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  I smiled. “That sounds a lot like faith to me.”

  Holmes laughed – that joyous, raucous laugh, that I had missed so much over the last few years. I couldn’t help but smile.

  I downed the last of my whisky, enjoying the warmth of it hitting my palate. “Well, I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but it’s well past time I retired for the evening. All this adventure is a little much for an old man such as I.”

  “Nonsense!” said Mycroft. “You played your part admirably, Dr. Watson, and I thank you, both on my own behalf, and that of the British government.”

  “In that case,” I said, getting to my feet, “might the British government see to arranging a cab home?”

  Mycroft chuckled, levering his considerable bulk from his chair. “Of course,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘Well, Holmes,” I said, as we tucked into a hearty breakfast of poached eggs and bacon the following morning, “another case successfully concluded. I don’t know how long it’s been since we’ve been in a position to say that.”

  “Indeed, Watson. I had thought my days as a consulting detective were long behind me, but I must admit – the whole experience has proved most invigorating.” As Holmes speared a forkful of bacon, I could see there was something else behind his eyes, some emotion that he was battling and did not wish to give voice to. I wondered if perhaps he was suffering a modicum of regret. Was he now, after all this time, beginning to have second thoughts about his retirement? I dared not think that he might be persuaded to return to the city and his old life as a sleuth.

  My own mood had lightened considerably following the conclusion of our adventure, even if I remained a trifle unsure of Mycroft’s manipulative methods. The man had hardly covered himself in glory, and in truth, I couldn’t help feeling that Grange’s death might have been avoided if only Mycroft hadn’t chosen to use him as bait.

  Regardless, it was over now, and the outcome had been most satisfactory. Holmes and I had proved – to me, if to no one else – that even two old men could find a role to play in the war effort. It felt good to know that I had done my bit, albeit a small one, in seeing off the enemy and stalling their underhand schemes.

  That I’d been forced to end a man’s life in pursuit of this goal was an unhappy addendum to the matter. I could never be proud of it, even if the dead man was a traitor whose actions had left me with no other choice.

  I knew, however, that I’d done only what was necessary to protect my friends, and more, the interests of the nation. It is the duty of soldiers, both young and old, to carry such burdens so that others do not have to. I have long ago reconciled myself to such things.

  More than any of that, though, I felt that I’d done right by Joseph’s memory. I had stood in solidarity with him against the march of the enemy, and from the bitterness of our previous defeat – his death upon the fields of France – we had snatched a victory. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. There was hope yet that this dreadful business would be over soon, and that the Kaiser would be pushed back within his own borders, his tail between his legs.

  “What do you think will become of Seaton Underwood?” I said.

  “That is for the jury to decide. I’d imagine he’s for the noose, or perhaps the lunatic asylum.”

  “And his work?” I said. “What do you think those spectrographs really represented?”

  “I don’t suppose we shall ever know,” replied Holmes. “It’s a question more suited to Sir Maurice, I think.” He took a sip from his coffee cup. “I take it, Watson, that your brief exchange on the telephone this morning was with Sir Maurice?” said Holmes.

  “Indeed,” I replied. I’d spoken to Newbury a short while earlier, laying out the details of what had occurred after we’d left him at Professor Angelchrist’s house the previous evening. “I was gladdened to hear that the Professor is recovering well from his traumatic episode, and that Newbury is hopeful there’ll be no lasting effects.”

  “Other than, perhaps, a little damaged pride,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, well, there is that,” I agreed.

  Holmes had finished eating, and placed his knife and fork carefully upon his plate. “Your hospitality these past few days has been most appreciated, Watson,” he said. There was a sense of finality to his tone that stirred old regrets.

  “You know, Holmes, that you are always welcome. In truth, I wish you’d stay a little longer. We’ve barely had time to catch up.”

  “And reminisce about old times?” he said. “Surely the past is past, Watson. Far better, I’d argue, that we spend our time in the present, or looking to the future. Better the search for new adventure, than the constant re-treading of the old.”

  “Wise words, Holmes,” I said.

  I’d noticed, as I’d come down to start breakfast, that Holmes’s bags were already packed and waiting in the hallway. He intended to leave that morning.

  “What time is your train?” I asked, before taking another gulp of my coffee.

  “I’m taking the nine minutes past twelve to Brighton,” he replied, “and from there I’ll catch the local train the rest of the way home.”

  Home. The word struck a discordant note. It seemed alien to me that Holmes should consider his home to be somewhere else, anywhere that wasn’t here, in London, in the thick of things. I realised then that, to my mind, the city and the man were inextricably linked, and having him back here these last few days had served as a reminder of what I had missed. Home, for me, was London, and it was incomplete without Holmes.

  I’d been holding onto the notion that Holmes’s retreat to Sussex was, in truth, nothing but a sabbatical, an extended period of recuperation away from his true home. I suppose I’d always assumed that the draw of the city would prove too strong, and that one day he would return. Perhaps I’d even hoped that this brief excursion, this new mystery, might have represented the opening chapter of that new story.

