Mermaid Cottage East Dean Sussex From Hemlock Soames to Miss Masterson Thursday 7th August 1894
My Dear Mary
I trust this missive will arrive at your current lodgings unopened, but as you can see from the above, I have assumed a pen name as a precaution. The following is in a coded form which I’m sure you’ll have no trouble decrypting.
I had a letter yesterday from Johnny outlining your ‘mission’ and begging that I investigate Thornfield Hall and its residents on your behalf. No doubt he has concerns as to your welfare and your ability to avoid danger. A I’ve always said, you, Mary, are the clever one, and while I do not share your husband’s concerns as such, I agreed to do a little digging on his behalf, simply to put his mind at rest.
That said, my communications in several quarters have unearthed nothing of interest, which worries me. None of the inhabitants of Thornfield Hall—excluding the so-called ruggedly-handsome Mr Rochester—have any record of previous or current, circumstances, including employment records, personal and family histories, and indeed, records of birth.
Of course, some of these individuals may have lived and worked at the Hall for many years (possibly even from birth), but I would urge you to take the utmost care in your dealings with them.
I also investigated your client, Miss Eyre. The young lady herself appears to be as innocent as she claims. However, it might interest you to know that during her time as a pupil—and more recently as teacher—at Lowood School, one of her colleagues was a woman named Frau Polk. I’m sure I don’t need to point out that ‘Polk’ is almost an anagram of ‘Klopp’. Having turned Queen’s evidence following our last adventure, I’d like to think Professor Klopp has not reverted to her former character. Nevertheless, my investigations show she left Lowood shortly after Miss Eyre took up her position at Thornfield. I suggest you stay alert for imposters.
I’ve taken the liberty of alerting our old pal Chief Inspector Lestrade and have asked him to call on you shortly, on some pretext or other. Please take my interference in the spirit it is meant, and, as before, take care.
[I’d intended sending a copy of this to my dear Johnny detailing my ‘adventure’ last night, but then felt a little embarrassed and instead sent only the edited ‘highlights’ of the episode, excising some of the more sensitive details.]
Standing on the stairs in total darkness, I hovered, my free hand on the banister to steady myself. Twisting round, I backed against the wall. For a moment, I heard nothing more—no scream, no thump of a door (which I’d heard earlier) and no sense that someone or something might be creeping up on me. Luckily, I’d had the good sense to pop a box of Swan Vestas into the pocket of my dress. Crouching, I put down my candleholder and fumbled with the box in the gloom. Extracting a match, I struck it against the side of the box. The match flared, instantly illuminating a white face with dark staring eyes not two feet away from me. I almost wet my bloomers in fright, dropping the match and plunging me—yet again—into darkness. Scrambling to pick up the matches and strike another one, I succeeded in lighting the candle, and rose to my feet. But the owner of the white face—woman or ghost, I couldn’t be sure—had gone. Leaning against the wall again, I listened. At first, I could hear nothing but my own breathing, then the creak of a floorboard above my head filled me with a desire to discover who or what had startled me.
Holding one hand around the flickering flame, I climbed the staircase, taking care to tread lightly, listening all the while for footsteps. Reaching the landing, I had a choice of four doors. Trying each one in turn, I found them all locked—except one. Taking hold of the doorknob, I turned it. The door opened, emitting not even the whisper of a creak or a groan, which might explain how the mysterious woman (or ghost) had disappeared without a sound. Pushing the door wide, I stepped over the threshold into a storeroom. Shelves on one wall were stacked with bed linen and other items of laundry. One the other side of the room, however, another staircase—this one much narrower and in a poor state of repair compared to the previous one. Creeping closer, I inspected the wooden treads for signs of woodworm, but the structure appeared solid enough, despite its appearance.
Holding up my candle, I saw that the steps led to a hatch and guessed the space above me must be the attic. The revelation did not fill me with a desire to learn more. Rather, a queasy feeling in my stomach reminded me I’d had nothing to eat since lunchtime. Also, being in a strange house during the hours of darkness told me it might be sensible to abandon further investigation until the morning. Then again, I’d been sent to Thornfield to investigate, and investigate I bloody well would.
Climbing the narrow stairs, I paused halfway. With the hatch just above my head, I reached up and pushed. But it refused to open, suggesting it must be bolted from the other side. Which also suggested that someone, or something, had gone into the attic and locked it. Another theory popped into my head—that whoever I’d met on the stairs, had not gone into the attic at all. If there were indeed someone up there, they’d locked themselves in before I’d appeared on the scene.
