I tried to argue the case for instinct, and cited the many examples in the animal world of trap-setting. But by then Holmes was once more deep in thought, and I contented myself with a fresh pipe of tobacco as I made some notes on the progress on the case so far.
Matters came to a head in the late evening.
“My eyes and ears are ready to report anything out of the usual,” Holmes had said.
The news brought by the urchin who came to the door certainly qualified as out of the usual. To my eyes he looked like any other grime-ingrained child of the streets, but Holmes immediately saw something I had not.
“It is on a boat?” he asked, even before the child had spoken.
The child smiled, showing more gaps than teeth. “That it is, Mr. Holmes, sir. ’Tis down at Vauxhall Bridge. They say ’tis a ghost ship, for it is all quiet and green-like. Ain’t nobody going near till the coppers have had a look. That Inspector Lestrade has been sent for.”
Holmes gave the lad a three-penny piece and sent him on his way. I was dispatched to find a carriage posthaste. Holmes himself went back inside and returned wearing his heavy winter coat. It seemed to bulge at the back, as if he carried something bulky underneath, but I knew from experience not to ask until he was ready for his revelation.
I only asked one question on the trip down to Vauxhall. “How did you know about the boat, Holmes?”
He smiled thinly. “The boy had fresh pitch on his fingers. I smelled it even before I saw it. There is only one place you find tar so easily identifiable—on the deck of a boat.”
He said no more as we bounced through the city, rattling like peas inside the cab. Holmes had requested speed and offered extra payment. The driver did not disappoint and had us at Vauxhall in record time, if a little shaken.
A small crowd had gathered on the bridge, looking down at a moored boat. Despite the fact it was not quite yet full dark, the luminescence was immediately apparent, a dancing green light that ran up the masts and along the rigging of a long schooner. The gathered watchers had the good sense to stay well back.
The same could not be said of the two policemen down on the dock itself. Holmes shouted down a warning, but they took no heed, stepping onto the boat while we were as yet too far away to go to their aid. By the time Holmes and I descended the steps to the dock the policemen had already gone aboard and disappeared down into the hold.
Holmes was in no mood to wait. He ran down the steps and I was hard pressed to keep up with him as he jumped on board the boat. I joined him at the hatchway leading to the hold. I realized we were already inside the glow of the luminescence but I felt none of the compulsion I had undergone earlier. Nevertheless my heart beat a little faster as we went down in to the bowels of the vessel.
Screams rose from beneath us. Holmes shed his overcoat. I stood behind him so was not able to see the full scope of the apparatus, but he carried two metal tanks on his back, secured at the shoulders with thick canvas straps. The tanks looked heavy, but did not slow Holmes any as he descended the steep steps to the hold. Saying a silent prayer, I followed close behind.
At first it seemed we stood in impenetrable darkness, but as my eyes adjusted I began to make out shape and shadow around us. The screams we had followed had already faded, replaced by the sound of piteous weeping to our left. I could make out Holmes ahead of me as we moved toward the wails.
We were too late to do anything for the poor policemen. One lay dead, green foam at lips and ears. The other would be following him soon. Most of his chest was a bubbling ruin. He tried to speak, but more green fluid poured at his mouth, and even as I bent to his aid, he fell back, eyes wide, staring unseeing.
I realized I could see Holmes’ face, his pale features seemingly behind a green mask. I turned to see the source of this new light. The whole far end of the hold was an aurora, sickly green shot through with an oily sheen that cast rainbows before it. Under other circumstances it might even be called beautiful.
Below the swirling lights lay a darker patch that seemed to ripple. I saw two ale casks, broken into splinters—the source of this recent outbreak.
Holmes walked forward toward it. I saw he held his fire-bellows in hand. A soft hose led to the tank on his back. He pushed the bellows together and sent a spray of liquid ahead of him. I smelled bleach. The shimmering light flared, then faded, and the dark green mass retreated.
Holmes kept walking, close enough to reach out toward the green luminescence.
