by George Mann
“I was played, Charles. There’s no other way to look at it.”
Newbury crossed the room to where Bainbridge was sitting by the fire and handed him a snifter of brandy. Then, with a heavy sigh, he dropped into his battered old Chesterfield and propped his feet up on a tottering pile of books.
“Don’t look so dejected, Newbury,” said Bainbridge, unable to hide his amusement. “It’s no reflection on you that you were beaten by a pretty young woman.”
Newbury offered his best withering glare, but couldn’t help but smile at the gentle provocation.
The two of them had met at Newbury’s Chelsea home for dinner, and now it was growing late, and the mood more contemplative.
“It’s just... I was completely taken in by the woman, Charles,” replied Newbury. “As if she’d somehow bewitched me. I can’t believe I missed all the signs.”
“I refer you to my previous sentiment,” said Bainbridge, grinning. “You’re not the first man to be distracted by a feisty, intelligent—and beautiful—young woman, and you won’t be the last.” He took a long slug of brandy. “And let’s not forget, your brain was somewhat addled by the sedative. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
He knew that Bainbridge was right, but couldn’t shake the feeling that, in losing this first round of the little game he had entered into with Lady Arkwell, he was now on the back foot. He wasn’t used to being the one running to catch up.
Newbury shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “What of you, Charles? Are you faring any better? Tell me about Algernon Moyer.”
“All over and done with,” said Bainbridge, merrily. “It turned out he’d pushed his luck just a little too far. He got careless.”
“And you managed to find him?” asked Newbury.
“In a manner of speaking. It looks as if one of his victims might have bitten him after he’d administered the Revenant plague. We found him climbing the walls in a hotel room in Hampstead, utterly degenerated. The hotel called us in because of the noise and the smell.”
Newbury wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You had to put him down?”
Bainbridge nodded. “The blighter got what was coming to him. His corpse was incinerated yesterday.”
“It brings a whole new complexion to that old adage, ‘treat others as you mean to be treated yourself,’” said Newbury.
Bainbridge laughed. “It does that.”
There was a polite knock at the drawing room door. Newbury glanced round to see his valet, Scarbright, silhouetted in the doorway. He was still dressed in his immaculate black suit and collar, despite the lateness of the hour.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I have a message for Sir Maurice,” he said, holding up an envelope.
“Come in, Scarbright,” said Newbury, intrigued.
“A message? At this time of night?” exclaimed Bainbridge, with a frown. He sat forward in his chair, glancing at Newbury with a quizzical expression.
Newbury shrugged. He hadn’t been expecting anything.
“It arrived just a moment ago,” explained Scarbright, “brought to the door by an urchin, who insisted the message it contained was quite urgent.” He passed the envelope to Newbury and waited for a moment while Newbury examined it. “If there’s anything else you need...”
“What? Oh, no,” said Newbury, distracted. “We’re fine, Scarbright. Thank you.”
The valet retreated, closing the door behind him.
Newbury turned the envelope over in his hands. There was no addressee. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed the seal. It smelled of roses.
“What the Devil are you doing?” asked Bainbridge. “Just open the ruddy thing, will you?”
Newbury chuckled. “It’s advisable when one receives anonymous post, Charles, to first ensure it’s not going to kill you.”
Bainbridge’s eyes widened. “You don’t think it’s poisoned, do you?”
Newbury shook his head. “Thankfully not.” He ran his finger along the seam, tearing it open.
Inside, there was a small, white notecard. He withdrew it. Printed on one side in neat, flowing script were the words: Still on for dinner?
Newbury dropped the card on his lap and threw his head back, laughing.
“What is it?” said Bainbridge. “What does it say?”
“It’s from her,” said Newbury.
“Who? The Queen?”
“No. Lady Arkwell. Clarissa.”
Bainbridge looked utterly confused. “And?”
“She’s letting me know that the game is still on,” replied Newbury. “That there’s more still to come.” He handed Bainbridge the note.
