Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  Holmes raised a single eyebrow, and then tossed the book he’d been reading onto the floor. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet by my feet. He turned, stretching out upon the divan like a luxuriating cat, resting his slippered feet upon the arm.

  I shook my head in resigned dismay. “How is your investigation going?” I asked. “It looks as if you’ve barely left the drawing room these past two days. Your search for Mr Xavier Gray is not, I presume, proving easy.”

  Holmes glanced at me, a thin smile forming upon his lips. “Oh, I’d say the investigation is proceeding quite as planned, Watson. The matter has my full attention.”

  I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief. Despite living with Holmes for many long years and chronicling all of his most notable investigations, his methods could still seem opaque to me.

  “What time is lunch?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. “I’m famished and in need of one of Mrs Hudson’s hearty broths.” I knew it was a liberty, but I felt I’d earned it after the events of the following evening, and besides, it looked as if Holmes could do with a square meal. Perhaps if I stayed to accompany him, he might actually eat.

  “You shall not be disappointed, Watson, if you have it in you to bide your time in that chair for another twenty-six minutes. Beef stew, I believe, with dumplings.”

  “Ah, my favourite! Let me guess,” I said, grinning. “You heard Mrs Hudson place the pot upon the stove, and, over recent months— if not years—you’ve worked to memorised her routine from the very sounds she makes as she toils. Now, you’re able to fathom her every movement from the noises issuing from the basement, and predict the dish and the exact moment upon which she will serve luncheon?”

  Holmes gave a cheerful guffaw. “Close, Watson. Very close. She came to inform me just a few moments before you arrived—four minutes, in fact—that she would be serving beef stew, with dumplings, in half an hour’s time.”

  I could not suppress a chuckle. “Well, I’d better pop down and ask if she wouldn’t mind setting another place,” I said, moving to rise from my chair.

  “No need,” said Holmes, waving his pipe, “I attended to that yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” I asked, incredulous. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean that I asked Mrs Hudson to make a special effort to prepare a hearty lunch—your favourite stew, in fact—given that you’d be stopping by after what undoubtedly would have proved to have been a harrowing night on Cheyne Walk, grappling with monsters and such like.” He struck a match with a flourish and lit his pipe.

  “You astound me, Holmes,” was about as much as I could muster.

  He was still laughing when Mrs Hudson called us to the dining room for lunch.

  * * *

  Following my visit to Baker Street, still a little baffled by Holmes’ unflappable mood and his apparent lack of progress in his case, I dropped in at my club to pass a few hours of quiet reflection. Duly restored, I called home to collect my revolver—carefully cleaned that morning—before setting out to meet Newbury and the others at Cheyne Walk. It was dark by then and the streets already had an abandoned, desolate air; a thick, syrupy fog had descended along with the darkness to smother everything in its damp embrace, sending the pedestrian population scuttling to the warmth of their homes.

  We’d agreed to meet at the very same spot at which we’d encountered the strange machine the previous evening. Logic dictated that this was the most likely place for us to lay our trap. We had, while sat around the fire drinking brandy in Newbury’s drawing room, discussed the possibility that the pilot might select a different stretch of the embankment to make his ascent that night, following his surprise confrontation with our little band. Miss Hobbes had argued, however, that there must have been some reason why he should so far have chosen to scale the walls at that particular point. All of the witness reports confirmed such was his habit. We’d decided between us that it would therefore make sense for us to stage our trap in the vicinity.

  I was, as yet, unaware of the nature of this trap, and it wasn’t until I rounded the corner of Cheyne Walk and saw the spectacle of it laid out before me that I began to get some sense of what Newbury had planned.

  A large, box-shaped construct, about the height of a man and twice as wide again, sat squat at the far end of the street. Black smoke curled from the top of it, forming a dark, oily smudge, and even from ten feet away I could feel the heat of its furnace and smell the acrid stench of burning coal. The noise, too, was horrendous: a whirring, clacking cacophony, the sound of spinning turbines, powered by steam. Thick bunches of copper cable coiled from the belly of the portable generator, and a man with tufts of wild white hair was stretching them out upon the pavement, hands sheathed in thick rubber gloves. The cables sparked and popped with the violent electricity that coursed through them. Newbury stood over his shoulder, overseeing proceedings, and Miss Hobbes stood off to one side, watching the river for any signs of movement.

