Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  And without another word, he headed off at a weaving run through the crowd. Of course such a thing was always going to attract attention, and the policemen in the entranceway quickly took note. Another pop sent a chip of stone flying near my feet, and that was enough to get me moving. I followed Holmes through the crowd.

  Another shot pinged off the platform at Holmes’ feet, and I suddenly realized that we were not heading away from the source of the shots, but directly toward it. I looked upward. A dark figure stood on the high walkway that led to the adjoining platforms, a rifle aimed directly at me, too much in shadow for me to make out his features. I ducked and weaved instinctively and when I looked up again it was to see the figure move further into the shadows until he was completely lost from view.

  “Damn,” Holmes muttered loudly. “Lost him.”

  Almost immediately several police whistles echoed around the station and a group of officers headed toward us. They were also blocking any chance of us leaving via the entrance.

  “This way, Watson,” Holmes said, and leapt down onto the tracks. I followed, just yards in front of a train pulling in to the station. Seconds later, we were heading apace along the side of the rails, the full length of the goods train now blocking us off from any pursuit as we left the passenger platform behind.

  Holmes led me quickly across the tracks and out of the station to the north. I expected him to double back but instead we headed directly into the dark mouth of one of the tunnels that peppered the area. We moved deep into the shadows, and Holmes motioned me to quiet.

  Framed by the semi-circle of the tunnel entrance, the lights of the station seemed very bright at first until my eyes adjusted. I don’t know how long we stood there, but it was more than long enough for me to catch my breath, and for my heart rate to slow to a more normal level. There were distant shouts and whistles as the police searched for us in vain. No one approached within a hundred yards of our position.

  We waited for an hour before slipping quietly out of the tunnel, then off the tracks and into the streets to the north of the station. Once at a safe distance we stopped, mainly to allow me to rest my aching leg and share a cigarette with Holmes in the shadow of a tall wall well away from any streetlights.

  “We are free, for now,” Holmes said, but in truth I felt anything but. I would have given almost anything at that low point of the night to be back in the comfort of Baker Street, sitting at the fireside with my pipe and a large measure of Scotch. Given our current circumstances I surmised that such relaxation might be rather a long way in my future.

  Holmes only allowed us that brief rest stop before setting off again into the night.

  3

  Our escape from London proved remarkably simple after the near escape at King’s Cross, involving as it did a long walk toward Barnet before dawn, then out into the open country beyond as the sun rose. In all that part of the journey we scarcely passed a soul, and those that we did paid us little heed.

  By the end of that first long day a series of lifts from farm carts had taken us north of Watford, and we finally took accommodation in a small but busy inn several hours after nightfall. Not a single person in the bar gave us a second glance, although I did take quite a turn on seeing our likeness on the front page of every newspaper. “Wanted for murder,” was not something I ever thought to see associated with my name—or with Holmes’, for that matter.

  I mentioned the fact to Holmes when we were out of range of any possible eavesdroppers.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we took the bait all too readily,” Holmes said. We were sitting in a quiet corner of the bar, sipping on some surprisingly pleasant ale, and I was proving to myself that my cigarette-rolling skills had not deserted me even after many years of being out of practice. This was the first Holmes had spoken of the events of the night before since we had left King’s Cross; I was eager to hear his thinking on the matter now that he had taken some time mulling it over.

  “You are certain it was a deliberate trap?” I asked.

  “Oh, most certain,” Holmes said, keeping his voice low and even, although I knew of old that the fire in his eyes showed just how angry he had been made. “They played to my curiosity and, I’m afraid, my vanity; knowing exactly what would draw me in. And the fact that there was a gunman waiting, just for us, at King’s Cross station tells me that whoever they are, they are highly organized—maybe even enough to have people watching at all the stations out of town last night.”

  “And do you have any thoughts yet on who they might be?”