Bainbridge glanced at it almost cursorily. “The gall of the woman! You should toss this in the fire and forget about it.”
“That would hardly be following orders, Charles,” said Newbury. He drained the rest of his glass. “You know what Her Majesty had to say on the subject.”
“So you’ll do as she asks?” said Bainbridge, incredulous. “You’ll keep up the search?”
Newbury grinned. He took the card back from Bainbridge and looked wistfully at the note. “Yes, Charles,” he said. “I rather think I will.”
THE CASE OF THE NIGHT CRAWLER
FROM THE NOTEBOOKS OF JOHN H. WATSON M.D.
During the many years in which I served as both a friend and chronicler of Sherlock Holmes, there was but a rarefied handful of occasions upon which I witnessed that cold logician rendered speechless or flustered by the unexpected outcome of a case. Irene Adler evoked one such response, and the events that I have come to consider as “The Case of the Night Crawler” elicited yet another. It is due in part to the sensitivities of my friend that I have never published my notes regarding this most singular of adventures, but I record them here for the sake of posterity and completeness. I am, if nothing else, a thorough man, and it would not do to allow such a startling series of incidents to go entirely unrecorded.
So, here, in this worn leather journal, where perhaps my words will go forever unread, I shall set it down. I am old now, and I have little better to do with my time but to reflect upon the more adventurous days of my past.
The biggest irony of all, of course, is that Holmes himself had very little to do with the unravelling of the case. Indeed, he resoundingly turned his nose up at the opportunity to involve himself in such “coarse, ridiculous matters,” as I remember so well that he put it, plucking violently at his violin strings as if to underline the significance of his words. His dismissive attitude was, in this rare instance, a cause for his later embarrassment, as it would transpire that the matter in question was quite as far from ridiculous as one might ever imagine. Not that Holmes was ever one to learn from such mistakes.
The aforementioned events marked also my first encounter with that remarkable individual Sir Maurice Newbury and his most astonishing associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes. It was not, much to my regret, the beginning of a long-lasting friendship, but Newbury and I nevertheless identified a mutual respect, and there would follow a number of other occasions upon which we would throw our hats in the same ring—most notable among them that dreadful matter of the Kaiser’s unhinged spiritualist during the early days of the war.
Holmes, of course, had quite a different opinion of Newbury, but I suppose that was only to be expected; although without equal in his field, Holmes was not above a modicum of professional rivalry if he felt his reputation—or more truthfully, his pride—was at risk. His attitude towards Newbury would change over time, and I believe by the end, following the resolution of that matter in 1915 and the destruction of the spectrograph generator, he might even have granted Newbury the respect he deserved. War does that to a man, I’ve found. It teaches him to work alongside those he might otherwise have considered, if not enemies, perhaps the unlikeliest of allies.
It was during that bitterly cold autumn of 1902, early in the season, when the leaves were first beginning to turn and the days were growing noticeably shorter, that the se
eds of the affair were sown. My friend and fellow medical practitioner, Peter Brownlow, had called on me unexpectedly at my club. It was late in the evening and I’d been enjoying a solitary brandy by the fire when the poor chap practically collapsed into the chair opposite me, his face ashen. He generally suffered from a pale complexion and maintained a rake-thin physique; a condition he claimed was a result of a stomach disorder but which I attributed more to vanity than any inability to digest his food. Nevertheless, he had a good heart and was a fine doctor, but on that blustery September afternoon he had about him the look of a man who’d seen a ghost.
“Whatever is the matter with you, dear chap?” I said, leaning forward in concern and passing him my brandy. “Here, drink this.”
Brownlow nodded, grabbed gratefully at the glass and choked it down in one long gulp. I could see his hand was trembling as he placed the glass on the side table beside his chair.
“Now, tell me what has perturbed you so.”