  I coughed politely to announce my presence.

  “Dr Watson!” Newbury called cheerfully, looking up for a moment from what the other man was doing. I was startled to see his expression alter suddenly from apparent pleasure to immediate concern. “Now, don’t move an inch!”

  I glanced down to see that, in my haste to join the others, I had strayed dangerously close to one of the live cables. My left boot was only a fraction of an inch from brushing against it, and the slightest adjustment in my posture would have seen thousands of volts hungrily discharge into my body

  Cautiously, I edged away from the live wire until I was comfortable enough to breathe a sigh of relief. I moved over to join Newbury and the man I took to be Aldous Renwick. “So you’re planning to electrocute it?” I asked, impressed by the machinery they’d been able to erect in just a few hours.

  “Quite so, Dr Watson. When that mechanical beast finds itself entangled in these electrified cables, the resulting surge of power should render it temporarily immovable,” replied Newbury.

  “Yes, and temporarily deadly to the touch, too,” said the other man, gruffly. He straightened his back, laying the last of the cables into position and turning to face me. “When that happens, the last thing you should do is consider touching the machine itself. If you do, you’ll be blown clear into the river by the resulting shock. They’ll be fishing you out with a net.”

  Newbury laughed. “Dr Watson, meet my good friend, Aldous Renwick.”

  “A pleasure,” I said, taking his hand.

  In truth, I find it difficult to select words with which to adequately describe the appearance of such a unique and eccentric individual. Aldous Renwick defied easy interpretation. As I have already described, his hair was a wild, wispy mess upon his head, and he was unshaven, his lower face covered in wiry grey bristles. His teeth were yellowed from tobacco smoke and his complexion was that of a fifty-year-old, although I placed him closer to forty. He was dressed in an ill-fitting shirt, open at the collar, over which he wore a thick leather smock, such as one a butcher might don while carving meat. Most disturbing of all, however, was the appearance of his left eye, or rather the object embedded in the socket where his left eye should have been.

  At first I had assumed that Renwick was wearing a jeweller’s magnifying glass, using it to examine the electrical cables with which he had been busying himself, but upon closer inspection I saw that the lens was, in fact, an integral part of the man’s face. The device had been inserted into the vacant socket where his eyeball had once been: an artificial replacement, much like a glass eye, but significantly more practical. I soon realised that, although it might have appeared a little ungainly to some, the false eye actually enabled Renwick to see.

  I studied the device for a moment as it whirred and clicked, turning as if by its own volition. Deep inside, behind the curved glass lens, a tiny pinprick of fierce red light burned inside his skull. I wondered who had constructed and installed such a thing. It was at once remarkable and utterly disconcerting.

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p; Renwick grinned, his face creasing with a thousand lines. “It’s impressive, isn’t it, Doctor?”

  “It most certainly is, Mr Renwick. Quite remarkable. Tell me, does it offer the same clarity of vision as the original eye?”

  Renwick shrugged. “It suits my needs,” he said, glancing over at Newbury. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”

  Newbury grinned. “Now to wait for the beast.”

  We fell back from the edge of the embankment, Miss Hobbes and I posted at opposite ends of the street to ensure that no innocent civilians inadvertently strayed into our trap, just as I had almost done a few moments earlier. The temperature had dropped dramatically, but I’d come prepared for a long wait, and had even thought to bring along a hip flask filled with brandy. I was careful to take only the shortest of warming nips, however, as I did not wish to face the infernal machine again while inebriated.

  Hours passed. I began to grow weary. I could see the others growing impatient, also, stamping their feet and pacing up and down, anxious for something to occur. At one point Newbury abandoned his post to join me for a moment. I offered him my hip flask, which he received gratefully, taking a long draw. “Perhaps we scared him off,” he said, studying the oily river, which stretched away into the night like a black ribbon. “Perhaps he isn’t coming back tonight?”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, noncommittally.