  He was so quiet at that I did not think he would answer, but when he did I realized he had indeed given it thought. “I do not yet know the who, why, or how of it, Watson,” he said. “But we are up against the highest of intellects; an adversary of particular skill and cunning. I know whom I might suspect, were he not already dead. But such questions are futile without more facts on which to base our suppositions. As I have said, the answers lie in Scotland; once there we shall see what we shall see.”

  He refused to be drawn after that, but I knew that his keen mind was always at work during our long journey north in the days following.

  The inn proved to be our last chance of relaxation for some time. We had a hard toil through the Midlands, with few chances of help on the way and long days spent trudging along muddy paths in drizzle and fog. I was thoroughly miserable long before we reached Birmingham.

  Our fortunes took a turn for the better thereafter, when we made passage on an empty coal barge returning along the canal to Manchester. Although the weather did not improve much, my mood certainly did. We were traveling in the right direction by a path unwatched by the law, and we were able to partially relax while doing so. My only real problem was maintaining the fiction that I was an itinerant worker, and I received some strange looks from the barge owner during the journey, although he said nothing to either myself or Holmes, being happy to take the money Holmes had offered for our freight.

  There was only one other matter of note before our investigations in Scotland began, and it happened in Crewe. By then Holmes had decided that we were sufficiently far north that we could risk taking a train the rest of the way. He stayed in the crowd on the northbound platform while I went to get tickets for the Glasgow train. And it was there, while standing in the queue, that I felt someone try to pick my pocket. Or so I thought. But when I put my hand down I felt a single piece of paper there.

  “Meet me here,” a soft Scots voice said. “I know who has done this to you.”

  I turned toward the voice, already too late, and caught a glimpse of a small figure part-running, part-limping away. When I went after him I lost him in the station forecourt and could not risk drawing attention to myself by giving chase at speed or by calling out. I went back to the ticket queue, keeping a close eye for anyone that might have noticed the encounter or might be watching me too closely. No one seemed to be interested. There was a policeman sitting on one of the benches by the door. but he was obviously off-duty, smoking a pipe and lost in a newspaper. I was able to buy our tickets north with no further ado.

  On returning to the platform I showed Holmes the page that had been so deftly placed in my pocket. It was another sheet that looked to have been roughly torn from the same book as the one I had received back in Baker Street.

  CALX was the heading. An illuminated drawing showed a young man, bound to a burning wheel by hands and feet in a figure X. He was smiling. Holmes studied it for some time before talking. He rubbed the paper between his fingers as he had done with the previous page.

  “It certainly feels as if it has come from the same source,” he said. “And it provides us with more alchemical clues. Calx is Latin for lime. In this case, it is a metaphor for calcination, or the process of purifying by heating. If you burn a body hot enough, it goes black, then, if you burn it even hotter, the ash turns white. Similarly, if you heat limestone, you’ll produce a white powder that the Romans called calx vita, or quicklime. This was considere
d a magical material, for, if you poured water on it, it gave out heat, effectively giving warmth back to the giver.”

  “And now I’m afraid I am lost again,” I said.

  “This one is relatively simple,” Holmes replied. “Look at the picture. Fire purifies. It is also a code that says, in effect, make quicklime. It will give heat back to the giver. And, beyond that, it symbolizes the fact that the adept must purify his soul before continuing.”

  He tapped at the picture.

  “It is from Greek mythology. Ixion was punished by Zeus. He tried to seduce Hera; for his presumption he was bound to a perpetual wheel of fire. But Ixion had seen the face of the Goddess, and although in eternal pain, was also eternally happy. Everything can be seen from two angles. Everything has at least two meanings.”

  I told Holmes what the vagrant had said about knowing who our adversary might be, and Holmes smiled.

  “And I believe I know where to go to find him,” he said, but he took some almost childlike delight in refusing to let me in on his latest secret. “You know me, Watson. I must confirm to my own satisfaction that I am right before I share the information.”

