“How so?” I said.
“’E’s not killed anyone, so far as I know, not yet. But ’e’s left men badly beaten up, broken jaw, busted leg, that sort of thing. Kind of like as a warning. ‘Don’t do that again.’ This gas ’e gets you with, it snuffs you out like a blown candle, and when you wake up you’ve got a crippling ’eadache and you feel sick for days after. And getting electric shocked by ’im – that just blooming well ’urts.”
There was no doubt at all in Grout’s mind that Baron Cauchemar was real. He was not some apparition, some ogre out of a bedtime story; he was an entity who genuinely stalked the East End streets, meting out impromptu justice. And on the strength of Grout’s vivid account, or rather his uncle’s, I was beginning to think there was a kernel of truth in the reports of this outlandish phantasm.
I was also beginning to think – indeed, had suspected all along – that tonight’s mysterious outing must be related to Cauchemar in some way. Holmes seemed obsessed with this strange vigilante, to the exclusion of all else. I had learned from experience that my friend was seldom wrong when it came to penetrating to the heart of a puzzle. Moreover, his actions were often cryptic, even downright opaque, until such time as they were explained to me, whereupon with hindsight they became perfectly clear and sensible. I had faith that there was method to this apparent madness of chasing Cauchemar rather than the terrorists. Yet I had doubts too. I would not be human if I did not.
All said and done, I was glad that Holmes had advised me to bring my revolver. If by any chance I was to confront the Bloody Black Baron tonight, I would rather do it armed than not.
Dark had fully fallen by the time we neared journey’s end. The gas lamps had been lit, but the fog dimmed their spheres of illumination and made the distances between them seem further and gloomier than ever. I apprehended that we were not far from the docks – Shadwell, if I didn’t miss my guess – and Grout was steering me towards a particularly insalubrious part of this already insalubrious area.
We wound up outside a pub just off Ratcliffe Highway, the kind of den favoured by sailors, stevedores, longshoremen, and the doxies who consorted with them. Its name I do not happen to recall, although I believe it might have been The Bottomless Tankard.
“In there,” Grout said, gesturing. “You’re looking for a bloke called Abednego ‘One Arm’ Torrance. Shouldn’t be too ’ard to spot, being as ’e’s got. Well, the nickname’s the clue, ain’t it?”
“And what am I to do once I’ve found this Torrance fellow?” I asked. “Simply keep a close eye on him?”
“Ear-wig on ’im. Go wherever ’e goes. Don’t let ’im out of your sight. Mr ’Olmes is after whatever you can find out about ’im, and if ’e leads you to the site of some sort of felony – which, knowing ’is reputation, is likely – so much the better.”
“Fine,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. “That’s all Holmes wants, is it? Shouldn’t be a problem. Here you are, my lad.” I fished in my pocket for a half-crown, which I gave to Grout. It vanished up his sleeve and, next moment, the little rapscallion himself was gone, melting into the fog. It was as though I had just watched two conjuring tricks being performed, first a coin disappearing, then a boy.
I steeled myself and stepped through the pub door.
CHAPTER SIX
ASIAN LILIES
It was a dimly lit establishment, brimming with rowdy patrons and the smells of beer and bodies. The sawdust on the floor looked as though it had soaked up as much spilled blood as spilled drink. A piano with several keys missing was being played by a man with several teeth missing, and he was accompanying a robustly built young woman as she sang a sea shanty about a pirate captain and a mermaid. The lyrics were so spectacularly coarse, and the woman’s voice so remarkably shrill and discordant, that I could scarcely bear to listen; yet her audience were lapping up the performance, not least because she was happy to illustrate the song’s narrative with appropriate lewd actions.
I kept my head low and did my level best to blend in. On my way to the bar a stooped, elderly Chinese coolie butted shoulders with me. He bowed and bobbed, offering me a garbled apology, and shuffled on. Immediately I checked my pockets – it was that sort of place. Happily both my pocketbook and my gun were still where they should be.