  Things had changed, however. I could see that, whilst there remained a hunger in him for more adventure, more mystery, it was balanced by another hunger, too – for his quiet cottage and his bees. Here was a man who was torn between the two halves of his existence, and it would be unfair of me to press him any further to remain.

  “Then we’ve time for another coffee,” I said, “before we send for a cab. I’ll come with you to the station, of course.”

  “There’s really no need—” began Holmes, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

  “I’ll see you off safely,” I said, “and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, with a brief, characteristic smile. “But I assure you, Watson, it will certainly not be the end of it.”

  * * *

  It was with a heavy heart that I stood on the platform at Victoria Station with Holmes, just before midday. We’d taken a hansom from Ealing, the same route I had taken with the unfortunate Carter a few days earlier.

  The train was already waiting at the station, the engine hissing steam, which gushed along the platform, threatening to lift hats from heads as passengers scrambled for seats, dragging their luggage behind them.

  “You’ll miss out on all the good seats,” I said to Holmes, as he regarded me with a sad smile.

  “I booked a private compartment,” he said. “Some solitude will be just the thing after the activity of the last few days.”

  “You always did enjoy spending time with your own thoughts, Holmes,” I said. “I suppose that’s why life in the Sussex Downs rather suits you.”

  He shrugged. “I do occasionally find myself craving company, Watson. You know that. If you had the inclination to see out the rest of the war somewhere a little quieter, you could always take the spare room, finish that novel you’ve been working on.”

  I felt a lump in my throat. “My novel?” I said, for want of a better response.

  “Well, you know I find fiction a rather trivial form of expression,” he said, “but what I’ve read
of your manuscript is tolerable. I find the protagonist, the detective, a most intriguing creation.”

  I laughed. “You read it, then.”

  “I did.”

  The train conductor peeped his whistle in warning.

  “Well, then,” I said, clasping Holmes firmly on the shoulder. “I might just take you up on that offer, Holmes. For a short while, at least.”

  “Do so, Watson. The tranquillity of the Downs is quite sublime. Soothing, even. And besides,” he said, with an impish grin, “London does not have the monopoly on crime and disorder. There’s a grave need for someone to inject a little sense into the local constabulary. The newspapers were talking of a blackmail ring when I left. I’ve been wondering whether they’ve had any success in getting to the bottom of it while I’ve been away.”

  “You old devil!” I said, chuckling. “I knew it!”

  “I shall expect to hear from you next Thursday, then, Watson,” he said, turning toward the train.

  “Next Thursday?” I asked, perplexed.

  “You’ll see,” called Holmes, without turning back. I watched as he hurried across the platform, hopping up into the carriage and disappearing from view.

  Grinning, I turned and walked away slowly. As I did, it struck me that at no point had Holmes explained how Underwood had managed to create his colourful spectrographs, and what those unusual auras had represented. It seemed unlike him – so much so, in fact, that I almost turned about and hurried back to the train to try to catch him. Then, on second thought, I decided to let the matter rest. Perhaps there were some things it was better not to question, and after all, I had a trip to prepare for. I had no idea what Holmes had planned, but for the first time in months, I had a spring in my step, and a new adventure to look forward to.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to all of the usual suspects:

  Miranda Jewess, Cath Trechman, Nick Landau, Vivian Cheung and all at Titan for their stunning work and support. It makes a huge difference.

  Paul, Stuart and Cav for chivvying me on when I needed it.

  Fiona, James and Emily for putting up with an absent husband and father.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  George Mann was born in Darlington and has written numerous books, short stories, novellas and original audio scripts. The Affinity Bridge, the first novel in his Newbury and Hobbes Victorian fantasy series, was published in 2008. Other titles in the series include The Osiris Ritual, The Immorality Engine, The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes and the forthcoming The Revenant Express.

  His other novels include Ghosts of Manhattan, Ghosts of War, and the forthcoming Gods of Karnak and Ghosts of Empire, mystery novels about a vigilante set against the backdrop of a post-steampunk 1920s New York, as well as an original Doctor Who novel, Paradox Lost, featuring the Eleventh Doctor alongside his companions, Amy and Rory.

  He has edited a number of anthologies, including Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy, and has written a previous Sherlock Holmes title for Titan Books, Sherlock Homes: The Will of the Dead.

  READ ON FOR A SHORT STORY FROM

  THE CASEBOOK OF NEWBURY & HOBBES

  FEATURING SIR MAURICE NEWBURY

  THE LADY KILLER

  I

  Ringing, deafening explosions. Bright lights. Chaos. Screaming.

  Then silence. Utter, absolute silence.

  II

  Sir Maurice Newbury came to with a start.

  There was a hand on his cheek, soft and cool. Veronica? He opened his eyes, feeling groggy. The world was spinning.

  The hand belonged to a woman. She was pretty, in her late twenties, with tousled auburn hair, full, pink lips and a concerned expression on her face. Not Veronica, then.

  Newbury opened his mouth to speak but his tongue felt thick and dry, and all that escaped was a rough croak.