All of which didn’t help very much. Except that, if the woman/ghost had indeed vanished up the stairs to the landing, she/it must have used one of the other doors. Which, again, didn’t help much.
With a sigh, I descended the rickety steps and followed my nose back to the corridor on the first floor. Slipping my shoes back on, I hurried down to the kitchen, trying to forget about the scream I’d heard.
The kitchen, perhaps twice the size of my bedroom, had stone flags on the floor. These were covered with homemade rugs of the kind found in workmen’s houses, giving the room a cheerful, homely feel. I felt better immediately, the roaring fire and aromas of baked goods warming me up both physically and mentally. Mrs Fairfax gave me a big smile and uttered several generalisations concerning the time of night, the weather, and the quality of her broth and dumplings. Pulling up a chair at the huge kitchen table, I watched her bustle about, filling a bowl and cutting two generous slices of brown bread.
“Here ye are, moi dearie. Get that down yer.”
I thanked her and gave my broth a stir. Just then, the door opened and the woman I’d seen on the stairs stepped into the room. She stared at me, head inclined to one side, her white face and staring eyes prompting me to utter a yelp of surprise.
“Oh, my, are you alright, dearie?” said Mrs Fairfax.
I stuttered out a reply, my attention still on the white face in the doorway.
“Oh, ye mustn’t mind her, missy—that’s just Grace Poole. We calls her Ghosty Whosty, due to her complexion.”
Miss Poole stared back at me, her head returning to its upright position. Then, muttering what sounded like, “Give yer a scare, did Oi?” she ran her tongue along her lower lip, as if considering what I might taste like. For a moment, I felt an inordinate sense that time spent with this woman might be quite pleasurable. Crossing to the stove, she helped herself to a bowl of broth, keeping her eyes on me all the while. I found myself unable to move until Grace Poole walked past me to the door, her pale tongue still poking out. “Bye, then…”
Mrs Fairfax slid into the chair next to mine. Leaning close, she said, “Probably should’ve warned ye about Grace. Can give folk a scare sometimes.” She laid a hand on my arm. “If she ever comes into yer room durin the night, just tell her to fuck off.”
I nodded. But I had my own ideas about how to deal with Miss Poole—and they didn’t involve talking to her.
This morning I received a small package containing a lengthy communication from Mr Evans. Confirming my travel arrangements, he also included a separate document listing additional details relating to Thornfield Hall and its residents. The final items in the parcel turned out to be my train tickets and a cheque for fifty pounds (which gave me a little thrill). I perused all these items during breakfast, making notes in my pocketbook as I did so. I’d just finished my second cup of tea, when Johnny came in to fetch his pipe. (I’ve admonished him on several occasions about this filthy habit, but his long association with Sherlock Holmes has had a detrimental effect on him in more ways than one).
Standing by the window, he spent a few minutes stuffing his pipe with Hard Shag before lighting up and filling the room with clouds of blue smoke, and the unsubtle aroma of sheep shit and heather.
“Really, Johnny,” I said, “that thing cannot possibly be healthy.”
“Nonsense, darling,” he muttered, puffing away. “Everyone knows smoking’s good for you—after all, I’m a doctor.” He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and proceeded to cough violently for a full thirty seconds.
I gave him one of my admonishing looks. “I’m not certain you’re the best person to judge, dear.”
Ignoring me, he sidled up to the table and leaned over me, peering at my various documents. “You’re definitely going, then?”
“It would seem so.”
He sniffed. “I could come with you, if you like.”
I took a breath and held it for a moment. The thought of having Johnny at my side during the investigation filled me with pride—we’d worked together on so many adventures, I know it’ll feel strange to go out on my own. But (I told myself), this would be no ordinary investigation and the whole point of my position on the staff at Thornfield, relied on my perceived status as a single woman. (Mr Evans had stressed the importance of using an alias at the house, as any hint of my real identity might alert the killer—if one exists—and, at the very least, I’ll be chucked out on my proverbial bottom).
“No, darling,” I said. “If I need you, I shall of course be in touch, but I must play the role I’ve agreed to play.”
He sniffed again. “Yes, I suppose so.” He puffed at his pipe. “Might be worth dropping Holmes a note. Just to let him know.”
I resisted the urge to let out a long mournful sigh. “In case you’d forgotten, Johnny, Holmes himself admitted that between the two of us, I am the clever one.”
“Really? I took that to be a joke.”
He had nothing more to say on the matter and as I went back to my notes, he picked up a piece of toast and left the room.
