Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories

by William Meikle

  I did as I was bid, although with some trepidation.

  “Don’t do it,” Lestrade said.

  “Sorry about this, Inspector,” I said. “But, as Holmes has explained, we are innocent of the charges against us. We just need a chance to prove it.”

  “You are not doing yourself any favors, Doctor,” Lestrade replied as I bound his hands. “We only have you as an accessory at the moment, but aiding and abetting means you are definitely throwing your career away.”

  “I’ll take my chances with Holmes,” I said.

  Lestrade was red in the face with anger. He strained at his bonds, but I had tied him quite securely.

  “Just make sure he doesn’t throw you out of a window, Doctor. You know how he is when he gets in a mood.”

  Holmes laughed bitterly. “I will remind you of that when I present you with the truth of the matter,” he said. “But for now, it is we who have the upper hand. I will see you again soon enough, Lestrade, and next time it is I who will have the answers, and you who shall have to provide an apology.”

  I finished tying up the other policemen’s hands, then I bound all three together by looping the longest stretch of rope in four tight rings around them. Lestrade continued to struggle.

  “I’ll have you locked up on bread and water for the rest of your life for this, Watson,” he said. “You have my promise on that.”

  The look in his eye convinced me he was telling the truth, but Holmes and I were too far in now for me to back down. Our only hope seemed to lie with the small Scotsman.

  Once satisfied the bonds would hold, Seton finally put down the weapon.

  “Thank you, Doctor; it’s a heavy beast to have to lug around. I had best leave it here, for we have a bit of traveling ahead of us. Are you ready for a run on the hills?” Without further explanation he left the room, obviously expecting us to follow.

  Holmes didn’t hesitate. He picked up the Gladstone bag and handed it to me. “Come, Watson. There are answers waiting for us.”

  The three of us ran out into the night.

  We did not go far. Having heard the Scotsman’s words inside, I was fully expecting to have to lug the Gladstone bag over hill and moor with Lestrade and his men in pursuit at our heels. Instead he led us quickly round to the rear of the keep. There was just enough light from the windows to show us a set of steps leading down into the ground.

  “A wee present from my ancestors,” the Scotsman whispered. “They too liked to hide things from the authorities.”

  As he turned away I heard him start to mutter to himself, and I remembered our first encounter. The cadence seemed exactly the same, and this time I could make out the words; a form of Gaelic, if I wasn’t mistaken, the meaning of which entirely eluded me.

  We went deep into the ground to what at first looked to be no more than a chamber for grain storage. He led us, almost blind in the dark, to the rear and slid a panel aside. He lit an oil lamp, the light almost blinding until our eyes adjusted, and we saw more steps going down beyond. Sliding the panel shut, he then led us further into the depths into what proved to be a warren of tunnels. As we passed entrances I saw barrels of ale and wine, and boxes, obviously imported from the Orient, that looked never to have been opened.

  Before I had time for further investigation, the passageway opened into a wider chamber. The air felt fresher here, and there was the slightest of breezes. The strangest thing of all, however, was the diagram that had been painted on the floor. A five-pointed star sat inside three concentric circles. Around the outermost ring ran a series of what looked to my untrained eye to be Arabic hieroglyphs, and along the inner track was painted an inscription in Gaelic. As the Scotsman started to mutter again I realized that he was muttering the words that were written on the floor.

  “Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.”

  The Scotsman saw me looking and stopped. “It may seem like a lot of hocus-pocus to you, Doctor, but I assure you it is necessary for my protection,” he said. “I will explain soon enough.”

  Two rough high-backed benches sat on either side of the fireplace, and the Scotsman bade us sit as he first lit and stoked a fire, then left us as he went to search for something in a side chamber. I realized that Holmes had not spoken since we left the keep above. He no longer looked like he might faint, but his face was still pale, and his brow was etched with what might have been concentration had it not looked so much like worry.

  “Are you quite well, old chap?” I asked.

  “Nothing a smoke will not cure, Watson,” he said, and managed a weak smile. I did not get a chance to question him further, for our host returned at that moment, carrying a whisky bottle and three glasses. He had also had a change of clothes and a wash that quite transformed him. The rags had gone, replaced by a fine tweed suit, and a pair of clean shoes covered his feet. The mere act of having combed his unruly mop of red hair and tying it back with a bow meant that we could see his face clearly for the first time. He had the brightest blue eyes I have seen, a wide smile and his teeth were straight and white. He acknowledged my obvious consternation with a grin.

  “Well met again, Doctor. I am right sorry for the subterfuge, and I assure you it was necessary. When we met before, you were not the only one in disguise. But if I am to tell my story, then we’ll need a dram or two, for it might take a wee while.”

  So it was Holmes and I sat there deep under a Scottish keep, sipping whisky, smoking my hastily rolled cigarettes, and listening to the most outlandish tale that had ever reached our ears.

  “First things first,” he began. “We have not yet been formally introduced.”

  He took a cigarette from me when I proffered, and he used a long taper lit from the fire to get it going, puffing smoke contentedly before continuing.

