Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Read online

  “Good evening, Watson. Forgive my need for deception. I do not want our quarry to know I am here. Your presence will put him on his guard, I am sure, but mine might well deter him and he does so want to return.”

  “How do you know this?” I asked, but Holmes ignored the question. “What did your scientific and parliamentary endeavours unearth?”

  “As there is patently no possibility of the dead roaming the tunnels of the Central London Railway and even less likelihood of that member of the netherworld having once been mummified, I thought it an obvious course to check the parliamentary records,” said Holmes.

  “To what end?”

  Holmes smiled in the half-light. “Each railway line constructed beneath the magnificent metropolis of London has been the result of an act of parliament, suggested by those corporations engaged in the construction of such enterprises.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “My point being that any party that objects to the construction of these subterranean railways may avail themselves of the opportunity to make their feelings known to their Member of Parliament. Sometimes, depending on their rank and position, these persons can object in person by appearing at the committees held on the subject.”

  “And from this you have a list of suspects, I take it?”

  “We have a list of those who objected to the Central London Railway,” Holmes said.

  The lift reached the bottom of the shaft and Holmes pulled on a lever, bringing the elevator to a halt. He pulled the cage-like door open and we stepped out onto the slightly damp ground. Then the great detective reached behind him, back into the lift, and set the lever in place once more. Immediately the cage started on its return to the surface.

  “Why have you sent it back to ground level? How are we to escape if there is a killer down here?”

  “This is not the only way down. It cannot be,” said Holmes.

  He marched off towards the main tunnel, and we found it surprisingly easy to see for there were lamps at regular intervals. To our right was the much wider and taller construction of an iron-lined tunnel that was to be a station, one I was later to learn was going to be called “Bloomsbury” until “British Museum” was deemed a better designation.

  Considering there were no works being carried out on the line due to the lack of navvies, there were more sounds in the tunnel than I had expected. I have to confess that even as a man who has seen action — not only abroad in military service but also in the pursuit of justice here in England — I found myself unnerved in the extreme.

  Holmes, naturally, seemed spectacularly unaffected by the echoes of what must have been water dripping, or the strange metallic sounds of physical contraction or expansion by the ironwork. Despite the uncommon heat, I shivered.

  The scene was not as I had been expecting. There were no tracks laid and no evidence of a platform. At the eastern end there was a collection of heavy machinery and what looked like a ring of metal where the tunnel mouth should be.

  “That is the tunnel shield,” Holmes said. “It protects the workers from collapse and allows the iron framework for the tunnel supports to be laid as the tunnelling progresses. It was originally the invention of Brunel, now ameliorated by other engineers for this exact purpose.”

  An iron and wooden chute had been placed before the metal shield. It had earth and stone as well as other detritus resting upon its slatted belt. It looked as if it should move, transporting this debris to a cart that was then transported back to the shaft we had descended so that it may be removed completely.

  There were tools and other general building paraphernalia that I could not pretend to understand. I knew what they were: several lengths of rope, some barrels of grease and other substances, a packing crate of rags and strips of cloth and some spare chains. I had no idea what they were all for, however.

  Holmes began to whistle tunelessly as he examined the digging equipment.

  “So,” I said, casting a nervous look back down the half-lit tunnel. “Tell me about the petitioners against the Central London Railway.”

  Holmes stopped whistling and took a pickaxe from where it rested against the wall. He began to swing his implement at the rock face.

  “Some of the most influential and important personages of the day,” he said. “Bazalgette, for one.”

  Sir Joseph Bazalgette had been responsible for delivering London from the infamous “Great Stink” in the middle of the century as a result of his vision and determination to build the best network of sewers the world had ever seen. He had died in 1891.

  “Yes,” replied Holmes when I remarked upon this. “That rather does rule him out as a suspect, does it not?”

  Holmes went on to tell me that numerous people and public bodies had complained about the building of the railway, perhaps most notably both the Dean and the Chapter of St Paul’s Cathedral. As with most property owners, their concerns lay in subsidence.

