Eventually I had to force myself to relax … my wrist was getting stiff and sore with the tension. I lit a fresh pipe and smoked it, left-handed. I relaxed my grip on the gun, but I wasn’t about to put it down just yet. Calm was a long way off.
Then finally I found a sort of peace. It was thinking about Afghanistan that did it, and long nights spent on watch under cold mountain skies. I fell into a half-asleep, half-awake reverie that came to an abrupt end some time later when I heard the telltale scrape of one of the windows being slid open. There was enough light from outside for us to see a thin figure climb over the sill and drop, almost soundlessly, into the room.
Holmes let him come almost halfway across the floor toward the fire before speaking. “Mister Jennings, I presume?” he said. “Let’s have some light on the matter, Watson.”
I got up, not taking my eyes off the intruder. He showed no signs of trying to flee. I lit one of the lamps and turned to have a good look at the man.
He seemed remarkably calm for a burglar caught so blatantly in the act. He was also rather old for a career of burglary, being somewhere in his seventies at a rough guess. He held himself awkwardly, as if troubled by a bad back, and wore a red serge army officer’s jacket that had clearly seen better days.
“I’ve come for the stone,” he said. “And I mean to have it.” His voice was muffled, and as he spoke he barely opened his lips, as if his mouth was full.
Holmes held up the pendant by the chain.
“This is the last of the four, is it not?” he said. “You have the one from Samuels’ grave, the one from Countess Fraser, and the one of your own. I only have one question. Why now? Why not forty years ago?”
“I didn’t need them then,” Jennings said. “I was young and strong. But lately I have started weakening, feeling my age.”
“And these renew you, do they?” Holmes said, as if genuinely interested.
The old man nodded, not taking his eyes from the stone. “With this last one, I’ll be able to feed properly again.” He shivered all over, as if he had taken a chill. “You had best give it to me now, sir … if you know what’s good for you.”
“And if I don’t?”
Jennings didn’t answer. He howled, a wail of pain that came from deep inside him. He tried to tear at his clothes, to rip them off, but his hands ran like melting wax, his skin growing darker, leathery.
It was clear he wasn’t a man anymore. His backbone curved, forcing his head lower to the ground—a head that slowly stretched and elongated. Talons slid from under his fingernails, slithering and viscid.
His shirt split with a loud rip and new muscles strained tight against the red serge jacket. Thick bristles of hair forced their way through his skin, the hands lengthening as talons grew longer and knuckles popped. A long snout lifted in the air, sniffing.
Jennings, or, rather, what had been Jennings, shook off the last torn remnants of clothing, and leapt forward, straight at Holmes.
Holmes swung on the ball of his left foot, and put his weight into a punch that knocked the beast across the room.
It came back at him again, twice as fast, twice as angry, but Holmes was ready for it. He had the new revolver in his hand and stood, steady as a rock in the face of the onrushing beast. A loud shot rang out, deafening in the confines of the room. I blinked, momentarily blinded by the muzzle flash.
When I looked down the beast lay dead at Holmes’ feet. He had shot it once, straight through the heart, before I had even thought of using my own weapon.
Holmes handed me the revolver as he bent to check on the body. It felt too heavy in my hand. I slid out the bullet carriage and checked the ammunition. They looked to be solid silver.
Holmes saw me checking and laughed, bitterly.
“When facing a loup garou, one must always have the appropriate weapon, just to be sure.”
3
It was some while before the matter was finally made clear to me, the intervening time spent with what seemed like most of Scotland Yard tramping through the apartments, much to Mrs. Hudson’s dismay. Holmes sat in his chair, smoking.
“I have heard tales of the lycanthrope before,” he said, as if by way of explanation. “The adepts of Tibet believe that it is caused by an upsurge in primitive instincts in a man, and that it is an infection that can be controlled, with the proper training. Jennings was obviously infected when he took the cuts in his hand at the killing of the originator. He may have been killing on every full moon these past forty years—I am sure Lestrade will eventually be able to track down many of his victims.”
“But why here? Why now? And why did he use a hired burglar in the other attempts … and …”
Holmes laughed and interrupted me.
“We may never know all the answers. But I think he might have been too frail to do it himself before he got the third tooth. As for why now? I believe he answered that one himself. He was getting old … losing his bite.”
I bent to examine the body. It fit the description that MacLeod had given us from his hospital bed; it was a man, yet not a man, a grotesque amalgam, bestial and repulsive.
“Check his mouth,” Holmes said. “You will find that we shall be able to return the Countess’ pendant, although I fear we may need both a dentist and a jeweler before that can be done.”
I did as I was asked.
Three jade teeth had been surgically fitted into the jaw, like huge canines … made especially for tearing.
REVENANT
Chapter One
EF
Holmes has often berated me for a perceived habit of sensationalizing his cases in the writing down of the details. But in this particular matter there is so much that is already sensational that I fear I may under-report the import of them.
