Sherlock Holmes - The Will of the Dead Page 18
“Careful!” a commanding voice boomed from behind us. “It may still be dangerous.”
I turned to see the Count descending the stairs with a flourish, his cape billowing behind him. His Hungarian accent was pronounced, but stately. He was still wearing his top hat and carrying a cane. He appeared to be a middle-aged fellow, with a neatly trimmed black moustache and a long, puckered scar running across his left cheek, distorting his smile. He cut a somewhat eccentric figure as he strolled casually through the wreckage towards us.
The Count motioned for us to stand aside and both Bainbridge and I took a step back to give him room. He circled the automaton once and then, using the end of his cane, reached up and rapped noisily three times on its head. The sound was a deep, hollow clang.
Around us, I noticed the uniformed men had begun to gather, watching proceedings with an air of hushed expectation.
Grinning, the Count seemed to contemplate the iron man for a moment, before discarding his cane nonchalantly to the floor and stepping towards the automaton. With a white-gloved hand he reached up and began fiddling beneath its chin.
“Whatever -” Bainbridge began, but the Count silenced him with a look, and continued with his work. A moment later he had unlatched what appeared to be a metal clasp, and with a flourish, he levered the machine’s entire head backwards to reveal - to my utmost surprise - the head of a man.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Bainbridge. There were cries of consternation and alarm from around us.
The man’s face was haggard and gleamed with a patina of sweat. His blonde hair was stuck to his forehead and his eyes were narrowed, his expression fierce.
“But...” I stammered. “Its... it’s a man!”
The iron man’s pilot spat at the Count in futile protest, wrinkling his nose in apparent disgust.
“But not a particularly pleasant one, Watson,” replied the Count, in a familiar, satisfied tone.
“Holmes?” I exclaimed, confused. “Is it you?” The revelations were coming thick and fast, and I was beginning to doubt the veracity of my own mind.
The Count reached up and removed his top hat, making a show of flinging it across the room with a flick of his wrist. He pulled the white gloves from his hands, finger by finger, and then, with a sudden gesture, reached up and peeled away the moustache from his upper lip. The puckered line of the scar came with it, the smile relaxed, and I saw at once that it was, indeed, Holmes. Once again he had adopted the use of face paint and trickery in order to deceive us. I could hardly believe that I had fallen for the same trick twice in such a short span of time, but Holmes was nothing if not an expert in misdirection. I knew he must have had his reasons for keeping us in the dark.
“But why?” I asked, flabbergasted.
Holmes threw back his head and gave forth a long, hearty laugh. “To lure them here, of course, my dear Watson. I knew these ‘iron men’ - or rather, whoever was pulling their strings -would find the lure of the diamond irresistible. It was all the bait I needed to be able to put my theory to the test.”
“What of the Count Ferenczy?” asked Bainbridge, his brow creased in concern. “What does he think about you co-opting his name?”
Holmes smiled patiently, presenting his palms as if in supplication. “There never was a real Count Ferenczy, Inspector. I fear I have misled you. It was always me, incognito.”
“You could have let us in on it, Holmes,” I said.
“Not a bit of it, Watson,” replied Holmes. “My plan hinged on the deception. It had to appear, to all intents and purposes, that I was a genuine visitor to this country, here in London with a precious stone to dispose of.”
“Astounding,” muttered Bainbridge, shaking his head in admiration. “How did you know? How on earth did you fathom that these machines were, in fact, operated by men?”
“A simple deduction, Inspector,” said Holmes, one corner of his mouth twitching in a smile. “Automaton technology is not yet at a sufficient point in its development for anyone to be able to engineer such miraculous machines. In all the many accounts of the iron men that were provided by witnesses, the machines were described as operating under their own free will. Even a cursory examination of the subject, however, would suggest that simulacra such as these are far beyond the means of any living engineer. This is true even of the Turkish and the French, who presently excel in the field.1”
“So it had to be men in suits of armour?” I prompted.