  “My name is Angus Seton, and I am what you might call the master of this fine place. As you are aware by now, my family are regarded as experts in some esoteric fields of research and have been involved in the study of occult practices for many centuries. My own story, insofar as it concerns your predicament, starts seven years ago and involves the search for one strand of that knowledge.”

  He took a long sip from the whisky, which I must admit was remarkable stuff, being peaty, fiery, and smooth all at once, and giving one a warm internal glow that lasted long after the liquor had passed the lips. I had to watch what I was doing, as it would have been all too easy to take a dive into that particular bottle.

  “I received a letter that summer,” Seton continued. “It came from Durham, from the University, and showed a great deal of knowledge and erudition. The initial inquiry was regarding the Philosopher’s Stone, but the writer, over the course of several dozen letters, ranged widely over a variety of topics. It became apparent that he not only knew my family history, but also that he was particularly interested in the areas of research that related to the transmigration of souls.

  “Now, I myself have always been a practical man, believing that the final goal of the research in the Seton family history was mainly a matter purely of chemistry; that longevity was a goal that could be achieved with the right combination of chemical compounds and experimentation. But the letter writer proposed a more spiritual path, one where immortality of the body could be fused with an illuminated mind to produce what he called the perfect man. I disagreed with him, of course, but his letters were so informed, so erudite, that I could not help but be impressed.

  “We went backward and forward, corresponding for several years. He was obviously proceeding apace with his own experimentation, and I sensed a growing excitement in his writings; he believed he was close to achieving his goal.

  “Then, in the spring of ’ninety-one, the letters suddenly stopped.”

  Holmes twitched at that, as if he had been given a fresh shock, but when I looked his way he dismissed me with a wave of the hand, and indicated to Seton that he should continue. The Scotsman took the break
in his tale as a chance to refill our glasses, and I, for one, was not about to turn down more of that fine liquor. I sipped at it, savoring the heat that in some ways was even more comforting than that being given out from the fire. Sitting here in the Highlands on such a night, one could well see how the uisque came to become so much a part of the locals’ life. I pulled myself out of the momentary reverie; our host had started up his tale from where he left off.

  “There were no more letters after the spring of ’ninety-one,” Seton continued. “But I was to find he was far from finished with me. And here my tale becomes passing strange, and I fear it might seem most unusual, if not completely outlandish, but please bear with me. I promise you it is pertinent to your current predicament.

  “I had quite forgotten my correspondence with the gentleman, beyond occasionally wondering why the letters had stopped coming. I was soon to wish I could forget him completely.

  “It started in the summer of ’ninety-four. I was sitting in my study, going over a passage in the Concordances, when the first attack came. It manifested itself as little more than a bad headache at first, then as a crushing pressure inside my skull such that I felt my head might implode. All at once I felt a presence, an obviously alien thing creeping through my mind, and it was only with the full force of my will that I was able to repel it. And somehow I knew the source of the attack; my correspondent had indeed found a means to migrate his soul. The trouble was, he was trying to migrate his essence into my body—and I was still resident.”

  I was finding Seton’s tale more and more difficult to follow, possibly a result of the Scotch, but more likely because it had slipped into the area of the esoteric, with which I was completely unfamiliar and of which, if truth be told, more than a tad skeptical. I was about to voice my feelings when Holmes put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Let us hear him out, Watson,” he said. “I believe we need to.”

  Seton nodded. “That you do, and I shall get to the point soon enough. But first, let me go back to those early attacks on me in ’ninety-four. As I have said, by some means unknown to me consciously, I knew that the source of the attack was the letter-writer in Durham. I did not at first understand why, but since then I have developed a theory that I shall get to in good time. However my family has not studied arcane matters all these centuries for no return, and I was quickly able to mount a defense using a Gaelic chant from deep antiquity. Using that, and utilizing the power of the pentacle that you have already seen on the floor, I was able to keep the attacks at bay.”

  I believe I let out a disbelieving harrumph at that, but Seton did not seem to take offense. He continued after a long sip of his Scotch.

  “Doctor Watson has already spotted that I am prone to muttering the protection spell at inopportune moments, but I assure you it is most necessary, for the attacks are strong and frequent. Back then at the start they came even faster, but when it became apparent that I was not about to succumb, the man in Durham—which is how I always thought of him, for I never learned his name—changed tack. Having failed with me, he took to making attempts on people with the same bloodline … my family.

  “My first intimation of this came at a wedding. Young John, a nephew barely twenty-three and full of life, was so happy at his betrothal to a sweet lass from Dunfermline. After the vows we all went to the Church Hall for the dancing. John came over, shook my hand and looked me in the eye. The change came on him fast; his mouth went slack, his eyes went dead, and he started to mouth soundless words. Then, mere seconds later, he fell, stone-dead in my arms.”

  Seton paused to wipe away a sudden tear before continuing.

  “He was only the first of many. Over that first year I lost ten family members, all male, all cut off in the prime of life. And all the same way, according to the reports of those present at the deaths. At the same time the attacks on me continued apace, and I was sorely weakened through having to constantly defend myself. I decided that I could not wait for everyone I knew and loved to die around me, so I went looking for the source.