At two minutes to three this afternoon, I boarded the trans-Yorkshire express from Kings Cross to Sheffield, where I changed to a branch-line locomotive that took me to the village of Grimford—a name which struck me as highly appropriate. Hauling my luggage across the lonely platform, I made my way out to the lane, expecting to find the pony and trap Mr Evans had arranged. Unfortunately, the vehicle and its petulant driver did not appear until a good half hour later, giving me an opportunity to sit on my suitcase in the draughty waiting room and go over the details of my mission. Not for the first time, I wondered what I’d let myself in for—if Miss Eyre really is the target of a killer, common sense tells me it must be someone living at the Hall. Aside from the household staff, I noted two gardeners, a general handyman, and a groom. It seemed unlikely any of these would have regular access to the house and probably lived in accommodation within the grounds of Thornfield. Most of the staff were beyond middle age and had been employed at the Hall for at least five years. Why would any of these presumably loyal servants want to kill Mr Rochester, or indeed, young Jane? It seemed unlikely, though as Sherlock Holmes likes to say, once you eliminate the impossible, what remains—however improbable—must be the truth. Of course, Holmes has been wrong before, so I determined to keep an open mind.
The carrier, when he finally turned up, muttered a sullen greeting, and threw my suitcase into the back of the cart. As I climbed up beside him, it started to rain, so by the time we’d driven the two miles to my destination, my travelling clothes were drenched.
The day turned even more gloomy, and the rain persisted, making it difficult to see much from my position next to the driver. Consequently, I didn’t have the chance to observe the Hall from a distance until we reached the end of a long driveway and pulled to a stop in the shadow of the building which was to be my home for the next two weeks. Thornfield Hall turned out to be an enormous edifice, with two substantial wings jutting out from the central section of the house. As I gazed up at the house, my driver grunted a sullen farewell and dumped my suitcase on the ground, before driving off into the night.
A pull on the bell rope at the side of the great double doors, elicited a speedy response.
“Oh, there ye are, Miss Masterson,” said an elderly woman with greying hair.
I blinked, forgetting for a moment the pseudonym I’d decided on for the mission. “Good evening,” I said. “You must be Mrs Fairfax.”
“That I be, Miss,” said the housekeeper, pulling the door wide. “Let me take yer bag.”
I waved away her help as she clearly had some difficulty walking, and followed her into the entrance hall. We passed through another door into a wide chamber with high ceilings and wood-panelled walls, many of which were adorned with paintings of previous members of the Rochester family. The place was lit with candles and chandeliers and I realised the house had no electricity.
“Master’s not here just now, lovey, so I’ll take ye straight up to yer room.” We set off up a wide staircase and onto a long landing, that branched off in several directions. As I followed Mrs Fairfax, I noticed another, narrower, staircase led up to the upper floor which I presumed to be the servants’ quarters. Surprisingly, I was not to be lumped in with them and instead found myself shown into a large bedroom with a huge four poster bed, a roaring fire and a view of the rear gardens (which darkness and the now teeming rain prevented me from observing).
“I’ll give ye a few minutes to unpack, my dear, then if ye’d like ter come down to the kitchens, I’ll heat up some broth and dumplings.”
She gave me instructions on how to find the kitchen and left me in peace.
Stripping naked, I hung up my wet things to dry by the fire, changed into what I considered to be an assistant-housekeeper-type dress and unpacked the rest of my things into one of the chests near the bed. I also took pains to hide the ‘special’ items I’d brought that might prove necessary if my situation become dangerous. Taking a candle, I lit it from a spill by the fire and set off to find the kitchen. In the passage, I closed the door and stood, listening. I’d no idea where Miss Eyre would be at that moment, or anyone else in the house, but given that the time now approached eight o’clock, they’d most likely be in one of the downstairs rooms, doing whatever people in big houses did in the evenings.
Making my way to the main staircase, I paused again to listen. Still no sound came to my ears, but as I took a step onto the staircase, a draught of cold air brushed my neck. Turning, I tried to sense where it had come from. It seemed to be the sort of through-draft that occurs when a door or window is opened. As I stood there, I discerned a faint ‘thump’ in the distance, as of a door closing.
Walking back towards the main passage, I looked both ways but could see nothing in either direction. Then another faint ‘thump’ caught my ear. It came from the left wing of the house. As the passageway had no carpets, I slipped off my shoes and tiptoed lightly along to the far end of the passage. Here, I found another staircase (clearly not part of the one I’d seen by the main staircase), that led upwards and towards the rear of the house. Unlike the rest of the house, there were no candelabras on the walls, so the only light I had was the flickering flame in my now trembling hand. Placing a foot on the stair, I began to climb, but before I’d taken more than five steps, another draft of cold air brushed over me and somewhere above me I heard a distinct bang—another door closing. But this time, it was followed by another sound—a short, high-pitched scream. At the same moment, another breath of air brushed over me and my candle went out, plunging me into darkness.