It began in September. I was late. The lecture in the Royal Hospital had overrun by some thirty minutes … thirty minutes of the driest of exposition on potential cures for tropical diseases. Things did not improve when I emerged into a rainstorm that meant all carriages were already taken. I had a choice: to either stay in shelter or brave the elements. I did not have my heavy overcoat with me so I decided to wait the rain out. That proved a bad decision, as it continued for almost an hour in a steady downpour.
It was already mid-morning by the time I arrived back in Baker Street and, knowing that Holmes would be getting impatient, I was in no mood for any further delay.
I say this in mitigation of my next actions. If I had paid more heed for those next few seconds much grief might have been averted later. But at the time I was more than a little annoyed to have a derelict stand in my path as I got down out of the carriage.
I took him for one of the itinerant beggars who had so recently plagued the area. In my heart I knew that many of them were in the situation of having to beg to eat through no fault of their own, but the man with the twisted lip had put me permanently on guard against blackguards and con men. I might have given him a penny just to get rid of him, but I was already making excuses to Holmes in my mind. The vagrant stood directly in my path, and when I made to dodge around him he moved to block me.
“Move aside, please,” I said, trying to control a rising irritation.
He did not give way. He was small, with a stoop that bent his head into deep shadow under a wide-brimmed hat. Wisps of straggly red hair showed under the brim. His clothes were of heavy, cheap cotton, threadbare and muddy from head to toe, and his feet were bare, showing cracked and split nails also caked in fresh mud.
“Can I help you?” I said, expecting him to put out a begging hand.
Instead, he seemed to ignore me. He muttered to himself, rapidly, a repeating pattern as if reciting his multiplication tables. It also sounded as if something was broken inside his chest—a rumble that spoke of deep-seated bronchitis or some similar ailment.
And that is as much as I remembered of him later, beyond the fact that when he finally spoke to me he had a broad Scots accent. And the words he spoke took me aback so much that
I completely forgot to reply.
“Mr. Holmes will have need of this before the week is out,” he said, and passed me a sheet of paper.
I took it, and looked up to see him walking rapidly away in the kind of skipping gait you sometimes see in men who have suffered a badly set break in one leg. I might have followed him were I not already acutely aware of just how late I was for my appointment with Holmes.
I was, however, just curious enough to check what I had been given. The sheet of paper did not enlighten me. It had been torn roughly from a book and was an illuminated diagram titled MALAGMA. It showed a fiery red serpent eating the world, depicted as a shining golden disc hanging above an ocean. The page was also getting rather wet as more rain started to fall, heavy spatters of it threatening to turn the paper to a soggy mush. I folded it in half and put it in my inner pocket as I entered 221B Baker Street.
Holmes stood in the hallway waiting for me. I don’t know how long he’d been there, but it had been more than long enough to make him irritable—that was immediately obvious. I have seen Sherlock Holmes in many moods over the years of our acquaintance, but I do believe that this was also the only time he appeared to be flustered.
“You are tardy, Watson,” he said, turning me around in the hall before I could even remove my hat. He passed me my heavy overcoat and almost marched me back outside while I struggled with the garment. “I would have gone without you had they not specifically requested that you join me.”
“They?”
I did not get an answer. Instead I was shepherded onto the pavement. As we approached the curb, Holmes hailed a carriage, and one stopped for him immediately. I did not hear his instructions to the driver as I was bundled quickly inside, but they must have been insistent, for we set off at a rapid trot across the cobbles.
Holmes would not be drawn as to our destination; indeed he sat quiet for the whole journey, lost either in concentration or irritation, I knew not which. Given the manner in which I had been greeted, I more than expected it to be irritation.
I gathered we were about to embark on a new case. That thought gave me some satisfaction, for my friend had been moody of late due to a lack of activity to fuel his ever-busy mind. I had recently suffered several nights of his black gloom, attempting conversation only to be met with a taciturn sullen silence. If there was work ahead, I hoped it would be enough to lift him out of it, for a time at least.
The carriage took us south to Piccadilly Circus and then toward the river, which annoyed me somewhat, for if Holmes had intimated our destination to me in advance I could have met him much earlier without having to return to Baker Street. But when I mentioned this fact all I got in reply was an irritated grunt. In truth I was glad when the journey came to an end, for Holmes in a temper is a most disagreeable traveling companion.
Much to my surprise, we were deposited outside the Houses of Parliament. Flanked by two sullen policemen, we were led at a march to the Member’s Lounge for the Lords. Whatever matter had aroused Holmes into his present state of irritation, it seemed it was an important one.
The police left us at the door. Three people waited inside for us in an otherwise-empty Member’s Lounge—two standing in animated discussion and the other slumped unmoving in an armchair. The taller of the two standing men turned and I recognized his bulky figure immediately. It was only then that Holmes spoke.
“I do hope this is not another of your cast-off cases, Mycroft? You know that my preferred choice of adversary is always the criminal rather than the politician, despite the fact that there is often little to tell them apart.”
For my part I now knew exactly what had irritated my friend so. To be summoned by his elder brother must have vexed Holmes severely, but he had been so lacking in work for that great brain of his that he would endure it for the chance of a fresh case. That did not, however, mean that he had to like it, nor that he had to hide his irritability.