  “I daresay they are not the first of the priesthood to bemoan the undermining of the very foundation of the church,” Holmes said with uncharacteristic jocularity. I enjoy a good pun but did wonder at the questionable taste and possible blasphemy of this one.

  “The City Corporation also objected,” my friend concluded, “as did the newly formed London County Council, although theirs was a more interesting objection than the others: theirs was a political objection. They wanted the working man to be catered for and believe all railway owners to be only interested in the wellbeing of the well-heeled.”

  “Hardly cause for murder,” I said.

  “To you or I, yes,” replied Holmes, hitting the rock face repeatedly. “But to men who believe passionately in a cause? Perhaps not. Or perhaps our poisoner was not intent on murder...”

  I frowned at this and was about to form another question when we both heard the unmistakeable sound of footsteps.

  “I doubt any mummy, ghost or other ghoul would make so heavy a footfall!” he whispered over the sound of his digging. Then he stopped and mopped his brow with what I recognised was one of his scientific gauntlets. He then proceeded to put on the gloves as calmly as if he were about to take a stroll in Regent’s Park.

  I bent down, pretending to tie my shoelace, and in so doing caught a glimpse of the figure illuminated by one of the tunnel lamps. It was as Sean Finlay had described it to his cousin: not ghostly at all but covered almost entirely in gauze bandages — most alarmingly around the head and especially the nose and mouth.

  I swallowed hard and reached instinctively for the revolver secreted in my jacket. Before I could draw the weapon, Holmes stooped and picked up one of the containers of what I took to be grease for the machinery.

  “I know what this is!” he called out loudly. “And why you have returned for it.”

  I turned to see that our erstwhile mummy had stopped almost thirty feet from where we stood, flat against the wall and frozen by indecision. Holmes started running towards the intruder, who finally elected on fleeing, spinning on his heel and sprinting away down the tunnel at an impressive rate.

  “Watson, your revolver,” called Holmes, haring along the tunnel after the bandaged man. I withdrew my firearm, broke it to check each chamber had a round within and then cracked it back into place.

  I ran the length of the oversized stretch of train tunnel, but ahead I could see no sign of the mummy. Instead, in the darker, narrower section beyond, Holmes was standing, gazing up at an angle. I arrived to see an alcove dug into the side of the main bore that bent to the right, hiding a shaft not wider than a card table with a line of metal rungs that disappeared into the darkness.

  “Ventilation,” said Holmes. “The workers need to breathe, and so will the passengers!”

  “Why did no one mention this?”

  “You see how far the rot of superstition can spread, Watson? No one thought of this because ghosts and mummies have no need of air!”

  “Why a mummy, though? I do not understand the need for such a costume!”

&
nbsp; “Did you know that one of the engineers on this line is president of the Egypt Exploration Fund?”

  I looked at Holmes. “You’re not serious, Holmes.”

  “That is a fact,” he replied. “Another is that a second engineer is the man who designed the vessel used for transporting Cleopatra’s Needle here in 1877.”

  “You think there is a curse?”

  “A mummy’s curse? Really, Watson.” He looked disappointed in me. “Again, I am merely showing that coincidence is indeed rife and the dedicated detective cannot be swayed into thinking it any more than part of life’s highly original tapestry.”

  “Incidentally, should we not be chasing the fellow—whoever he is—up that ladder?”

  “No,” said Holmes. “I took the precaution of asking our friends at Scotland Yard to post two constables at ground level in case of just such an instance. We need only remain here to ensure he does attempt to retrace his steps.”

  * * *

  My revolver saw no active service that night. We clearly heard the man emerging at the top of the shaft only to be met by a pair of bobbies. We then summoned the lift and returned to the surface so that Sherlock Holmes might complete his enquiry.

  Holmes retrieved his more usual attire from a bag at the site office, and we took a cab to Scotland Yard. There we met a baffled young inspector called Pike, who told us what his constables had done upon apprehending the figure making his way up Montague Street.