Eight months have now passed since the adventure which ended with the deaths of dozens of police offers, several greedy industrialists and (most notably) the evil mastermind, Lord Henry Blackwood. My own part in the affair left me feeling somewhat deflated. It’s true I escaped being shot, skewered on a mechanical torture device, and blown to pieces at the Diogenes Club, but the sudden tranquillity that followed the case made me realise how much I’d enjoyed the constant threats and danger my dear Johnny and Sherlock Holmes have led me into over the past few years.
Johnny isn’t as healthy as he once was and has begun to wind down his medical practice. He often spends his free time whittling phallic statuettes in the garden shed. Holmes, as you may have heard, has retired to a little house in the country to keep bees. (The less said about that, the better.)
For my own part, I’ve dealt with the changes in our lives by throwing myself into writing short stories on the themes of female suffrage, sexual freedom, and mild S and M activities for middle-aged women. Several of these have been published in some of the less fashionable magazines read by women of a certain age (of which I hasten to add, I am not one). Only one of my stories features the type of detective adventure I enjoyed with my husband and Sherlock Holmes. Thanks to a contact at the Strand Magazine, the story—The Ice Cream Seller and the Dangerous Cornetto—appeared in last week’s edition. Which brings me to the events of this morning.
Our maid—who has been with us for the last few months—came in to collect the breakfast dishes. Johnny had already retreated to his abode in the garden and my tea had gone cold, so I asked Dolly to make another pot. Before she could do so, there came a ring at the bell, and she hurried off to answer it.
A moment later, she returned. “Please m’m,” she murmured (as is her wont), there’s a gen’lman at the door wishes to see you.”
“A gentleman? Well, better show him in, then.”
A tall, rather striking chap appeared in the doorway, hat in hand. He performed a small bow as if I were public figure of note.
“Mrs Watson, I presume?” he said, giving another bow.
“I am she,” I said, waving him towards John’s empty chair. “Will you take tea? Dolly’s about to make another pot.”
Dolly took the hint and hurried off, closing the door.
The man seated himself and laid his hat on the windowsill. “Mrs Watson…”
“Oh, call me Mary, everyone else does.”
“Very well, Mary. My name is Stephen Evans. I’m the editor of a small magazine called Amateur Detective Monthly. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
I perked up at this. “I certainly have, Mr Evans. In fact, I read it every month without fail.”
He beamed. “Glad to hear it. Which might make this a little easier. I’m sure you’re aware of the type of stories and features we publish, so I won’t bore you with our editorial criteria, but we’d like to commission you to write a series of female adventures.” He paused. “My apologies, that sounded rather sordid.”
“Oh, I don’t mind sordid, Mr Evans. I’m no Miss Innocent, you know.” Realising what I’d said, my face went beetroot and I had to fan myself briskly with the tea cosy.
Mr Evans laughed, his own face turning a shade pinker. “What I mean is, women’s detective stories, but written by a woman, rather than a man. I enjoyed your recent tale in the Strand, by the way.”
A light fluttering started up in my tummy and I told myself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. “You’re very kind.”
“The thing is,” he went on, “we want the stories to be based on real adventures, not made-up ones.”
My heart sank. “I see. Unfortunately, the only adventures I’ve had are those where I accompanied my husband, Doctor John Watson, and which he wrote about in the Strand Magazine. Since our encounter with Lord Blackwood, things have been rather quiet.”
Stephen Evans wagged a finger at me. “Yes, indeed, an exciting story. But you see, that’s just it. We want you to solve a mystery and we’ll commission you to write about it for our magazine.”
This took me aback. Taking a minute to consider what he’d said, the whole thing sounded terribly exciting, except, of course, no-one had asked me to investigate anything. I told him this, but he seemed undeterred.
At this point, Dolly came in with a fresh pot of tea. When she’d gone, Mr Evans continued.
“So, in theory, you’d be interested?”
“Of course. I don’t know what my husband will think but I’m definitely interested. Except for the lack of an actual mystery.”
He paused, bit his lower lip, and fingered his moustache, tugging at the ends. I’ve seen men fingering their moustaches like this before so I know it can signify nervousness. Clearly, Mr Evans had something to say which bothered him.
“We’ve been approached by a young lady who has a problem.”
“Go on.”
He coughed. “It’s rather delicate in some ways, as she’s quite young and inexperienced. She appears to think her life, and the life of her employer, may be in danger.”