Mycroft paid his brother no heed. He dismissed the man he had been speaking to with a curt wave of the hand. It was only when the three of us were alone with the man in the chair that Mycroft turned to me.
“I need your medical opinion, Doctor Watson,” he said. “As you can see, Lord Menzies here is somewhat indisposed.”
I did not for one minute believe that I had been brought to the House of Lords for my medical opinion. There was a perfectly good infirmary in the building itself, staffed by a reliable man I knew well from my army days. No, this was part of the game that was always playing between the brothers; I just happened to be caught in the middle—and not for the first time. There was, however, an obviously sick man who needed attention, so I decided I would attend to him and leave the brothers to their own devices.
“Watson?” Mycroft said, and I was surprised to hear some irritability there, a rare thing from a man with a normally languid disposition. He motioned with a tilt of his head toward the slumped figure and I gave in to the inevitable.
My patient was an elderly gentleman, well-dressed but somewhat rumpled, with what looked like an egg stain on the left lapel of his waistcoat and several streaks of ash on the other side that had been rubbed in rather than brushed away. His hair had that oily sheen you see in vain men of a certain age, and was so thin as to show liver spots on his scalp.
When I bent to examine him I spotted several other things almost immediately. He was most definitely alive. He breathed deeply and regularly and had the calm pulse of someone who was fast asleep. He was completely unconscious despite having his eyes wide open. His pupils did not respond to direct light, nor was there any reaction when I snapped my fingers by his ears. I folded one of his legs over the other, with some difficulty as there seemed to be no give there, almost as if rigor were setting in. He did, however, show a reflex when I struck just below his knee. He also seemed to be attempting to speak insofar as his lips moved, but no sounds were forthcoming. His hands felt somewhat cold and clammy to the touch, but there was no obvious sign of any kind of violence having been done on his person. I checked his head, searching under the hair for bumps or bruising, but found no sign of trauma.
I must admit I was completely stumped. I could only surmise a condition of the brain, although it was one I had never previously encountered.
“Well, Watson, what is your diagnosis?” Mycroft said. He still had not acknowledged Holmes, but I was now far too concerned for the stricken man to bother myself with fraternal politics.
“He has taken some kind of seizure by the look of things,” I said as I stood back. “This man needs to be removed to a hospital as soon as can be. There may be a buildup of fluid in the brain causing these symptoms. Any delay in getting him the proper treatment could prove fatal.”
I looked around in search of some support. None was forthcoming. Mycroft shook his head and did not seem in the least bit perturbed.
“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Doctor. Let us sit a while,” he said. “We shall wait and see what occurs next.”
“Why ask that I bring Watson at all, if you are only going to ignore his counsel?” Holmes said, giving voice to the same question I was asking myself.
Mycroft, however, was most insistent.
“I did not bring you here merely to see a sick man,” he said. “There is more to this than meets the eye, and I can assure you that your trip has not been in vain. Now, please, sit. This should not take long.”
I could see that Holmes was on the point of becoming agitated, and I too was loath to remain quiet while a sick man suffered in front of me. However, Mycroft seemed to be taking it most calmly, so much so that he went to the door at the far end of the room and called for drinks to be brought from the bar. Holmes finally relented, and following his lead I sat opposite the stricken man and lit a pipe. I did, however, watch the man most carefully, determined to act at any change in his condition.
There followed a strained ten minutes where we all tried not to stare at the slumped figure in the chair. Mycroft seemed completely unconcerned abou
t the poor man’s predicament and launched into a lengthy anecdote about some drunken shenanigans that had taken place in this very room some three nights previously. I feigned attention, but Holmes’ mind was elsewhere. He spent several minutes in closely studying the lord’s mouth as it opened and closed, but if he was able to make any sense from the lip-reading, he said nothing.
After a time I could take it no more.
“Dash it all, Mycroft, I may be a bally bad doctor, but I took an oath, and that oath will not allow me to remain quiet a minute longer. The poor chap’s mind may be leaving him even while we sit here. I will not tolerate it.”
Still Mycroft did not flinch. And, much to my surprise, Holmes took his brother’s side in the matter.
“I know it vexes you, Watson, but please, just a few minutes longer? Mycroft, for all his faults, never does anything without good reason.”
By this time Holmes himself had risen from his seat and had started pacing the floor. I could see that he would not naysay Mycroft’s wishes in his older brother’s domain. I was about to make my case in a more forcible manner when the most remarkable thing happened.
Lord Menzies sat up straight, shook himself like a dog shedding water and inquired whether he might not ‘Have a little port and brandy, if that would be all right?’
I was up and at his side in a flash, pushing him back in his chair when he showed signs of wanting to rise. “Please, sit still,” I said. “I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” he said, his voice full of outrage. “Why in blazes would I need a bally doctor? I am as fit as a butcher’s dog.”
And much to my astonishment it seemed he was. His breathing and pulse were as measured as before, but now he was in complete possession of all his faculties.
Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories Page 17