It took me a while to catch the barkeep’s attention. Perhaps he sensed I was an interloper, or perhaps making customers wait was a way of asserting his importance. I ordered a pint of porter which not only proved to be watered down but tasted as though most of its malt had turned to vinegar. Sipping this unappetising concoction, I cast around for an individual fitting the description of Abednego “One Arm” Torrance, and soon enough spied the only person on the premises who could be him.
He was a hulking creature, florid of complexion and muscular, with a shaggy crop of black hair and a beard to match. His left arm was missing from the shoulder down, but his right, as if to compensate, was twice as large as any ordinary man’s. He was using it, in fact, to arm-wrestle with a merchant navy rating. The two of them vied at a table, teeth bared, sweat gleaming on their foreheads, while around them a swarm of supporters roared and bayed encouragement, meanwhile laying bets on the outcome of the contest.
Torrance won. With a sudden, savage surge of effort he forced his opponent’s knuckles hard into one of the puddles of beer on the tabletop. It seemed that up until then he had been toying with the fellow, letting him think he stood a chance. The seaman leapt angrily to his feet, cradling his aching arm, and accused Torrance of cheating. “You macer! You speeler! Playing me the crooked cross...” Torrance rose and, casually, almost absentmindedly, socked him on the jaw. The seaman, who was of no mean proportions himself, keeled over, out cold. This nearly precipitated a mass brawl among the onlookers, but somehow, in spite of a great deal of posturing and chest-beating, the tinderbox moment passed and calm heads prevailed.
As Torrance and a couple of cronies settled in a corner of the snug to drink, I sidled close until I was within earshot. For a while the three discussed nothing that seemed germane to the case or indeed that warrants repeating here. Neither the bombings nor Baron Cauchemar cropped up in their conversation.
Then Torrance beckoned the other two to lean in. His voice dropped, and I bent forward to catch what he had to say.
“Sup up your pints, lads. That consignment of Asian lilies is waiting to be offloaded, and it’s a perfect night for it, what with this fog and all. No chance of us getting spotted and having to answer some awkward questions. If we can get them to the client by nine, who knows, maybe they’ll be ready to be plucked tonight. Maybe we’ll even get first pick, by way of a thank-you.”
The larger of his two comrades, a bald-domed, lantern-jawed brute, chortled heartily at this. The smaller, who had something of the weasel about him, peeled back his lips to expose thin brown teeth; it was as much sneer as grin.
Asian lilies? I did not understand the reference. But the sinister glee in Torrance’s voice fair chilled me, and I was almost certain that whatever he was referring to, it was not flowers. Holmes, I was sure, would be able to make sense of it when I reported back to him.
In short order, the three ruffians left, and I, in accordance with Holmes’s instructions, tagged along. I allowed them to get far enough ahead that they became mere pale silhouettes in the fog. The gap between us was, in the event, a little under thirty yards, and I wished it could be greater, for my own peace of mind and sense of security. However, to drop back further would have been to risk the fog veiling my quarry from view completely. Close as I was to Torrance and his thuggish friends – too close for comfort, really – I had to trust that my barely being able to see them meant they were barely able to see me in return.
They threaded a circuitous route through the docklands, passing along narrow, zigzagging alleyways and low-covered passages and tramping up and down various flights of slimy stone steps. On occasion the swirls of fog thickened and I did lose sight of them and had to hurry to c
atch up. Fortunately they kept up a raucous banter as they went, so that I was able to track them by ear when vision failed.
The smell of the river grew ever stronger, that noisome mix of brackish water and ancient mud. Finally we arrived at a wharf. I could hear the Thames lapping against wooden pilings like some enormous hound slurping from its bowl. Ahead, through the fog, loomed a three-masted tea clipper, berthed at a pier. Sails furled, it heaved gently back and forth in the current, testing its moorings.