“Careful, Holmes,” I called.
“I must know,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Is it an invader, or a missionary?”
Before I could stop him, he stepped inside the glow. I was about to step up beside him, but he raised a hand. His voice came as if from a great distance.
“Stay back, Watson,” he said. “This won’t take but a minute.”
The dancing light played around him and the green carpet at his feet seethed, but still Holmes stood perfectly still. I saw him reach forward with his free hand and play it through the light. A new rainbow followed his movements.
“Fascinating,” I heard him say, then he went completely quiet. The slime at his feet started to creep again, moving toward Holmes. He showed no sign of trying to avert it. I moved to one side to look at his face. He had a glazed, far-off look, lost in reverie.
He had fallen into its snare.
With a yell I leapt forward, just as the slime surged. As he had done for me, I placed a hand on his shoulder. At once the spell was broken … and just in time. The light flared so brightly as to be almost blinding. At the same moment the slime surged, a wave flowing over Holmes’ feet and ankles. He pushed at the bellows, twice, washing bleach around us. Once again I heard the high fluting screams, deafening in the confines of the hold, as pustules formed and burst all across the creeping carpet.
The slime retreated.
I pulled at Holmes’ shoulder. “Quick, Holmes; let us beat a retreat before it returns.”
“Not yet, Watson. There is something at the heart of this that bends its will against us. I would rather like to have a look at it.” He washed more bleach in the direction of the slime and it fell back.
It was darker now, the luminescence having shrunk and faded until it ran in a layer less than an inch thick over the surface of the rolling slime. We followed its retreat across the hold until we stood before the burst and broken barrels. The remains of the slime had retreated to the shelter of a curved section that remained nearly intact.
Holmes motioned me forward and we peered into the gloom. “Take a close look, Watson,” Holmes said. “We may never see its like again.”
A darker patch of green sat there in the midst of the last small puddle of slime, an oval shape like a large dark egg. An oily green sheen ran over it and it pulsed rhythmically, almost as if it were breathing.
“Is this the source of the contagion?” I asked.
Holmes nodded. “Although I am no longer sure of its intelligence. I detected nothing while under its influence to suggest it is anything other than what it seems.”
I watched the thing pulse. “And what do you suggest, Holmes? We cannot allow this thing to escape into the general population.”
Holmes was deep in thought. “Indeed, Watson. And while the scientists at the University would love to study this, there is a chance that the military would gain hold of it. I have heard of their experiments with mustard gas. This thing would merely give them another excuse for developing weapons of terrible destruction.”
I could see it in my mind. Whole battalions marching on a field of green, heads raised to the heavens in screams as they melted from the feet up.
My decision was simple. “End it, Holmes. End it here.”
He nodded and squeezed the bellows. The slime surged one last time then fell back, smoking. One final high whistle pierced the air; then it was gone.
We stood there for a long time, watching, but all that remained of the terror from beyond was a patch of blackened mate
rial among the remains of the barrels.
The Call of the Dance
EF
Holmes had something new to occupy his mind. A small contraption of cogs, wax disks, and tinfoil sat on his desk when I entered the sitting room that afternoon.
“I took a stroll down Regent Street this morning,” he replied. “And procured this fine item. I believe it is called a Graphophone, and they say it is the future of music.”
He turned a key, and his voice—tinny and muted, but most definitely Holmes—asked me whether I was having a good day.
“It records via a series of markings on wax discs,” Holmes said, clearly fascinated. “It is newly issued from the Bell-Tainter Laboratories. I do believe, Watson, that we will soon have a new way for you to transcribe your histories of our work together.”
He took great delight in showing me how it worked. It did indeed seem a marvelous thing, but I could not imagine it ever replacing my trusty pen.
Finally I managed to get Holmes to sit down. As ever, his quick mind had already moved on to other matters and we spent a pleasant hour discussing the merits of the HMS Buzzard. She was being launched on the morrow. Holmes had a hankering to take a trip to Sheerness to view the first sailing of the new scoop, and I agreed to accompany him.