  Our train arrived shortly afterward, and Holmes went quiet. I thought discussion on the matter was finished for the moment, but once we had a carriage to ourselves he continued.

  “What we must ascertain is what part these gifts you have received play in this matter. I am of the opinion that they are clues, meant to lead us onward. But are they part of the solution … or part of the problem? That is the question that vexes me now.”

  This time he did fall quiet, and I smoked in silence for the remainder of the journey.

  Chapter 2

  EF

  Holmes had already intimated that Glasgow was not to be our final destination, but he did not allow me into his confidence until some time after we disembarked at Central Station. Firstly, though, we had to endure a walk past a small army of police officers, all intent on studying every disembarking passenger.

  “It seems we are expected,” Holmes whispered as we approached the ticket barrier. “Keep quiet, follow my lead, and be prepared to run if the need arises. There may be another sniper trying to flush us out.”

  I cursed him inwardly for reminding me of the fact, for all his warning achieved was to make me nervous, and I was sure that was going to be obvious to any of the police officers should they decided to take a closer look at us.

  The station itself was a noisy confusion of engine noise, smoke and excited passengers, but suddenly Holmes’ strident voice carried above them all. It was the most convincing Scots accent I had heard since my time on the line in Afghanistan with Corporal Black from Maryhill.

  “So I said to her, ‘Get away wi’ ye, woman, and stop talking such tripe,’ but ye ken wit women are like? She only went and skelped me ower the heid wi’ a pan. I was fair affronted, so I was, and …”

  Much to my amazement he kept on in that vein for several minutes as we reached the head of the queue and handed over our tickets. We walked through the crowded concourse and out into Union Street. No one stopped us, no one shot at us, and there were no police whistles in our wake.

  Holmes was obviously well pleased with this latest ruse.

  “I say, old man,” I whispered. “Wasn’t that a bit of a risk?”

  He laughed and half-dragged me across the busy thoroughfare and down a tall shaded alley I would not have entered of my own free will. “The bigger risk would have been to stay quiet. People see and hear what they expect to see and hear, and in a city like this, they expect the locals to talk, and loudly at that.”

  He herded me to a tall wooden door. It was only when he pushed it open that I heard the sound of laughter and smelled the smoke and ale. A sign I hadn’t previously noticed above the doorway told me what I had come to guess; we were about to enter a public bar, the Horseshoe. Holmes had a quick look round to make sure no one was paying any heed to us and ushered me inside.

  It turned out to be a large open barn of a place with much mahogany and some particularly fine large painted mirrors. It was also rather busy, but none of the clientele paid us much attention, intent as they were on their own drinking. Holmes walked up to the bar and, still in character, ordered ‘two pints of eighty-shilling and two pies.’ He leaned over and whispered something to the barman. Several coins passed from Holmes across the bar and were so quickly taken out of his hand and spirited away in the barman’s pocket that I believe I was the only person in the whole place to notice. We were quickly motioned through to a room at the rear of the building that contained little more than two armchairs, a small table and a fireplace. The barman winked at Holmes.

  “I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed, sirs,” he said and left us alone.

  Holmes immediately relaxed. “We’re clear, Watson, for now at least. George will keep any prying eyes away, and we are safer in here than just about any other place in the country.”

  “Holmes, you never cease to astonish me. You mean you are known, here in this bar?”

  Holmes smiled. “I have had several cases to solve for the industrialists in this fine city, before your time as my chronicler, of course, but this old place never changes much. And I have found over the years that this particular spot is an excellent central base of operations.”

  “But it is a public bar,” I replied.

  “Where better to hear from the public?” Holmes said laughing. “I also have arrangements with several other bar owners across the country. My web of information gathering has numerous strands, and this bar is at one of the junctions. Besides, George knows more than anyone about the doings of the criminal fraternity in this area, having been a pawnbroker of some ill repute before seeing the light and turning his hand to inn-keeping.”