The three men climbed the gangplank and headed below decks immediately. I took refuge behind a stack of barrels on the quayside and waited. I was not going to follow them on board the ship. There was every chance I might find myself cornered there, trapped without an easy escape route. On dry land, at least I had options. Besides, it was a fair bet that Torrance and his accomplices were here not to set sail but to retrieve something, that “consignment of Asian lilies”
Sure enough, not ten minutes later Torrance reappeared, along with another man whose dress and bearing marked him out as the clipper’s captain. The pair of them stood on the foredeck awhile, chatting and smoking cigars. I could not discern what they said, but at one point money changed hands, Torrance paying the seadog some sort of commission. Finally, Torrance gave a piercing whistle and his two cronies emerged from below.
With them came a group of women, Chinese natives, perhaps a dozen all told, in silk dresses that had more or less been reduced to filthy rags. The women moved with a broken, hobbling gait, their heads bent low. They looked half-starved and utterly desolate, as though their souls were as malnourished as their bellies. They offered little resistance as the bald brute and the skinny weasel ushered them along at gunpoint, forcing them to file down the gangplank.
I had been right. Not flowers.
Torrance was a people trafficker.
And I had no doubt in my mind whither these unfortunates were destined. They had been smuggled all the way over from the Orient, spending the long weeks of the journey cooped up in a cramped, airless hold down by the clipper’s bilges, a false compartment hidden from the scrutiny of cargo inspectors. Now they were to be sold to some house of ill repute or put to work as slaves, either way subjected to the most hideous abuse and degradation.
My blood boiled. It was all I could do to keep from springing from my hiding place and accosting Torrance there and then. I knew this would avail me naught, however. He and his thugs outnumbered me three to one, and were in all probability armed just as I was. Attacking them would be suicide and would not help the Chinese women one bit.
I stayed put, watching in impotent frustration as Torrance and his accomplices trooped past me with their wretched human merchandise.
One of the women, the last in line, tripped on a loose cobblestone and collapsed to her knees just beside me. Her gaze caught mine and a look of confused surprise crossed her face. I saw that she was young, barely a girl. I noted, too, that her pupils were heavily dilated, and surmised that she and the others had been drugged, probably with opium, to keep them docile during the voyage.
Nevertheless she looked as though she was about to say something, perhaps plead with me to help her. I shook my head vigorously, craving her silence. Revealing my whereabouts to Torrance would benefit neither her nor me. With my eyes alone I tried to convey that I would assuredly assist her somehow, just not here and not right now. She seemed to comprehend, much to my relief.
Then the girl was snatched to her feet by Torrance, who hoisted up her frail form with his one arm as easily as if she were made of feathers.
“No kneeling yet, my little yellow angel,” Torrance said to her, gloatingly. “There’ll be plenty of opportunity for that later. Let’s get you to the Abbess’s first. You know...” He examined her more closely, turning her head this way and that like a museum curator studying a new exhibit. She winced at the pressure of his fingers on her jaw. “You really are quite a pretty thing, for one of your kind. I know a certain Froggy toff who’ll take great delight in acquainting himself with you. Likes ’em young, he does, and fresh, with the dew still on ’em.”
The girl found some courage, perhaps emboldened by knowledge of my presence. She spat directly in Torrance’s eye, and I had to suppress a cheer.
Torrance was briefly enraged, but then his grin reasserted itself. He let go of the girl and calmly wiped the spittle off on his sleeve.
“I’d belt you one for that, my dear, if the Abbess didn’t insist on her girls being unblemished,” he said. “Oh yes, our Gallic chum is going to love you all right. A feisty, fiery young filly – right up his boulevard, you are.”
I filed the reference to a Frenchman in my memory, alongside the name the Abbess. These were details that Holmes would want to tot up in that abacus brain of his later.
Torrance addressed a few further licentious comments to the girl. Though presumably she had no English, his tone and manner required no translation. He was giving her a verbal foretaste of the actual degradation that would soon be her lot. Her revulsion was plain to see.
“Come then,” Torrance said finally. “A few minutes’ walking, then the Abbess will get you and all these other lovelies scrubbed up and presentable, ready to earn your keep.”
He grabbed the girl by the shoulder.
She shot a last, imploring glance in my direction.
Torrance, damn him, spotted this. He followed the line of her gaze, and at the end of it found me.
“Hello,” he said menacingly. “What’s this? A Peeping Tom? Up with you, mate. Let’s have a clearer look at you.”