Brownlow took a deep breath. “I barely know how to give voice to it, John. I’m sure you’ll think me quite insane.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that,” I said, chuckling. “I’ve grown quite used to seeing the impossible rendered mundane, and to madmen proved sane. Speak what’s on your mind.”
Brownlow smiled, but there was no humour in it. “I have seen the most terrible thing, John. A creature... a beast...” He held his hand to his mouth for a moment, unsure how to go on.
I frowned. “A beast?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s the only word for it. A beast of the most diabolical appearance, as if it had dragged itself from the very depths of Hades itself.” He turned, staring into the grate at the glowing embers of the fire, but I could tell that he was seeing something else.
“Go on,” I prompted.
He closed his eyes, as if trying to blink away the after-image of whatever it was he was attempting to describe. “It had a fat, bulbous body, about the size of a hackney cab, and it pulled itself along on eight thick, tentacle-like limbs that wriggled beneath it like those of an octopus. The sound of its passing was like the screeching of a thousand tormented souls. It was devilish, John. The most horrendous thing I have ever seen.”
“And where was this, man? Where did you see this beast?” I watched Brownlow shudder at the very thought of this terrible sight to which he claimed to have borne witness. My first thought was that he must have been drunk or otherwise inebriated, but Brownlow had never been much of a drinker, and he was clearly terrified. Whatever the truth of the matter—and I was sure it could not be that he had genuinely encountered such a bizarre specimen—Brownlow believed what he was saying.
“Cheyne Walk,” he said. “About an hour ago. The darn thing pulled itself out of the Thames right before me and slithered off down the street.”
Well, I admit at this point I was close to rolling my eyes in disbelief, but Brownlow had such a desperate air about him, and I was sure there must have been more to his story.
“I came directly here. It was the closest place to hand. I couldn’t think what else to do. And then I saw you sitting here and knew you’d know what to do.”
In truth, I had no real notion of what to do with such a remarkable tale. Surely the police would have only sniggered at Brownlow’s story and sent him on his way, putting it down to nothing but a hallucination, or the fabrication of an unhinged mind. But, Holmes aside, Brownlow was one of the most rational men I knew, and there was no reason he would lie.
“Well, first of all, I think you need another stiff drink for your nerves. I’ll fetch you another brandy.” He nodded enthusiastically at this. “Beyond that, I want you to set it out for me again, this time recalling as much of the detail as you can muster.” I’d seen Holmes extract information from enough of his potential clients to know that this was the best way to begin unpicking Brownlow’s story. Perhaps he might give something away, some little detail he had missed the first time around that might help to shed light on what had truly occurred. I admit, my interest had been piqued, and I felt pity for the chap, who had clearly had the wits scared out of him.
So it was that Brownlow downed another large brandy and set about relating his tale once again, this time in exquisite detail. I must admit the credibility of his words grew somewhat in the retelling, but there was nothing in it that could help me to discern what might truly have occurred. I had seen some things in my time, particularly since returning from Afghanistan and falling in with Holmes, but this tall tale seemed to test the bounds of even my well-trodden credulity.
It was with a heavy heart that I sent Brownlow home to his bachelor’s apartment that night, unable to offer him any real comfort, other than a prescription for a mild sedative should he find it necessary in order to sleep. I promised the man I would consider his story, and that I would contact him directly should I happen upon any possible hint of an explanation. There was little else to be done, and so I made haste to my bed, my mind restless with concern.
* * *
The next morning I approached breakfast with a mind to refer Brownlow to a nerve specialist I’d worked with on occasion. Having slept on the matter I was now convinced that his ungodly vision could have only been the result of a hallucination, and decided that, if it hadn’t been brought about by drink or other mind-altering substances, it was most likely an expression of nervous exhaustion. Brownlow had always had a tendency to throw himself into his work, body and soul. Aside from his private, paying customers, I’d known him to spend hours in aid of the poor, administering free treatment to those wretches who lined the alleyways of the slums, or huddled in their masses beneath the bridges that criss-crossed the banks of the Thames. Perhaps he’d been overdoing it, and he simply needed some rest. Or perhaps he’d succumbed to a mild fever.
