Sherlock Holmes Read online

  He turned, wild-eyed, at the sound of my howling approach, bringing both fists up to his face to form a defensive shield as I swung my club hard at his head. It rebounded off his forearms, and the man grunted something in German before swaying, first left, then right, then lashing out with his fist before I’d had a chance to recover from my swing.

  He caught me hard in the jaw and I staggered back, reeling from the blow. I felt warm blood streaming down my chin from a split lip. A second blow, this time in the gut, doubled me over. I was old and out of practice, no longer used to trading blows, particularly with a man less than half my age.

  I heard Holmes issue a cry of pain and my resolve hardened. I gripped my cane firmly, still bent double, and as the man came close, preparing to strike me upon the back of the neck to put me down, I lurched upwards, thrusting the cane up as hard as I could and catching him under the chin.

  He was caught off guard, and dropped to the floor, choking. A second blow across the temple laid him out upon the floor, suddenly limp.

  Holmes and the third man were standing, but Holmes had the upper hand, pinning the attacker’s arms behind his back. As he struggled to get free I came around to stand before him. He grinned inanely, lurching forward in Holmes’s grip so that his face was close to mine, and spat.

  Disgusted, I wiped the spittle from my cheek with the sleeve of my jacket. “Hold him still, Holmes,” I said.

  “I am trying, Watson,” said Holmes.

  I flexed my fingers, formed a fist, and then put the remaining man down with a swift right hook.

  Holmes staggered back, looking relieved. I could see his cheek was swelling where he’d taken a blow to the face. I dabbed at my own bloody lip with my handkerchief.

  “Not bad for a couple of old-timers,” I muttered.

  “Not bad at all, Watson,” agreed Holmes, with a chuckle. He fished in his coat pocket for a moment, before producing a coiled length of twine. “Now quickly, help me to bind them before they wake.”

  I had long ago learned not to be surprised by the oddities that Holmes carried in his capacious pockets, and I set about assisting him, binding the feet and hands of the three unconscious men.

  “Do you think these are the three Germans who were questioned by Grange?” I asked, as I finished tightening my final knot. “Baxter’s employees?”

  Holmes straightened his back, dusting off his hands. He’d just dragged two of the men a little further apart, so that if and when they did wake, they wouldn’t be able to easily assist one another. “Quite possibly,” he said, “although I’d wager there are many more associated with his organisation, German and British alike.”

  I shook my head in disgust. I could barely conceive of how a man could betray his own country in such a manner. I wondered what Baxter hoped to gain.

  “What now?” I said. “Wait until they come around and put them to the question?”

  “No,” replied Holmes. “Men like this – they’re unswerving in their loyalty to their cause. Extracting anything worthwhile from them will take days, if, indeed, we’re able to get anything out of them at all. Neither is it safe for us to remain down here too long. It’s likely there are other access points elsewhere in the street.” He looked rueful, rubbing at his bruised cheek. “I’m not sure how many more of them I could comfortably take on.”

  I didn’t point out that it had been my trusty walking cane that had done most of the work for us.

  Holmes took a step back as the man at his feet began to stir, emitting a low groan. “Be a good fellow, Watson, and hurry on up to the bank. You should be able to locate a telephone in one of the offices, from which you can put a call through to Inspector Foulkes, requesting his urgent assistance. These men need to be taken into immediate custody. Also impress upon him the importance of sending yet more men to arrest both Henry Baxter and Seaton Underwood. We mustn’t allow them to flee, which they surely shall once they realise that we have discovered their lair. I shall remain here until you return with news.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Be mindful, Holmes.” I hurried for the tunnel that led back up to the bank.

  I stumbled up the gloomy passage, emerging a few moments later into the vault. Everything appeared to be as we had left it. Cautiously, I rounded the trunk and crept out into the small room on the other side. I was still clutching my cane like a club, and its weight was reassuring in my palm. I was half expecting someone to jump out at me as I came through the door, but the place appeared to be deserted.