But our plans were soon scuppered.
The first indication of something amiss came when we heard the front door open and the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Holmes smiled. “See what Thomas wants, will you, Watson? He has already delivered the post today.”
I knew better than to ask at that point how he knew the caller’s identity, but as ever he was correct. Thomas Jeffries stood outside Holmes’ door, cap in hand, looking as sorry and hangdog as any man I have ever seen.
“Begging your pardon Doctor,” he said. “But would it be possible to talk to Mr. Holmes? I have need of his services.”
Thomas and I both knew that he scarcely had two pennies to rub together, but he looked so lost that I could only stand aside and show him in.
And so began the strangest case I have ever had to relate.
At first Thomas was ill at ease, perched on the edge of a chair as if afraid he might break it. But once Holmes got him talking, it was difficult to get him to stop.
“It’s the workshop, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’m feared to go in there at night. But I’m paid to watch the place and I can’t lose the job, not if I want to feed the kids. It’s hard enough as it is keeping both that and the post job going without a haunt trying to stop me.”
I had not known that Thomas was also working another job, but if Holmes had been ignorant of the fact he did not show it. He sat back in his chair, his elbows on the arms, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, lips already pursed in concentration.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, and that started Thomas off.
“You don’t know Mr. Boothroyd, the gentleman who employs me, Mr. Holmes,” he began. “He keeps himself to himself, working away all day in that workshop of his. But word went round the Market Porter last month that he needed a night watchman, and as I’ve said, I need the money. He took me on straight away and I started that very night.
“Right from the get-go I knew there was something dodgy going on. When he showed me round the workshop he tried to explain the machinery to me. I ain’t got the schooling for stuff like that—there was something about ether and emanations but it was all gobbledygook to me. I was just happy to get paid.
“Or so I thought. But as soon as he left me alone in the night I got the heebie-jeebies right bad. There’s a big iron drum in there that sings to me, every night. I feel it in my head even now. And it glows—green and sick. It ain’t natural, Mr. Holmes, I’ll tell you that for nowt.”
Holmes spoke softly. “But that is not why you are here. Is it, Thomas?”
For long seconds I thought Thomas would not reply. When he finally spoke, it was with a tremulous tone unusual in the man.
“I would appreciate your help, sir,” he said. “You’re the most learned man I know. You must talk to Mr. Boothroyd—get him to stop his experiments. I fear that I am in greater peril every night I spend there. But Mr. Boothroyd is even worse off. He came in last night to do some work on his machines. The lights weren’t on, and that’s when I saw it—the green stuff that glows. It was inside him, Mr. Holmes—inside him and shining out of his eyes.”
Of course I knew immediately that, payment or not, Holmes could not turn such a matter away from his door. His curiosity was piqued, and there would be nothing for it but to charge ahead until an answer was forthcoming.
After we sent Thomas home with a promise to help where we could, I tried to impress on Holmes that he was not in the best of health, and that a new case at this juncture might prove too much for him. But he would have none of it.
“Do not attempt to mollycoddle me, Watson. I have had more than enough of that from Mrs. Hudson.”
I did, however, insist that we at least fill our stomachs before venturing forth, and we went to Dawson’s Pie and Ale House for a hearty late lunch. Even there, Holmes was distant and distracted, already worrying at this latest mystery.
“So what do you think, Holmes? Is Thomas havering?”
Holmes laughed. “No. He seems a steady enough sort. But I need more information before I can comment further. But I will tell you this, Watson—I do not like what I have heard.”
He said no more, even though the carriage journey to the Boothroyd House on the south edge of Hackney took nearly fifteen minutes. I was used to Holmes’ quiet spells and contented myself with watching the city pass by outside as darkness slowly descended. The streets became quiet as we passed beyond the commercial areas, and by the time we reached the boundaries of Hackney there was scarcely a person around.