“Who from?”
He shrugged. “She can’t say. Or possibly, won’t say.” He paused again, seeming to consider his next words. “She wants someone to infiltrate her place of work to investigate.” I held up a finger to interrupt but he continued. “She’s refused to get the police involved and insists the investigator must be a woman, as a man might alert the person, or persons, who pose a threat to her. A woman, of course, could easily pass herself off as a member of staff. In fact, the young lady’s employer is seeking an assistant housekeeper—the current housekeeper is getting on a bit and needs help.”
I sat back in my chair and looked at him. “If it’s not too indelicate, I assume you intend to pay me.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course. We have a figure in mind based on your staying for up to two weeks at the Hall.” Taking a slip of paper from his pocket, he passed it across the table.
Unfolding the sheet, I looked at the amount. My wonky eye blinked rapidly. “Oh, I say. That is rather a lot of money.”
Mr Evans placed his hands on the table and leaned towards me. “I must be plain with you, Mary. The job may be dangerous. If there really is a threat to this young lady’s life and/or that of her employer’s, your own life may also be in danger.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” I said. “It can’t be worse than some of the situations I’ve been in over the last few years.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I shall have to consult my husband, of course, but he won’t object. And if he does, I have ways to change his mind.” I gave him a lascivious wink.
Mr Evans went scarlet and coughed.
“So, who is this young lady and where does she work?” I said, when he’d recovered himself.
I listened as Mr Evans related the details of my mission, and I began to think of suitable titles for my adventure. Several came to mind immediately, including, Mystery at Thornfield Hall, The Murder of Edward Rochester and The Eyre Affair (though I think someone’s already written a book with that title).
Whatever adventures the next few weeks bring, I now have something to get my detecting teeth into. With any luck, I’ll solve the mystery, save the girl, and become a famous crime writing investigator.
Lestrade glanced at me then took a quick look through the nearest window. My own gaze moved to Blackwood, who, with his face daubed in some red substance, raised his hands.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Lestrade.
As I continued to watch, the hooded figures halted their chanting and gazed at their beloved leader. Blackwood clutched something in his right hand. Making a series of gestures as if performing some weird magical act, he spoke words that could only have come from the demonic book he had so lately acquired. With a sudden flourish, he threw his hands up, casting a reddish powder into the air. With a flash of light, the powder ignited, causing the minions to gasp in awe.
Holmes gave me a nudge and signalled we should break the door down immediately. I couldn’t see any point faffing around with Lestrade’s jemmy, so I lifted my revolver and blew the lock off. (Admittedly, this action removed any element of surprise we may have had, but I reckoned the noise would at least ensure we had the attention of everyone in the room.)
Bursting through the shattered doors, we took up defensive positions, with Holmes and I covering Blackwood and the altar, while Lestrade and Mary kept their guns trained on the hoodies at either side.
‘Ah,’ said Blackwood. ‘You’re still alive, then?’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Holmes, ‘but you’re all under arrest.’
Lord Henry Blackwood laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Shirley.’ He leaned to one side and picked up a large dagger. Holding it in both hands above his head, he began to chant strange words again. I could see he intended to carry out the ritual killing of Professor Klopp.
‘We have to do something, Holmes,’ I said.
‘I’m aware of that, Watson.’ To Blackwood, he shouted, ‘Drop the dagger or I will shoot.’
Blackwood paused, inclined his head, and looked at one of his minions. ‘You know what to do.’
Every single one of the hooded blokes swivelled towards us, their faces dull and lifeless. I guessed they must’ve been drugged, probably with a similar concoction to the one he’d used on us. But as they raised their right hands, I saw each man held a massive knife, much like the one Blackwood wielded.
‘You may have the firepower to kill some of us,’ said the villainous lord, ‘but you will be sliced up like mangoes before you can say tropical sunrise.’ He laughed.
‘Then we have an impasse,’ said Holmes.
Blackwood smirked. ‘Don’t think so, Holmesy. But I’ll tell you what, if you let me finish this little routine, we’ll call it quits.’
Holmes shook his head. ‘Frau Klopp may be a criminal, but she does not deserve to die like this.’
‘Doesn’t she? Well, I think she does. You see, like our friend Miss Ratched, her allegiance was to Moran, who of course, doesn’t exist. And since she also allowed Mrs Watson to escape her punishment, I’m somewhat disappointed in her. And you know how much I despise those who disappoint me, don’t you?’
At this, he raised his dagger again and muttered something indistinct.
‘Then I shall have to shoot you,’ said Holmes, pointing his gun directly at Blackwood’s head.