  I dashed on, up the next passage, through the loading area at the rear of the bank, and out into the dimly lit foyer. There was a telephone on one of the desks, and I made for it, snatching up the receiver and waiting for the operator to come on the line.

  “Scotland Yard,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the woman on the other end.

  The line burred for a moment, before a man answered. “Scotland Yard,” he said, wearily. “Sergeant Hawley speaking.”

  “I need to speak to Inspector Foulkes as a matter of urgency,” I said. “My name is Dr. John Watson—”

  “Ah, Dr. Watson,” interrupted the man on the other end. “So you received the Inspector’s message?”

  “His message? What?” I snapped, confused. “No, I’ve not received any message.”

  “The Inspector’s been trying to reach you and Mr. Holmes. It seems there’s been an incident. Sir Maurice Newbury called about an hour ago. He’s at the home of Professor Angelchrist and he says the Professor is in danger. He said it was paramount that we reached you.”

  “Good Lord,” I said. “You’d better put me through to Foulkes immediately.”

  “I can’t, sir. He’s already left,” replied Hawley. “I can give you the address…”

  “Yes, yes, in a minute,” I said. “But I’m calling for assistance. I need help, man, as a matter of urgency. Holmes and I are at Tidwell Bank, where we’ve apprehended and detained three German agents. You need to send men right away to take them into custody and secure the bank.”

  “Tidwell Bank?”

  “Yes,” I said, impatiently. “Additionally, you should send someone to arrest Mr. Henry Baxter, the owner of the bank, as well as Mr. Seaton Underwood of Ravensthorpe House.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Conspiracy to murder, and treason,” I said.

  I heard Hawley swallow. “Those are serious charges, Dr. Watson.”

  “And there’ll be serious consequences if they’re allowed to go free,” I countered. “Consider this – which is the bigger risk? To trust me, a well-respected figure with a history of assisting Scotland Yard with their investigations, and hope that I haven’t accused the wrong men, or potentially to allow two murderous traitors to escape?”

  “I’ll despatch the men now,” said Hawley. “An officer will be with you shortly.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Right, you’d better give me that address. We’ll remain here until your men arrive, then Holmes and I will head directly to the Professor’s house.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll try to reach the Inspector on the Professor’s number in the meantime. Here’s the address.” He read it out, and I scratched it down on the back of an envelope I found on the desk.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said, before hanging up the phone.

  I hurried back to Holmes, my mind reeling at the news of Professor Angelchrist’s perilous situation. What the devil was going on? Had Angelchrist been targeted by this bizarre German cult? His spectrograph had been amongst those on the altar in the undercroft.

  I found Holmes standing by the altar, studying the objects on the table. One of the Germans had come round and was struggling ineffectually in his bonds, grunting and twitching as he tried to wrestle free. The others – the two I had hit with my walking stick – were still out cold.

  “What news?” said Holmes, turning to look at me as I approached.

  “The police are on their way,” I said. “We’re to meet them by the front
door in a few minutes.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes.

  “There’s more,” I said. “Foulkes wasn’t there. A sergeant told me that he’d been trying to reach us for an hour. Something’s wrong. He’s with Newbury at Professor Angelchrist’s house, where there’s been some sort of incident. I have the address. We’re needed there as soon as possible.”

  Holmes nodded thoughtfully, taking it in. “That makes sense,” he said.

  “It does?”

  The German on the ground had stopped struggling, and was now peering up at us, laughing. “You’re too late,” he said, his accent thick and clipped. “The spirit box will be ours.”

  “The spirit box?” I exclaimed. I glanced at Holmes, whose expression remained impassive. I crossed to where the German was lying on the dirty floor, his hands bound behind his back. He grinned up at me defiantly. “Explain yourself,” I demanded, but the man simply laughed again, turning his head away and spitting, as if to indicate his disgust.