  “Another hour,” he said, quietly. “We’ll give it another hour.” He trudged off to join Aldous Renwick beneath the cover of the trees.

  In the event, it was closer to two before we heard the approach of the bestial machine. Just as the previous night, the first warning was a sound like chains being ratcheted through metal eyelets. I watched, wide-eyed, as the first of the tentacular limbs snaked over the top of the embankment wall. This was swiftly followed by another, and then another, and then finally the hulking body of the submersible, water streaming down its sides as it hauled itself from the river.

  “Stay back!” called Newbury, and I admit that I had no desire to disobey his order. I could feel the trepidation like a dead weight in my belly. What if the trap didn’t work? What if the machine proved impervious to the electrical storm, or the pilot chose to take an alternative route entirely? It would all have been for nothing. Worse, we might all have found ourselves once more in terrible danger.

  Newbury, of course, was not leaving anything to chance. I watched, surprised, as he suddenly produced a hurricane lantern from somewhere beside him, raising the shutters so that bright, yellow light spilled out, encapsulating him in a glowing orb.

  He marched forward, towards the electrical cables, waving the lantern above his head as if he were a matador taunting a bull.

  “Maurice, be careful,” I heard Miss Hobbes call out in the gloom, and I noted the edge of warning in her tone.

  The machine started forward, and then stopped, as if the pilot was uneasy about this unexpected development.

  “Over here!” shouted Newbury, waving the lantern back and forth. “Over here!”

  The pilot seemed to make up his mind then and the submersible swept forward, its tentacles grinding across the pavement as it charged at Newbury.

  With a triumphant cry, Newbury skipped backwards, leading the mechanical beast on.

  The sound when the first of the tentacles struck the copper cables was like a thunderclap, a deafening blow that left me reeling with shock. The accompanying flash of sudden, sparking light was almost too much to bear, and I squeezed my eyes shut as it seared my retinas. For a moment everything seemed to take on a dream-like quality as, struck suddenly deaf and blind, I tried to regain my senses.

  When I opened my eyes again a few moments later, the sight was utterly breathtaking.

  Unable to halt its momentum, the submersible had slid fully onto the copper cables and was now caught in the full brunt of the electrical discharge. Blue lightning flickered over every surface, crawling like snakes across the carapace. The tentacles leapt and danced, thrashing about uncontrollably at the mercy of the current. The entirety of Cheyne Walk was lit up by the deadly—but irrefutably beautiful—storm.

  “Halt the current!” I heard Newbury bellow, and Renwick rushed to the generator, forcing the lever into the “off” position. A few moments later, the submersible stuttered, gave a last, violent shudder, and then collapsed in a heap upon the ground.

  I withdrew my revolver from my pocket and rushed over to where the others were gathering around the downed machine. Miss Hobbes was first to the site, and seemed about to clamber up onto the body of the machine itself in search of the hatch.

  “Stand back, Miss Hobbes,” called Renwick, running over in order to keep her from getting too close to the machine. “There may be some residual charge. Here, allow me.” Renwick approached it gingerly, testing the surface with his gloved hands. He circled the vehicle once before turning to Newbury, a gleam in his single remaining eye. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? Just as you said.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Newbury, although it was clear there was something else on his mind. “Aldous, the pilot...?”

  Renwick frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question.

  “Will he be dead?” I asked, quietly.

  Renwick shrugged. “It depends what protection he had inside.” He glanced at each of us in turn. “Only one way to find out,” he said. He reached up and took hold of a small metal wheel that jutted from the lower side of the hull and began twisting it, releasing the seal of the pilot’s hatch. It loosened off a few seconds later with a pneumatic hiss, and the hatch hinged open with a metallic clang. We all waited with bated breath.

  There was a low groan from inside the machine, followed by the sound of a man spluttering and coughing. I glanced at Newbury, who raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I suppose we’d better get him out of there, then?”