  According to them, he had not been completely covered in gauze but wearing a fencing outfit. Only his head and hands had been bandaged. Holmes nodded as if all this made perfect sense. He then asked if he could see the man.

  Inspector Pike took us into a cell where a youth lay on the bed, his eyes red with tears. He didn’t look like the type of man to kill ten men, but then I was constantly surprised by man’s inclination to the nefarious.

  “He won’t give his name,” said Pike as we stood over the young man.

  * * *

  Holmes sat beside the young man and spoke quietly. “I take it you are a student at University College London?”

  The boy looked up at Holmes. He nodded mutely.

  “And a follower of Viktor Meyer as well as, perhaps, Robert Owen?

  The boy sat upright. “How did you know —”

  “About the German chemist? I can only assume you have read his paper on the combination of chloroethanol with potassium sulphide, combined with the treatment of thiodiglycol with phosphorus trichloride.”

  “What does all that mean, Holmes?” I asked.

  “It is a powerful combination of chemicals that results in skin irritation, blindness, burning and — if inhaled — could produce water on the lungs.”

  “Tom Stevens!” I exclaimed, realising the link.

  “Precisely,” said Holmes.

  “I didn’t mean to kill those men,” said the boy

  “Give us your name,” said Holmes. “It would be the easiest thing in the world for the inspector to call upon University College and make enquiries as to any absent students. I suspect there would be only one.”

  “Edward Hughes,” he said, casting his gaze to the floor.

  “Well, Edward Hughes,” said the inspector. “You are under arrest for the murder...”

  “Not murder, Inspector,” Holmes said, holding up a hand.

  “If you undertake an inspection of the tunnelling equipment beneath Bloomsbury you will find it in an unusual state of cleanliness. Mr Hughes here returned to clean the chemical solution from the machinery as soon as he learned of the workers’ deaths.”

  “I did,” said Hughes in a small voice. “I wished to prevent any further harm...”

  “So, manslaughter,” said Inspector Pike.

  “But why were you dressed as a mummy?” I asked.

  “As had been ascertained by the German chemist, it was best to wear gauze to protect the eyes, nose and mouth when handling the chemical monstrosity he had concocted—no doubt using the chemicals and apparatus afforded you by the University laboratories.”

  Hughes nodded again. “I placed but a small amount on the digging mechanism. It was meant to incapacitate the men, not... kill them.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “But in the handling of noxious chemicals one must be more scientific in one’s measurements than ‘small amount’.”

  Hughes started weeping once more.

  “That’s the method,” said the inspector. “What about the motive, Mr Holmes?”

  “Mr Hughes here is a believer in socialism—probably his most cherished dream is of a utopian socialist society—hence a follower of the thinker Robert Owen, who was a staunch supporter of workers’ rights and the idea of municipal ownership. With the building of the line suspended and the men injured it would appear that not only could private enterprise not deliver the railway in a timely and unhindered fashion, but that they also had a disregard for their workers’ safety.”

  “Yet the arrow fell far from the target,” said Inspector Pike, gazing dispassionately down at Edward Hughes. Then he ushered us from the cell, leaving the man to his guilt and his tears.

  “I do feel for him, somewhat,” I said as we stepped onto the Embankment once more, “I realise he has caused the death of his fellow man, but he was seeking a greater good, surely?”

  “The ends can never justify the means, Watson,” he said, looking at me with a clear and penetrating gaze. “We must battle that kind of thinking. For if that philosophy should triumph, then our humanity will have become as deeply buried as that infernal railway.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Dinnick is a writer of scripts, novels and comics. He writes audio drama scripts for franchises such as Doctor Who, Stargate, Sherlock Holmes and Sapphire & Steel and the online phenomenon Moshi Monsters. He has also acted as script editor and assistant producer on a range of Sherlock Holmes audio dramas.

  His first novel Alien Adventures was published by BBC Children’s Books in 2010 and he has since gone on to write books and short stories for Penguin UK, The Black Library, Running Press and Snowbooks.

  He has also written comic strips for IDW and BBC Magazines and his first original graphic novel will be published in 2013.