“Indeed,” replied Holmes. “And their immense strength could be accounted for by virtue of the fact the suits are steam powered, allowing their movements to be assisted by a series of cogs, gears and pistons.” Holmes gestured at the nearest iron man. The pilot’s face was flushed red with barely contained rage. “As you can see, without that power the suits are too heavy for a mere man to operate.”
“And the water, thrown from above, was enough to extinguish the burning coals that fuelled that power?” I asked.
“Precisely!” said Holmes, animated. “Exactly that, Watson!”
Bainbridge still looked somewhat confused. “But who are these... children?” He pointed, and I turned to see a large gang of urchins had gathered around the foot of the stairs. They were none of them no older than twelve or thirteen, and they were dressed in street rags. I recognised them immediately.
“The Baker Street Irregulars,” I said, grinning.
Holmes nodded. “Who else?”
“The what?” said Bainbridge. “I fear you’ve lost me.”
“A gang of street urchins that Holmes maintains on his payroll,” I said, with a smile.
Bainbridge shook his head and sighed, as if resigned to the fact he would never fathom the ways of my friend. That, of course, was one of the many things one had to accept when they counted Mr. Sherlock Holmes amongst their friends.
“What of the stone?” I asked, suddenly. In the excitement I feared wed all forgotten the priceless jewel, and it remained unaccounted for.
Holmes chuckled. “Paste, Watson. Nothing but paste.”
“So there never was a Moon Star?” I asked.
“Indeed not, Watson. Naught but a fabrication. A cunning trap. Speaking of which...” Holmes turned to the unmasked man in the iron man suit. “Who are you working for?” he asked, firmly.
The man pursed his lips and spat again, this time successfully landing a gobbet of spittle on Holmes’s cuff.
“The damned impertinence!” cursed Bainbridge, the disgust evident in his voice. He turned, searching out the nearest of the other, stationary iron men, and made a beeline for it.
All around us, the constables were beginning to restore order, helping their bruised colleagues to their feet, organising carriages for the injured, sending for the owner of the property. I felt a surge of pride for the sturdy British policeman, always handy in a crisis and happy to muck in. They’d given a solid account of themselves in the battle, and had made an effort to ensure the civilians were evacuated to safety. I made a mental note to say as much to Bainbridge when everything was done and dusted.
I watched Bainbridge with interest as he approached the other iron man. Mimicking Holmes’s earlier tactic, he felt around beneath the chin of the machine’s helmet until his fingers found the clasp. He released it with a sudden jerk, pulling the helmet free.
The face beneath - belonging to a red-faced, auburn-haired man in his thirties, with a crooked, broken nose - eyed Bainbridge bitterly.
“Tell us for whom you’re working!” demanded Bainbridge, leaning closer, his tone firm. He’d clearly run out of patience, and was not about to accept any further delays.
The man shook his head, his lips pursed.
“Then I can assure you of one thing,” said Bainbridge, bristling. “That each and every one of you will be standing trial for attempted murder. You’ll face the gallows.”
“Attempted murder?” stammered the red-faced man, who was clearly concerned by this new development. “Robbery, more like. It was only robbery!”
I saw the man swallow and glance at the exposed face of his fellow conspirator, as if searching for salvation. “We wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said, desperately. “We were only trying to scare you off.” His voice had grown high and reedy with fear.
Bainbridge paced back and forth before him, his hands clasped behind his back, his face like thunder. It was an astonishing show. “You went to great lengths to scare me,” he said, shaking his head. “Smashing your way into a derelict building, driving me onto the roof... I somehow think the jury will find it an easy verdict to agree. You’ll all swing.”
The man in the iron man suit looked frantic. “I... I... we...” he stammered indecipherably.
“Now tell me,” said Bainbridge, ceasing his pacing and leaning in so that his nose was almost touching that of the other man, who flinched, but could not move away. “And I’ll make sure they go easy on you,” he added, quietly.