Blackwood sighed and lowered the knife. ‘You’re no fun, Holmes. I’m definitely going to have to kill you very soon. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure your replacement makes good use of 221B Baker Street and that whoring housekeeper of yours.’
‘You fiend,’ said Holmes. ‘If you—’
‘Oh, shut up, can’t you?’ He sniffed and lifted the dagger again. ‘Now, can we please get on?’
Holmes still had the gun aimed at the villain’s head. ‘I’m warning you, Blackwood. I will shoot.’
‘You know, if you spent a little time perusing the reports of your adventures related by Doctor Sidekick there, you’d realise Sherlock Holmes never shoots anyone, no matter how evil they are.’
I glanced at my companion and couldn’t help noticing how his hand trembled. Blackwood had got it spot on—Holmes would never kill anyone if it could be avoided. Apart from anything else, he prided himself on his ability to rise above actions which he considered to be the coward’s way out.
‘I’ll shoot him,’ said Mary. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’
Holmes smiled at her. ‘That’s very noble of you, my dear, but I wouldn’t wish to tarnish your reputation.’ He let his gun arm drop to his side. ‘You’re quite right, of course, Lord Henry. But while I may be unwilling to kill you, I have no qualms about shooting your balls off.’
In a flash, he raised the gun, took aim, and fired.
It took a few seconds for the reverberations of the shot to die away. But as soon as it did, Lord Henry Blackwood began to scream.
‘Arrrgghhh! You shot my fucking balls off, you fucking…’ Clutching at the space where his gonads used to be, Blackwood sank to the floor, the dagger falling uselessly at his side.
For a moment, the hooded minions stood and stared. Then one of them stepped forwards.
‘Lord Blackwood, rise up and be reborn with gonads anew. Rejuvenate yourself as you have instructed us to do. Become the Evil One. Become—’
‘Oh, shut up, you dick,’ I said, giving the man a sharp left hook. Like Blackwood, he crumpled to the floor.
At the sight of their wounded leader, the hooded minions seemed to rouse themselves. Looking around, they blinked, rubbed their eyes, and dropped their weapons. Some started to cry.
Holmes let out a long sigh. ‘This is going to be a nightmare to sort out. Blackwood will no doubt convince the public, or at least the politicians in his pocket, of his innocence. He’ll probably claim we tortured him. Even if he goes to jail, he’ll escape, and we’ll be left to pick up the pieces. Again.’ He shook his head.
Lestrade sniffed. ‘You’re right, ‘Olmes. He’ll be runnin Londen’s criminal networks before we can say Jack bloody Robinson.’
‘Ours not to reason why,’ muttered Holmes, resting a hand on the inspector’s shoulder.
Lestrade nodded solemnly. ‘Course, there’s one way of makin sure that don’t ‘appen…’
Before anyone could stop him, he raised his gun and blew Blackwood’s brains out.
Blood splattered the floor in a wide arc, some of it landing on the faces of the minions. The evil genius sat quite still for a second, eyes wide and staring, then he fell forwards, still clutching at his ruined gonads.
My mouth dropped open. ‘Jesus wept…’
Holmes sniffed. ‘Yes, Inspector. That certainly is one way…’
Lestrade gazed up at Holmes. ‘You ain’t gonna say anythin, are yer?’
‘You did what I could not do, Inspector. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.’
One by one, the hooded men came to their senses and removed their cloaks, revealing that many were politicians, lords, earls and even one or two members of the royal family.
‘What’s happening?’ said the Earl of Rochester. His face suggested a mix of emotions, including confusion, embarrassment, and horror.
I took the man’s head in my hands and examined his face. ‘Some sort of all-encompassing sedative, I should think. Something to make you pliable and easily influenced.’
Holmes nodded. ‘The doctor’s right. By the time you all came to your senses, you’d be implicated in murder, treason and probably a few sexual shenanigans to keep you under his power for as long as he needed you.’
As the others began to come out of their trance-like states, it took several hours to convince them of what had happened, before we were able to arrange for them to be taken to the police station at Isleworth.
In the aftermath that followed, Holmes and I were kept busy rounding up Blackwood’s thugs, the four fakes, and rescuing Mrs Hudson from the demands of her most recent lodger.
‘He weren’t no bovver, really,’ said she, watching Lestrade handcuff the fake Holmes. ‘Course I knew it weren’t you as soon as he told me he didn’t like muffins. So, I just kept me distance until yer turned up.’ She gave us both a big sloppy kiss, pressing her bosoms into my chest.
