragmented axle carrying the remains of a wide wheel and the lacerated head of a horse.
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