“Asquith!” the man blurted out, without further hesitation. “Percival Asquith! He put us up to it. He told us where to go, what we were looking for. He said there was no chance anyone would catch us in these things, and that he’d give us a share of the profits.”
“Bloody liar!” spat the man behind me, the first time he had spoken since he’d been unmasked.
Bainbridge glanced at Holmes and I, and then turned to one of his men. “Sergeant!”
“Yes, sir?” said one of the policemen, turning away from the small group of civilians he’d been addressing to give Bainbridge his full attention.
“Secure the suspects and get them to a cell,” ordered Bainbridge.
“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” replied the sergeant.
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” continued Bainbridge, beckoning them to the door, “would you care to accompany me?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I replied, with a broad grin. Holmes clasped me firmly on the shoulder, confirming his support, and together the three of us left the house in Pimlico in search of Percival Asquith, our final, elusive quarry.
1 At the time, of course, Holmes was correct in his assertion. Many years later, however, Bainbridge - then Chief Inspector - would relate to us the details of the “Affinity Bridge” affair and the work of Pierre Villiers, the French scientist who had developed an advanced form of artificial man. These remarkable automata were installed in the houses of the rich elite, or employed in libraries, factories and restaurants as servants and workers. At the time they caused quite a stir and it seemed as if they would mark the onset of a revolution. Villiers’ experiments with illegally obtained human organs, however, led to exposure and investigation by Her Majesty’s agents, Sir Maurice Newbury and Miss Veronica Hobbes, and eventually Villiers’ death at the hands of his duplicitous partner, Mr. Joseph Chapman. The automata were deemed unsound and removed from the market. It is thought that some, however, were hidden away by enterprising owners during the ensuing purge and even now remain in operation, maintained as illegal curios and objects de art.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Percival Asquith’s club - known to its members as the Nightingale Society - was behind an undistinguished door on Shaftesbury Avenue, and if it hadn’t been for the address card that Asquith had given Bainbridge a couple of days earlier, I doubt we should ever have found it.
Like so many of the gentlemen’s clubs that catered to those with a more sophisticated or aristocratic appetite, the existence of the organisation was known to only a select few. It was felt - I gathered - that by insisting on such secrecy from their members, clubs such as the Nightingale would be able to maintain a more elitist air, and as such, any undesirable elements could be kept far at bay. The upshot of all this, I’d long ago concluded, was that the clubs’ owners were able to charge an extortionate fee from their members.
Holmes rapped loudly and insistently three times in quick succession, calling loudly for attention until the door was opened and an exasperated butler peered out, his eyes narrowed. It wasn’t the subtlest of entrances, but it was effective - the man seemed intent on avoiding a scene on the street, and when his gaze fell upon Bainbridge’s papers and the steely expression on Holmes’s face, he ushered us in, quickly closing the door behind us.
“Can I be of service, gentlemen?” he asked, in hushed tones. “I must say - it’s most unusual for us to receive a call from Scotland Yard, here at the Nightingale.” He pronounced these last four words as if reminding us that we could have no possible business inside.
Bainbridge had little time for the man’s haughtiness, however, nor the man’s obvious desire to avoid being overheard by his clientele. He raised his voice, adopting a firm, commanding tone. “It is equally unusual for a club such as the Nightingale to harbour a villain in its midst, is it not?”
The butler bristled, as if physically affronted. “A... villain?” he mumbled, apparently shocked by the accusation.
“Quite so,” said Bainbridge. “Now, if you would care to show us through, we’ll see to the matter directly.”
The butler appeared somewhat lost for words. Quietly, he led us across the austere reception hall and into the opulence of the main drawing room, where a scattering of members stood about in small groups, or otherwise lounged on Chesterfields, sipping whisky and locked in conversation or hands of cards.