The carriage left us at the end of a long drive and departed into the night. Everything fell quiet, and I was just starting to wonder whether we might have been dropped at the wrong house when there were heavy footsteps on the drive behind us.
Holmes did not even turn. “Well met, Thomas,” he said. “Are you ready to show us what Master Boothroyd is up to?”
Now that we were there, Thomas had suddenly become nervous. “I’m not sure if I should …” he started, but Holmes was already striding away up the driveway.
“Come, Watson,” he said looking back. “I am keen to see what manner of new thing Master Boothroyd has wrought. Maybe we should just knock at the main house?”
That last was for Thomas’ benefit and, as Holmes knew it “There’s no need for that, Mr. Holmes, sir. It’s more than my job’s worth to interrupt him after dark. Let’s just have a quick look at the workshop. Then you’ll see what’s what.”
“I thought you wanted us to talk to your master?” I started, but Holmes put a finger to his lips and hushed me.
“I believe we need to see the lay of the land first, Watson. Now come. It seems some burglary is called for.”
We walked the length of the drive in silence, keeping to the deeper shadows under an avenue of mature chestnut trees. There was a single flickering light ahead in the main house, and as we approached I saw a figure move inside. Thomas gripped my arm and pulled me aside, leading us around the south side of the house where a large wooden shed dominated what in another house might have been given over to lawn.
The structure sat in darkness, and was darker still inside. Thomas got an oil lantern lit and headed off into the interior. We followed. As my eyes adjusted to the faint light, I saw we were surrounded by machinery in various stages of construction. I’m afraid I have never had much of a head for engineering, but Holmes seemed fascinated.
He stopped so often on our walk through the workshop that Thomas had to keep walking back to our position to shine the light on something new that had taken Holmes’ interest.
“Boothroyd is certainly serious in his enthusiasms,” Holmes said. “This has all cost a large amount of his money—some of this equipment has com
e all the way across the Atlantic. But the purpose of it all still escapes me.”
Thomas spoke up, and there was obvious exasperation in his voice. “That’s what I brought you to see, Mr. Holmes—the main machine he spends all his time on these days. Come—it is at the far end here.”
We followed the bobbing lantern along the length of the workshop. I had to shoo Holmes forward on several occasions when he seemed tempted to stop and examine another machine of interest, but eventually we came to a halt beside Thomas.
“Here you go, Mr. Holmes. I hope you can make something of it, for I am at a loss.”
He leaned forward; his light shone over a particularly large tube of black metal. To my untrained eye, it seemed to be merely an empty cylinder wrapped in copper wire, but as I bent closer every hair on my head stood up straight. A blue bolt sparked across the roof and discharged with a distinct smell of ozone. Holmes laughed at my obvious discomfort.
“It is a simple charge generator, Watson,” he said. “It seems friend Thomas has brought us here under false pretenses.”
He turned to get Thomas’ confirmation—but Thomas was already backing away, staring at the metal tube with something that looked like abject terror.
“You’ll see, Mr. Holmes. Now you’ll see.” And with that, he could take no more. He turned and fled, leaving Holmes and me there in the dark.
Only it wasn’t dark.
I realized I could see Holmes quite clearly, although his face looked to have taken on a sickly green tinge. He moved toward the black cylinder.
“I say old chap, do you think that’s wise?”
As ever, Holmes had his own view on what was required in the situation. And as I turned to follow him, I saw what had drawn his attention. The cylinder was no longer black. It had taken on a green glow.
“What is it, Holmes?” I whispered, but my friend did not answer. The glow from the cylinder intensified.
At first I thought Holmes was moving in for a closer look, then I saw he was intent on something on the trestle to one side—a journal of some kind. But as he stepped slowly nearer, so the glow grew brighter. I have seen the aurora in northern climes, and the light that danced there above us in that workshop reminded me of that. But I was not inspired by the same sense of awe—no, this was more like fear, an animal terror of something unworldly, something far beyond my experience.
Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories Page 6