Although several politicians and more than forty police officers had died, the situation turned out not to be as bad as we’d anticipated. It seemed some of the dead, including the Commissioner of Police, had been on Blackwood’s payroll for years. Having outlived their usefulness to him, they’d been lumped together for death via the bombs at the Diogenes Club and Scotland Yard.
Professor Klopp turned Queen’s evidence and spilled her guts in the way only the worst villains can do. Maudie Ratched, meanwhile, managed to evade her captors outside the Diogenes Club and was last seen boarding a slow boat for China.
By the time things had begun to get back to normal, Lestrade had been promoted to Chief Inspector, Mrs Hudson had married the pizza chef from the shop downstairs, and Holmes and I decided that putting ourselves in the path of danger had begun to lose its appeal.
While I won’t say we’ll never get together for another adventure, I doubt if I’ll ever feel the need to leap up at the drop of a deerstalker and run to Baker Street to answer the call of the world’s only consulting detective.
As the carriage reached the end of the street, we were hindered by crowds of onlookers, some of them jumping up, trying to see our faces. Just as the vehicle lurched forwards again, the door flew open and Lestrade clambered inside.
From his face, I could tell things were not good. After a pause to get his breath back, he gave us a short account of his partially-successful mission.
‘At least the place weren’t chocka wiv coppers,’ he said. ‘I reckon the blokes what ate the soup will be goners for sure, and the powers that be will ‘ave ter think about finding a new HQ.’ He paused. ‘That’s supposin there are any powers that be after all this palaver.’
We continued our westward journey in silence for a while. With Holmes up top acting as driver, I had no clue as to his plan. Or if he even had one.
After about half an hour, the carriage pulled to one side, and we all climbed out. The night had a cold nip to the air and the lack of streetlamps made it difficult to gauge our location.
‘Watson,’ called Holmes, still sitting up top. ‘Climb up here.’
I did so, and as I moved into position next to him, he pointed across the darkened fields to a shadowy shape silhouetted against the sky. As I watched, the moon slid out from behind a cloud, illuminating the vast mansion.
‘Tossingly Park.’
‘How are we to do this?’ I said, gazing at our objective.
‘If I remember rightly, there’s a long driveway leading up to the house. We’ll be shaded by trees until the last hundred yards or so.’
‘Then we leave the carriage out of sight and approach on foot, eh?’
‘That’s the game.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘My only concern is our lack of weapons.’
Holmes had stopped rubbing his chin, so I rubbed mine. But it didn’t help. ‘Blackwood’s family have lived there for years, haven’t they?’
‘I believe so,’ said Holmes turning his beady eyes on me.
‘Huntin, shootin and fishin, etc?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then there must be a gun cabinet.’
Holmes blinked, then clapping a hand on my shoulder, muttered, ‘Watson, I think you’ve got it.’ He rubbed his chin again. ‘Trouble is, it’ll waste valuable time looking for it.’
‘I’d rather waste time than try to arrest Blackwood with only our fingers.’
Holmes laughed, despite himself. ‘You’re right, of course. In which case, I suggest we approach via the front—he won’t expect that. Blackwood’s a stickler for doing things properly so the gun cabinet will be somewhere away from general view, perhaps near the servants’ quarters, which I suspect will be on the left of the entrance hall.’
‘What are you two gassing about?’ said Mary.
Holmes explained the plan to her and Lestrade, then we resumed our journey. Ten minutes later, we pulled up again a short distance beyond what I supposed must be the gardener’s residence.
Walking through the main gates, we could now see the house in all its glory—an impressive neo-classical mansion probably dating from Tudor times. Boasting four storeys, I couldn’t help admiring the five ornate columns supporting the elaborate front portico.
As we hurried up the steps between the columns, I saw the actual entrance to the house had been set further back. If anyone occupied the rooms on either side, they’d spot us for sure.
Now in semi-darkness again, we came to a halt at the huge double doors. Holmes tried the handle.
‘Locked.’
Lestrade pushed him out of the way. ‘Let me ‘ave a go.’ Producing a crowbar, he set about forcing the lock.
‘Always carry burglar tools, do you, Lestrade?’ said Holmes, with a smile.
‘Course not, but I ‘appened to pick this up off a pal of mine on the way back to you lot.’
With a sharp crack, the wood splintered, and the door opened.
Lestrade slid the jemmy down his trousers and waved us inside.
There were doors to our left and right—the one on the left, if Holmes proved correct, would lead to the servants’ quarters. Ahead of us, a set of double doors almost certainly went through to the courtyard and then to the great hall.
Holmes signalled that we should go left.