  THE PENNYROYAL SOCIETY

  BY KELLY HALE

  Now pennyroyal, well, any girl can find that growing wild. And rue! Goodness, that’s been used for ages. Hamlet’s Ophelia knew all about rue, though it didn’t do her much good in the end, poor thing. A spoonful of the seeds of Queen Anne’s lace taken each morning will prevent a woman catching pregnant at all. Dittany, birthwort, willow bark, juniper, asafetida, angelica, tansy, filix fern. Some alone, some mixed with others. In pills or pessaries, douches or tinctures. Add a charm or recitation if you think it helps. Prayers to our Blessed Mother. Those never hurt a woman neither.

  Doctors were, in general, not sympathetic to women in these matters. Agnes knew this for a fact. They had all stood against her mother in court, priggish and self-righteous. She had little hope this one would be different, and he didn’t prove her wrong. His mouth was set, features stern; the sort of piety that comes with the privilege of his gender and the smug certitude of those in his profession. Still, she could tell he hadn’t spent much time on his knees in prayer, not like a woman with four little mouths to feed and another growing hungry in her belly.

  No. Dr Watson was not a church-going man. Neither was the detective. But then, he did not pretend otherwise.

  She cared not a whit what these men thought of her at any rate. She’d come here because of Millie. For Millie.

  Mr Sherlock Holmes leaned forward, the better to aim his cleverness at her problem, she supposed. And indeed, his head led the charge, the rest of his body following after, all sharp angles and elbows. Fingers like little soldiers stood at attention beneath his chin.

  “Was the entire group bound over and then released en masse?” he asked. No preambles or social niceties for him.

  “The women with childre
n at home were lectured at some length and then dismissed with only a warning,” said Agnes, adding, “which was a kindness, I suppose.”

  “I’m certain the ladies’ husbands appreciated the forbearance of the magistrate,” Dr Watson said. Then muttered under his breath, “Though I cannot imagine what yours is thinking.”

  “Nor can I,” she replied, “since he is no doubt sharing those thoughts with his mistress in Buenos Aires.”

  She regretted the outburst immediately. Ah, of course, his expression read, that explains everything. A sharp eye-dart from the detective and the doctor murmured an apology — of sorts.

  Mr Holmes resumed his enquiry. “So, women with children at home were released. You and your friend were not.”

  “That’s correct, sir, yes. I and several of the unmarried ladies were made to wait until after the magistrate had luncheon.” She made no mention of the fact that they were all made to wait though they’d had no food or drink since before their arrests the previous day.

  “And Miss Barnett was with the group at that time?”

  “She was. After the magistrate heard our cases, I was bailed. The others were released on their own recognisance. Millie — Miss Barnett — agreed to hold my belongings while I was detained.”

  The detective sniffed at that, two little inhalations, like a dog after a particular scent. In some other circumstance Agnes might have laughed, it was so odd. “These belongings,” he said. “Describe them in detail, please.”

  She folded her hands upon her lap, wondering how much detail he needed, how much she wanted to give. Even now, looking at the worn places in the fabric of the skirt she wore, how the pile of the fustian was compressed or bare enough in some parts to see the twill weave beneath, the little burn holes —

  He had not mentioned a fee as yet.

  “She had my jacket,” Agnes began, “a russet-coloured wool, trimmed in brown plush with buttons covered in the same fabric. Quite plain save for a variety of pins upon the breast — slogan phrases from our cause, mostly. Grey kid gloves in one of the pockets. My hat — do you wish to know the style of it?” Most men were not well up on women’s fashions, but he gave a terse nod. “Flowerpot, or three-storey hats you may have heard them called, in brown felt with a slightly crushed crown, a red silk band and cockade, and a turkey feather. I believe the hatpin was still in it — plain stick, cone-shaped end. Also, she held the Gladstone bag in which we’d carried the — the pamphlets and other items that had been confiscated. The bag was quite old and battered, brown leather with one broken buckle strap. Thankfully I had my pocketbook in hand so as to pay the bond or she might have had that with her as well.”