  “You damnable muck snipe,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  “Come, Watson,” said Holmes, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Leave him. Let us wait for the police in the foyer, and from there, make haste to the Professor’s house. Soon, everything will become clear.” He started off toward the tunnel.

  Reluctantly I followed on behind, feeling as if the answer to all that had been occurring was only just out of my reach.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Within ten minutes of my telephone call, a veritable army of uniformed constables arrived at the bank, along with an inspector by the name of Cuthbertson – a dour, po-faced fellow who was barely out of his twenties, and wore a long, scruffy moustache, which perched upon his top lip like a hairy caterpillar.

  Like many policemen of his age, Cuthbertson seemed somewhat in awe of Holmes, and hung intently on his every word as Holmes slowly and deliberately outlined the situation. Nevertheless, he proved most efficient, and his men, armed with electric torches, had soon scoured the undercroft and taken our three German prisoners into custody.

  It appeared there was, indeed, another entrance to the subterranean system, this time leading from the basement of a nearby insurance brokerage firm. Cuthbertson stationed some of his men there while he despatched one of his sergeants to investigate the name of the property’s owner.

  Sergeant Hawley had briefed Cuthbertson regarding Foulkes’s instruction for us to meet him at the home of Professor Angelchrist, and consequently Cuthbertson offered us the loan of a police carriage to expedite our journey. I had no doubt that the following day Holmes and I would be called to the station for a more robust round of questioning regarding our evening’s little adventure, but for now, Foulkes’s word seemed good enough to ensure we did not find ourselves encumbered with unnecessary bureaucracy.

  Outside, I gave the driver the address provided to me by Sergeant Hawley – a residential street close to Berkeley Square – and Holmes and I hopped up into the carriage. A rainstorm had started up while we’d been occupied inside the bank, and the water droplets drummed noisily on the roof of the passenger box as we charged through the streets, the driver whipping the horse up into a lather.

  I wondered what could have happened to the Professor, whether the Germans had made an attempt on his life, and if so, for what purpose. I found it difficult to imagine what ends they were working towards. Angelchrist was well connected amongst men of a political persuasion, that much was clear, but surely his years of active service were now long behind him? I couldn’t see what they hoped to achieve by threatening the man. Whatever the case, it had to be connected to our ongoing investigation. Why else would both Foulkes and Newbury request our urgent presence?

  Holmes remained silent as we thundered on, slouching back in his seat. His hands were folded neatly upon his lap, his head bowed so that his chin rested upon his chest. His eyes were closed in quiet contemplation. I imagined he was pondering many of the same questions as I, but I knew better than to disturb his train of thought. Down in the undercroft he had intimated that he was close to a solution, suggesting that everything would soon become clear. I hoped that was true. Presently, it felt as if I was wading through thick fog, unable to discern anything clearly.

  I was still somewhat taken aback by the revelation that both Baxter and Underwood were working for the Germans, but aside from that, I was yet to fully grasp their motives, let alone the esoteric nature of their methods. Additionally, of course, there was the question of the spirit box, whatever that might turn out to be.

  I was so lost in my thoughts that I failed to realise the carriage had come to a stop. I peered out of the rain-beaded window to realise, with a start, that we had arrived at our destination.

  Holmes had already roused himself and was getting to his feet. Following suit, I opened the carriage door and hopped down into the street. Above, the night sky was leaden and smeared with rainclouds.

  “That’s the one, sir,” said the driver, pointing toward a large, three-storey house at the end of a terrace.

  “Thank you,” I said, as Holmes came around to the other side of the carriage.

  “Let us hurry, Watson,” he said. “Professor Angelchrist could be in grave danger.”

  Anxious to assist in any way that I could – and also to get out of the rain – I half ran, half walked across to the house in question, noticing as I did so that Foulkes’s automobile was parked just a little further down the street.

  The door was pillar-box red and recently painted. I rapped loudly with the gargoyle-headed knocker.

  Hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway, and a moment later the door opened to reveal an ashen-faced Inspector Foulkes. “Ah, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson – you are most welcome,” he said. “Hawley called to say he’d managed to get hold of you. Come in, come in.” He stood aside as he ushered us into the house.

  It was a little like entering a time capsule. The hallway was dressed in the style of twenty years previous, although the place certainly felt well lived in: a jacket had been tossed haphazardly over the end of the banister; an empty glass stood discarded beside a comb on the hall table; opened envelopes had been screwed up and dropped in a small wastepaper bin.

  I could hear the muffled sound of voices coming from a room a little further down the hallway. I glanced at Foulkes. His eyes met mine. I could see he was troubled. “What is it?” I said. “What’s happened to him? Does he need medical attention?”

  Foulkes shook his head. “No. At least… I don’t think so. The thing is, Dr. Watson, he’s out of his mind, raving incoherently. Newbury thinks he might represent a real danger to himself.”

  I looked at Holmes, who was quietly assimilating this information.

  “What’s more,” continued Foulkes, “his behaviour matches the description Miss Brown gave of how Herbert Grange was acting on the day of his death. It’s almost identical. He just keeps going over the same things, about how he has to stop ‘them’ from getting to the spirit box.” He knitted his brows in a deep, concerned furrow. “I have no idea what he’s going on about, to be honest, but it was this that prompted Newbury to send for you. He said it was connected to your case.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “You’d better show us through.”

  Foulkes nodded. “They’re in the Professor’s study, just down there.”

  Holmes made haste toward the sound of voices.

  “Did Sergeant Hawley fill you in on what transpired at Tidwell Bank?” I said to Foulkes, as we followed behind.

  “Yes,” replied Foulkes. “He said you’d apprehended some German agents, operating from a cellar beneath the bank. What exactly were they up to?”

  “A church undercroft in fact,” I said. “And Holmes will explain it better than I. But it’s a damnable business, Inspector. It seems Henry Baxter is a traitor who has been leading some sort of devilish cult. They’ve been selecting high-profile victims, such as Grange and Professor Angelchrist, as the objects of their unholy attentions.”


  “So you believe the Professor’s current situation to be related to Baxter?” asked Foulkes.

  “Undoubtedly,” I confirmed. “Although as to what exactly is going on, I fear I’m still as much in the dark as you.”

  “But surely, as a medical man, you don’t put any stock in talk of witchcraft and sorcery?”

  He held open the door for me. “Honestly, Inspector,” I said, stepping through into the study, “I no longer know what to believe.”

  We found Holmes standing with Newbury, and both men were observing Professor Angelchrist, who was pacing back and forth behind a large desk, drumming his fingertips against the sides of his head.

  The room – Angelchrist’s study – was something really quite exceptional. If Holmes’s old sitting room at Baker Street had existed in a perpetual state of disarray, then this room represented utter, unadulterated chaos. It was more like the storage room of an eclectic, disorganised museum, than any place a person might actually inhabit.

  Maps plastered the walls, stuck with colourful pins and marked with lines of string, showing routes across the city and beyond. Bookcases burst with frayed leather-bound tomes, and other, unusual knick-knacks – the fossilised hand of a bear, a roman brooch, a quill pen with a vibrant orange feather, a wax seal, an unsheathed sabre. The life-sized model of a Neanderthal man was propped in one corner, staring at us forlornly from beneath his heavy brow and holding his hand aloft, where clearly it had once held a club. A grandfather clock ticked ominously from where it stood against the far wall, almost hidden behind a pile of crates. The contents were hidden, save for the crate on top, in which I could see the bleached skull of a large mammal, surrounded by packing paper. Most peculiarly, a clockwork owl sat on a perch that hung from the ceiling, preening its brass feathers and turning its head to regard us as we entered the room.

  “I must stop them! I must!” called Angelchrist suddenly, causing me to start. He turned and looked at me, wild-eyed, still holding his fingers to his temples as if warding off an evil thought. “They can see it,” he mumbled, his expression pained. “They know where to look.”