My theories were soon dispelled, however, as I set about hungrily tucking into my bacon and eggs. It is my habit to take the morning papers with my breakfast, and upon folding back the covers of The Times, I fixed upon a small report on the bottom of the second page. The headline read:
EYEWITNESSES REPORT SIGHTINGS OF STRANGE BEAST
My first thought was that Brownlow had gone to the papers with his story, but I quickly dismissed the notion. The previous night he’d been in no fit state to talk to anyone, and I’d seen him into the back of a cab myself.
I scanned the article quickly, and was surprised to see that there were, in fact, a number of reports that seemed not only to corroborate Brownlow’s story, but also to expand somewhat upon it. It appeared the previous evening had been the third in a row during which sightings of this bizarre creature had been reported. Furthermore, one of the reports stated that the woman in question—a Mrs Coulthard of Brixton—had seen the beast give chase to a group of young vagabonds who had been generally up to no good, throwing rocks at nearby boats and jeering at passers-by. Many of the reports claimed, just as Brownlow had, that the creature had dragged itself out of the Thames, and what’s more, that it had been seen returning to the water upon completion of its nightly sojourn.
I leaned back in my chair, sipping at my coffee and staring at the remnants of my breakfast in astonishment. So Brownlow had been telling the truth. He had seen something down by the river. And if the veracity of his story was no longer in question, then the beast was something truly diabolical. Could it have been some sort of throwback to the prehistoric past, or some previously undocumented variety of gargantuan squid?
I resolved to visit Holmes directly. There was a mystery here, and people were potentially in grave danger. If only I could persuade him to apply his attention to the matter, there was hope that we could uncover precisely what was going on.
The drive to Baker Street passed in a blur. All the while, as the cab bounced and rattled over the cobbled roads, I couldn’t help imagining the scene that must have confronted Brownlow and those others, the sight of that hulking beast dragging itself out of the ink-black water. It would surely have been terrifying to behold.
> I resolved then and there that I would find a way to look upon this creature with my own eyes. Only then could I be utterly sure of its existence and the nature of any threat it represented.
Upon my arrival at Baker Street I found Holmes in one of his peculiar, erratic moods. He was pacing back and forth before the fireplace, somewhat manically, pulling at his violin strings as if trying to wring some meaning out of the random, screeching sounds the instrument was making. It was icy cold in there, yet the fireplace remained untended to, heaped with ash and charred logs. If Holmes felt the chill he did not show it.
He had his back to me. I coughed politely from the doorway, noting with dismay that my breath actually fogged in the air before my face.
“Yes, yes, Watson. Do come in and stop loitering in the hallway. And since you’re here, see about building up this fire, will you? It’s perishing in here.”
Shaking my head in dismay, but deciding it would do neither of us any good to take umbrage, I set about clearing the grate.
“I expect you’re here about those wild reports in the newspapers this morning,” he said, strolling over to the window and peering out at the busy street below. He gave a sharp twang on another violin string, and I winced at the sound.
“I won’t bother to ask how you managed to discern that, Holmes,” I said, sighing as a plume of soot settled on my shirt cuff and then smeared as I attempted to brush it away. “Can’t Mrs Hudson do this?” I said, grumpily.
“Mrs Hudson has gone out to the market,” he replied, turning back from the window to look at me.
“She was here a moment ago,” I said, triumphantly. “She opened the door and let me in.”
Holmes held up a single index finger to indicate the need for silence. I watched him for a moment, counting beneath my breath as I begged the gods to grant me patience. Downstairs, I heard the exterior door slam shut with a bang. “There!” he exclaimed with a beaming smile. “Off to the market.”
I sighed and continued piling logs on to the fire. “Well, of course you’re right.”