  Together we worked to turn the hull of the vehicle until Newbury was able to reach inside and drag the pilot out onto the street. He was a sorry mess, shaking and spluttering as he propped himself up on one arm, staring up at us with a blank, pale expression. He was wearing a set of dark blue overalls that were covered in a week’s worth of oil and grime, and blood was running freely from one nostril. He wiped at it ineffectually with his sleeve.

  I stood over him with my revolver, although in truth it was an unnecessary gesture; there was no fight left in the man, and if he’d tried anything we should easily have been able to restrain him.

  “Who are you?” asked Miss Hobbes, her voice more commanding than I’d come to expect from her. She was, if nothing else, a woman of many surprises.

  The man gazed up at her, a haunted look in his eyes. “My name is Xavier Gray,” he said.

  I almost choked in surprise as I tried to assimilate this unexpected information. “Xavier Gray!” I exclaimed loudly.

  “You know this man?” said Newbury.

  I shook my head. “Indeed not. But I know a man who wants very much to find him. Mr Gray here is the quarry of none other than Sherlock Holmes.”

  Newbury emitted a rumbling guffaw. “Is that so, Dr Watson? How very surprising.”

  Gray looked as surprised as any of us. “Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, but it was clearly a rhetorical question.

  “Tell us, Mr Gray,” prompted Miss Hobbes, “what is the purpose of this machine, and for what reason have you been making these late-night excursions?”

  “For them,” replied Gray, trembling as he fought back tears. “It was all for them.”

  “This man is clearly disturbed,” said Renwick, redundantly. It was plain for us all to see that Gray was suffering from severe shock.

  “Speaking as a medical practitioner, it’s clear this man needs rest and a chance to recover from the shock of this evening’s events,” I said, lowering my weapon. “I imagine we’ll be better served by saving our questions until the morning.”

  “Very well,” said Newbury. “May I suggest, Doctor, that you take this man into your temporary custody?
I don’t believe he represents any real danger, now that his machine has been rendered immobile. I have every faith that you’ll be able to tend to his immediate medical needs, and I’m sure Mr Holmes would be only too delighted to hear that we’ve saved him a job.” He delivered this with a wry smile on his lips, and I couldn’t help sharing for a moment in his glee. After the manner in which Holmes had dismissed the whole episode it would give me no small measure of satisfaction to deliver Xavier Gray to his doorstep. I could imagine the look on his face.

  “Very well,” I said. “I shall escort Mr Gray to Baker Street immediately.” I glanced at the wreckage of the submersible. “But what of this?”

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself with that, Dr Watson. I’ll send for Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard. His men will know what to do with the remains of this most remarkable contraption.”

  “Bainbridge?” I said, with a smile. “Then we have a mutual acquaintance.” I’d worked with Bainbridge almost fifteen years earlier, during the Hans Gerber affair, and again on a number of other occasions during the intervening years. He was a good man, and an even better police inspector.

  Newbury laughed again. “I’ll be sure to give him your regards,” he said. “Now, Doctor. Let us find you a cab. It’s late, and we still have much to do. Our answers can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Very well,” I said, helping Xavier Gray to his feet. “If you’ll come quietly?”

  The man nodded, hanging his head. “I will,” he said, morosely. I decided to take him at his word, although I kept my revolver close at hand, just to be sure.

  * * *

  It was late when we arrived at Baker Street, gone midnight, but I was resolved to rouse Holmes from his bed. We’d passed the journey across town in silence, with just the creak of the carriage wheels and the clatter of horse’s hooves to punctuate our journey.

  Xavier Gray had remained slumped in the opposite corner of the hansom throughout, as if the life had simply gone out of him. I couldn’t help feeling pity for the man, despite the events of the previous evening. I did not then know the nature of the horror that plagued him, but all the same I had some sense that he was carrying an enormous burden upon his shoulders. I decided not to press the matter, and respected his need for silence. Tomorrow, I would push for answers. Tonight I was close to exhaustion, and couldn’t bring myself to coerce such a clearly disturbed man.