We hesitated on the threshold. “Mind you, sir,” said the old, white-haired fellow, wagging his finger at Bainbridge, “we don’t want any trouble here at the Nightingale. We count royalty amongst our members, and they come to us to escape their day-to-day pressures in the company of other, like-minded folk. If there truly is a villain in our midst, we’d appreciate it if you could approach the matter with some discretion.”
“You’ll have no trouble from us, I can assure you, so long as the gentleman in question is willing to help with our enquiries,” said Bainbridge.
“I should imagine any member of the Nightingale should be willing to assist the police,” said the butler, tartly. “Whatever the circumstances.”
Bainbridge all but rolled his eyes as the butler retreated with a satisfied nod.
I admit - I was not so optimistic.
The club was well appointed, with dark mahogany-panelled walls and tasteful dried-flower arrangements placed strategically around the room. A large marble fireplace dominated the space, and a hearty fire flickered and spat in the grate. Above the mantel hung two crossed swords and a shield, depicting heraldry with which I was unfamiliar - presumably the club’s coat of arms.
Bainbridge pointed out Percival Asquith, who was sitting with another man before the fire. He was smartly dressed in a black evening suit, with a starched white collar and a red carnation in his buttonhole. He was a willowy, clean-shaven man with neatly trimmed blonde hair, and was clutching a glass of brandy in his left hand. He appeared to be deep in conversation.
Holmes cut quite a figure as we crossed the room, still dressed in the elaborate finery of Count Ferenczy, his cape draped around his shoulders. In his hand he carried the helmet of one of the iron men, brought with us from the house in Pimlico. Heads turned to regard him with interest.
“Mr. Asquith?” said Bainbridge, as we approached. “I would speak with you urgently.”
Asquith did not so much as raise his eyes to see who had spoken, but gave a little, dismissive wave of his hand as if to shoo us away, and continued his conversation. The arrogance of the man was astounding.
Bainbridge cleared his throat and remained standing before the fireplace, to the side of Asquith’s chair. His face reddened as Asquith continued to ignore him.
I glanced at Holmes, whose face showed not a flicker of emotion as he calmly studied Asquith. The moment stretched. Then, suddenly, he stepped forward, raised his arm and dropped the iron man helmet onto the low table between Asquith and his companion.
It landed with a terrible, hollo
w clang, shattering an empty brandy glass and causing everyone in the room to suddenly give up their conversations and turn to see what was occurring.
“What -” began Asquith, enraged. He turned accusing eyes on Holmes, and was about to issue what I imagined to be a foulmouthed challenge, when his eyes caught sight of the object. They widened in stunned surprise.
“I think, Mr. Asquith, that you have a great deal of explaining to do,” said Bainbridge, with some measure of satisfaction.
Asquith looked from Holmes to Bainbridge, panic evident in his expression. His face flushed. Realisation dawned. “I... well...”
“The game’s up, Asquith,” said Holmes, quietly. “We know everything.”
“Percival? What’s wrong?” said Asquith’s friend, starting out of his seat. “Who are these people?”
“I’m sorry, Frederick,” said Asquith, quietly, with the tone of a man resigned to his fate. I saw Bainbridge visibly relax, his shoulders dropping, and I, too, released my grip on the revolver in my pocket.
Asquith, however, had other ideas. He sprang suddenly from his seat, overturning the table, and Holmes leapt back to avoid being caught either by it, or the shower of broken glass.
Asquith moved like a cat, taking two strides to the fireplace, reaching up with both hands and yanking free one of the two swords that resided there. He twisted, swinging it wildly, the tip passing only inches before Bainbridge’s face.
To his credit, Bainbridge simply took a step back and exhaled slowly. “Put the weapon down, Mr. Asquith,” he said, slowly. “You’re only making matters worse for yourself.”
Asquith, however, was wild-eyed and frantic, beyond reason. He was a desperate, cornered man, and he knew there was no way out. “I’ll run you through!” he shouted in reply, jabbing the sword at Bainbridge. “All of you!”