  The woman smiled. “Good. You’re coming round.” She glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, the world looked as if it had been turned upside down. Newbury couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. He tried to focus on the woman’s face instead. She was watching him again. “There’s been an accident,” she said. “My name’s Clarissa.”

  Newbury nodded. An accident? He tried to recall what had happened, where he was. He couldn’t think, couldn’t seem to focus. Everything felt sluggish, as if he were under water. How long had he been unconscious? He studied the woman’s face. “Clarissa?”

  She still had her hand on his cheek. “Yes. That’s right.” Her voice was soft and steady. Calm. “Do you remember what happened?”

  Newbury shook his head, and then winced, as the motion seemed to set off another explosion in his head. Explosion? A memory bubbled to the surface. There had been an explosion. He shifted, pulling himself into a sitting position. His legs were trapped beneath something hard and immovable.

  Clarissa withdrew her hand and sat back on her haunches, still watching him intently. For the first time since waking he became aware of other people in the small space, huddled in little groups, their voices audible only as a low, undulating murmur. Someone was crying.

  Newbury blinked. Was it some sort of prison cell? No. That didn’t make any sense. The explosion. An accident.

  Newbury swallowed, wishing he had a drink of water. He was hot and uncomfortable. The air inside the small space was stifling. He felt behind him and found there was something solid he could lean against. He blinked, trying to clear the fogginess. Clarissa looked concerned. “What happened?” he managed to ask, eventually. He was still groggy and his voice sounded slurred.

  “I’m not sure. The ground train must have hit something. There was an explosion, and then the carriage overturned. I think I must have blacked out for a minute. When I came round, you were unconscious beside me.”

  The ground train. Yes, that was right. He’d been on a ground train.

  He strained to see over her shoulder again. They were still in the carriage. It was lying on its side.

  The vehicle had clearly overturned. How long had they been there? Minutes? Hours? He had no way of knowing. His head was thumping and the world was making no sense. What had he been doing on a ground train?

  He rubbed a hand over his face, tried to take in his situation. His legs were trapped beneath the seat in front and his body was twisted at an awkward angle, so that the floor of the carriage was actually supporting his back. He didn’t seem to have broken any limbs, but he wasn’t quite sure if he was capable of extracting himself without help. He looked up at Clarissa, who was still regarding him with a steady gaze. “Are you a nurse?”

  She didn’t even attempt to repress her laughter, which was warm and heartfelt and made Newbury smile. “No. I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I’m a typist. Just a typist.”

  Newbury shook his head. “No. I’m sure you’re much more than that.”

  She gave a wry smile, as if he’d touched a nerve. “Are you hurt?”

  “What? No. At least, I don’t think so.”

  “It’s just you asked if I was a nurse.”

  Newbury closed his eyes, sucking ragged breath into his lungs. He must have bashed his head in the aftermath of the explosion. Nothing else could explain the fuzziness he was feeling, his inability to think straight. “I was wondering why you were helping me. If you’d come with the rescue crew.”

  Clarissa shifted from her crouching position onto her knees. She rubbed her arms. “They’re not here yet. I don’t think they can get to us. The explosion…” She looked over her shoulder, tossed her hair with a nervous gesture that suggested she was more concerned about their situation than she was trying to let on.

  “They’ll come. I’m sure of it. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Clarissa shrugged. “I hope you’re right. It’s just I—” She pitched forward suddenly, grabbing for Newbury as the carriage gave a violent shudder. There was a bang like a thunderclap. Newbury felt himself thro
wn backwards, and then Clarissa was on top of him, clutching at him, trying to prevent herself from sliding away, across the juddering vehicle. He wrapped his arms around her, desperately holding on. Somewhere else in the confined space a woman started screaming: a long, terrified wail, like that of a keening animal.

  Newbury gasped for breath. The engine must have gone up. They were lucky they weren’t already dead.

  The carriage slid across the road with the grating whine of rending metal, windows shattering as the frames buckled, showering Newbury and Clarissa with glittering diamonds of glass. Newbury’s face stung with scores of tiny wounds. He squeezed his eyes shut and clung to the slight figure of the woman until, a few moments later, the world finally stopped spinning and the carriage came to rest.

  For a moment, Clarissa didn’t move. He could feel her breath fluttering in her chest, the rapid beating of her heart. Her hands were grasping the front of his jacket, hanging on as if he were the only still point in the universe. Her face was close to his. She smelled of lavender. She raised her head, and he saw the terrified expression on her face.

  “Are you alright?” No answer. “Clarissa? Are you alright?”

  She seemed suddenly to see him; the vacant look passed out of her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I’m alright.” Her voice wavered, as if she didn’t really believe her own words. She still hadn’t moved. She looked down at him, saw the lapels of his jacket bunched in her fists, realised she was crushing him against another seat. “I’m sorry… I…”

  Newbury shook his head. “No need.”

  She released her grip and eased herself free. As she pulled herself up into a sitting position, she glanced momentarily at her hands, a confused expression clouding her face. Then realisation dawned. She turned her palms out towards Newbury, brandishing them before her, eyes wide. “Blood…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Oh God, you’re bleeding!”