  He took off his overcoat, dropped into one of the chairs and immediately looked as relaxed as if he was back Baker Street. I sat down opposite him and rolled a cigarette for each of us. Minutes later the barman—George. I presumed—brought a tray through with the beers and two piping-hot pies. The man left, dropping me another wink as he departed. “I’ll be back with some more beer after I’ve seen to your errands sir,” he said to Holmes, and Holmes acknowledged him with a wave.

  The pies, although they looked suspiciously gray inside, proved to be delicious and peppery although the meat was unidentifiable: possibly mutton, although I could not be sure. Much to my embarrassment, I managed to dribble a stream of hot grease down the sleeve of my jacket, which got another laugh from Holmes as I made an unsightly smear while trying to remove it.

  “A touch of verisimilitude I had not thought of, Watson. I may try it myself.”

  After eating Holmes took to the ale with relish. To my palate it seemed somewhat heavy on malt and syrup and had too little hop compared to the Fullers’ I was used to back in town, but after a while I grew accustomed to the taste and to my surprise polished it off quite rapidly.

  “We shall make a Scotsman of you yet, Watson,” Holmes said and, as if the beer had suddenly loosened his tongue, proceeded to run through his thoughts on the case so far.

  “I have been thinking,” he said. “And our recent close call at the ticket barrier has firmed up my thoughts. ‘People see and hear what they expect to see and hear.’ And therein lies the crux of the matter. Our adversary relied on that fact when he set his trap for me.”

  He took a proffered cigarette, lit it with a taper from the fireside and sucked on it contentedly before continuing.

  “He knew, of course, that I would be making a close study of everything that happened to the stricken lords … indeed, he counted on it. I draw your attention to the mouth movements in particular. That was a work of some genius.”

  My confusion must have shown, and Holmes smiled.

  “I did not think you had noticed, Watson. According to Mycroft, all of the stricken lords have been mouthing the same thing … a Latin phrase. Ab ovo usque ad mala.”

  “From eggs to apples. From Hor
ace?”

  “Yes, the Satire. But it also has been used in several alchemical texts, for the egg is commonly used to symbolize the macrocosm, but it also used to denote the beginning of all things; whereas apples represent forbidden knowledge, as in the Apples of the Hesperides. But even that is not the most relevant usage in this case. It seems we have a trickster at work against us Watson, for there is yet another place where those same words turn up—in the family motto of the common ancestor of the six lords, Angus Seton, Laird of Comrie. I made the connection—I saw what I wanted to see—and thus we were drawn into the trap.”

  George returned at that moment with two more of the strong beers. I started my second more cautiously, aware that a certain tiredness was setting in to my bones. Starting to relax was potentially dangerous in our current situation, but Holmes seemed to have become settled, at least for now, so I allow myself some laxity and sat back in the chair with a fresh smoke.

  “But, Holmes,” I said. “If it was a trap, then surely our opponent will have guessed that we will be searching for an answer here in Scotland?”

  Holmes nodded. “In fact, I am counting on it. Our only hope of clearing our names is to force a confrontation. Even before that, I want to ensure that we are the ones setting any traps from here on. But that is for tomorrow. Tonight, we shall rest up here and let George’s contacts do some legwork for us.”

  What with the ale and the seeping tiredness, I was almost asleep when George returned about an hour later.

  “You were right, Mister Holmes,” he said. “I have an address for you. It is an old medieval keep up a farm track in Limehouse.”

  “This Limehouse … it is where I thought it would be?”

  George laughed. “There’s not much gets past you, sir. Yes, it is a small hamlet just to the east of Comrie.”

  Once George left I asked Holmes what the significance of the last conversation had been, but he was again lost in thought, and I knew better than to interrupt. George also came back soon afterward with another two beers but I left mine alone; I had further questions before I could allow myself to sleep. But Holmes would say no more, merely referred me back to the latest piece of paper; the one that had been slipped into my pocket in Crewe.