I had no choice but to rise from my crouching position. At the same time I fumbled for my revolver, cursing myself for not having taken the precaution of drawing it sooner.
Before I could liberate the gun from my pocket, Torrance’s hand shot out, grabbing me by the throat.
The phrase “vice-like grip” doesn’t even begin to describe it. It felt as though immense industrial pincers had clamped themselves around my neck and were slowly, inexorably crushing. I forgot about reaching for my revolver and struggled instead to unpick the massive paw that was throttling me. That was my priority. Yet I might as well have been trying to dislodge the hand of a stone statue.
“I don’t like Peeping Toms,” Torrance said. “I don’t like anyone sneaking around and trying to learn my business. I tend to put a stop to people who do that.”
I gasped for air, but none entered my lungs. My neck was in great pain, but greater still was the dread, the panic engendered by being unable to inhale. That which I had hitherto taken for granted – simple respiration – was now denied me, and my entire body convulsed in desperate horror at its absence. All I could see was Torrance’s ugly, leering face, his alcohol-pinkened eyes, his rough, ruddy cheeks. This lumpen, hirsute Neanderthal was murdering me, and I was powerless to prevent him.
In those moments, which I believed to be my final ones on this earth, my thoughts turned to Mary, as they should. I regretted that I would never again see my wife’s dear face or tell her how much I loved her. I have to admit that Sherlock Holmes crossed my mind as well. I had let him down. I had failed in the task he had charged me with. I hoped my friend would understand that I had done my utmost, and that he would, at the very least, avenge my death.
Dimly I heard a hissing, wheezing noise. I assumed it must be emanating from my own constricted windpipe, the sound of a man frantically trying to gulp in a few molecules of air in order to prolong his life that tiny bit further. It was either that or the blood rushing in my ears as my heart attempted to feed my oxygen-deprived brain.
Psssh-pah, psssh-pah.
I then divined that the sound originated outside me. Torrance could hear it too, and his face registered perplexity and not a little alarm.
His hold on my throat loosened ever so slightly, enough to allow me to draw the smallest sip of breath.
“Sinnott? Creevy? What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t know,” said his bald accomplice. “Sounds
a bit like a steam locomotive.”
“Only there’s no railway round here,” averred the weaselly one. “Nor any underground track.”
“You don’t think...” Torrance began, and then his face fell as a terrible realisation dawned. He let go of me entirely and spun round, peering into the fog.
The psssh-pah, psssh-pah grew louder, accompanied by a matching beat of resounding thuds, something weighty and metallic striking the ground repeatedly.
“Oh crikey, lads,” Torrance said. “Look lively. It’s him. It’s blooming well him. The Bloody Black Baron himself!”
He drew a pistol, and Sinnott and Creevy levelled theirs. The Chinese women cowered together in a huddle, staring about them in dull, uncomprehending fright. I, for my part, sat in a crumpled heap on the wharf, heaving fog into my lungs and blinking dazedly. At the most basic level of consciousness I was aware of what was happening. I was, however, powerless to act, still recovering from my near-asphyxiation.
Psssh-pah! Psssh-pah!
Lights glowed in the fog, two searching eye-like orbs of brilliance.
A glimmering outline resolved into a tall, roughly man-shaped form.
A creature out of a nightmare had lumbered into view. It glared down at us with a face the likes of which would not have been out of place in a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. Its body was both humanoid and insectile, consisting of long segmented limbs and a jointed torso.
Even in my befuddled, half-witted state, I knew that I was looking at none other than Baron Cauchemar.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BLOOD OF A MACHINE
Coming to a standstill, Baron Cauchemar surveyed us from a height of at least eight feet. Grout’s uncle had not exaggerated his size at all. His great shining head swivelled, his lambent gaze taking in Torrance and cronies, the Chinese women, and me. He seemed to be assessing the assembled company, sorting friend from foe. The glide of his head from side to side was unnaturally smooth, and I discerned a faint whine that went with it, as of oiled machine parts in action.
Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares Page 4