  “I traveled to Durham in hope, but it ended in despair, for I had scarcely been there an hour when I discovered that the man I sought was dead—perished in May of ’ninety-one.”

  I believed I was starting to see where this was going, and I did not like the thought, not one bit. And as ever, Holmes had been ahead of me for some time. He took the sheaf of letters from his pocket.

  “I knew it as soon as I saw your letters,” Holmes said. “I would know that hand anywhere, despite the lack of a signature.”

  He handed the papers to me. My eye was immediately drawn to the over-elaborate letter inscribed at the bottom of the top one.

  A single letter.

  M … for Moriarty.

  Chapter 3

  EF

  I was so dumbfounded that I was unable to speak for several seconds, and Holmes was lost in thought staring into the fire and chewing on a cigarette. Seton filled the empty space.

  “Yes, Mister Holmes. As you have surmised, it was indeed Professor Moriarty with whom I was in correspondence, although I did not know it myself until my trip to Durham. And I now believe that you can piece most of the rest of the tale together for yourself. Moriarty’s body may have perished at those Falls where you so nearly met your doom, but his spirit lives on. It lives on, and it is looking for a body to inhabit permanently. My body, to be precise.”

  I recalled Holmes’ expression. Something does not ring true.

  He gave voice to it before I could.“And Moriarty, having returned from the Great Beyond, has decided to spend his immortality in having some sport with myself and some distant relatives of yours in the House of Lords while waiting for you to stop fighting him? Is that your story?”

  Seton did not reply. He and Holmes appraised each other for long seconds, like two old dogs deciding whether a fight was worth the effort. In the end Holmes’ iron will won through, and Seton sighed deeply.

  “I should have known better than to try to outfox Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “But I have not lied to you—merely been rather economical with the truth. For, you see, I was afraid you might not listen to my tale if I told you Moriarty’s real goal.”

  “Which is?” Holmes asked.

  Seton drank almost a full glass of Scotch before replying, and when he did speak it was in the most matter-of-fact manner that made his subsequent statement all the more incredible.

  “There is a specific reason why he wants my body in particular. When I said my family has been researching the arcane for many centuries, I was not quite accurate. I really should have said that I have been. I was born in the year fourteen eighty-three, in Port Seton near Edinburgh, and I know the secret of immortality.”

  Of course, that kind of thing is a bit of a conversation-stopper. Holmes recovered his composure before I did.

  “You are right, of course; such a statement does raise more questions than answers. But if you ask me to believe that Moriarty’s spirit is still somewhere in the ether looking for a body, then it is but a small leap of deduction from that to believing the totality of the tale. And I have a feeling that if we are to resolve this matter then we must proceed as if what you say is true, until proven otherwise.”

  “But alchemy is nothing but gibberish and gobbledy-gook,” I said. “I know; I’ve tried to read some of the manuscripts, back when I was a student and much more fanciful.”

  “Gibberish,” Seton said, pouring himself yet another whisky. “Even that word has an alchemical history. The word comes from the name of an eighth-century Islamic alchemist, Jabir ibn Hayyan, the same man who described the making of stained glass. His name was Latinized as Geber. He wrote in a mangled verse so convoluted and strange that it coined the word. And since him, alchemists have always hidden their secrets in code.”

  “You mean all that nonsense about pelicans and pheasants actually means something?”

  “Well, in most texts, the pelican is shown stabbing its breast with its beak and nour
ishing its young with its own blood. It symbolizes self-sacrifice and the abandonment of worldly things with no thought of consequence. But the pelican is also the name for a piece of apparatus. Double, and even triple, meanings abound. Even after you had deciphered the code, you would still have to struggle through all the possible symbolic meanings to get to the heart of it and find the truth.”

  “And you are claiming you did?”

  Seton nodded in agreement. “Although there is no way right now for me to prove it to you, beyond reciting history that only someone who has lived it would know. Can you just trust me in this, Doctor? For tonight at least?”

  I owed him something for his whisky. I raised a glass in agreement and he continued.

  “As soon as I heard of the maladies afflicting the Lords I knew Moriarty was up to some mischief; but the nature of that plot escapes me even now. I do not believe it was done solely for the purpose of having you put under suspicion.”

  “Agreed,” Holmes said. “Although it must suit his purposes to have me out of London for a while.”

  Holmes turned to me. “Well, old friend. It seems we are deep in those murky waters I mentioned a while back. What say you? Shall we return to London and clear our names?”

  “Certainly,” I replied. “Although I don’t know how that can be managed.”

  “Neither do I,” Holmes said and laughed. “But with an immortal at our side how can we fail?”

  Seton joined in the laughter. For a while we had quite forgotten our predicament, but we were brought back to earth with a bump when Seton motioned us to be quiet. Somewhere above us we heard shouting, as if coming from a far distance.

  “Just keep quiet for a minute or two,” Seton said. “It seems the Scotland Yard boys have finally slipped their bonds. But they’ll never find us here. They think we’re off and running in the hills, mark my words.”

  The sounds soon faded, leaving us sitting in silence. It seemed that Seton had been right in his assessment of the policemen’s actions.