Thankfully, this door did not require Lestrade’s expertise, but opened easily. Inside, a short hallway led to two more doors. A quick peek inside one revealed a passageway with rows of pegs for outdoor clothing, most of which were of poor quality and therefore clearly belonged to staff. Backtracking, we entered the second room and found two cabinets, each bolted to the wall and fastened with solid padlocks.
Holmes nodded to Lestrade and the inspector made short work of the padlocks, flipping them open as easily as oyster shells.
The first cabinet contained an array of bottles and potions, many filthy with age and built-up grime—no doubt Blackwood’s personal collection of ‘magical’ mixtures. I noticed three empty spaces and dusty marks, suggesting bottles had been removed—bottles Blackwood might be using at this very moment.
The second cabinet revealed what we were looking for. Several rifles, pistols and other armaments were held in elaborately carved racks. On quick inspection, we found all the guns were loaded, as if their owner had prepared for trouble. Noticing the pepper-box revolver I had lately encountered, I resisted the urge to take it and instead grabbed a Colt Peacemaker, its long barrel giving the weapon a satisfyingly weighty feel.
‘Arm yourselves, comrades,’ whispered Holmes, helping himself to a Howdah pistol. Mary opted for a Derringer while Lestrade chose an army revolver. Thus, suitably equipped, we set off back to the entrance.
The door to the courtyard filled me with trepidation— according to Holmes, the courtyard would be overlooked by all the rooms on either side and above it, as well as the windows in the great hall, which we guessed would be straight ahead. Taking hold of the brass handle, I gave it a twist. The door opened and a moment later all four of us were standing in the courtyard. The layout appeared to be exactly as Holmes had said, with windows on three sides, though most lay in darkness. However, we did have one thing in our favour—the great hall had been lit with hundreds of candles and even from this distance, we could make out dozens of dark figures moving around.
Holmes motioned for us to approach the doors by keeping to the left-hand side. As we reached the first of the hall’s windows, I sneaked a look inside. There were, indeed, several dozen individuals dressed up in hooded garments, moving around in a circular fashion and intoning the words of some no-doubt demonic chant.
But it wasn’t the hooded people, or even the red-cloaked figure of Blackwood himself that made me gasp. In the centre of the circle stood an altar, very much like the one I’d seen at Roderick Usher’s house only a few weeks earlier. Stretched across it, stark naked and bound with a series of straps, lay Professor Helga Klopp.
While Holmes and Lestrade set the bomb to blow off the front door, Mary and I went about finding Maudie Ratched. If she were indeed in the building, we wouldn’t have time to search everywhere. As a starting point, we ran back to the kitchens and discovered the staff we’d met earlier had all gone.
‘Maybe they were Blackwood’s men,’ suggested Mary.
‘Perhaps, but then why did that waiter help us?’
Mary gave me a look. ‘Right—he helped us waste valuable minutes when we should’ve been searching for Blackwood.’
‘Ah. So he did.’
We did a quick assessment of the built-in gas freezer and larder, then hurried back into the main corridor.
‘There must be a cellar here,’ I said. ‘That’d be the obvious place to hide Ratched.’
Taking the stairs two at a time, we made our way through the downstairs lounge bars and library, but there were no obvious hiding places. Heading to the rear of the building, we found steps leading to the cellar. I pushed open the door.
‘There’s a light down here.’
‘Could be a trap,’ said Mary.
‘Let’s find out.’
The steps led into the wine cellar, where row upon row of vintage wines and champagnes filled every available space. It seemed a shame to leave them all to be blown to Hell, but I pushed the idea out of my head. Besides, I’d only be able to fit one bottle in each of my jacket pockets.
At the end of one of the wine racks, the room turned into an L-shape and the source of light became obvious.
Maudie Ratched lay strapped onto a workbench, stark naked and with a pair of hurricane lamps placed at either side of her head. A bandage encased her right wrist, while her upper body showed signs of having been badly beaten. Despite all her nastiness, I couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor villain.
‘Doctor Watson,’ she sobbed, tears coursing down the sides of her face and into her ears. ‘You’ve come to save me.’
I coughed at the sight of her womanhood—on show for all the world to see. Or at least, me and Mary. ‘Actually, Maudie, we’re here for the antidote.’
She let out a howling laugh. ‘Of course. I should have known my life would be meaningless to you.’
‘All life is precious, Miss Ratched,’ I said, my doctor’s sensibilities rising to the fore. ‘Now, am I right in thinking the antidote is hidden up your…ahm…’
‘Up my front bottom. Yes.’
I noticed a sink nearby and began to wash my hands.
‘Johnny,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t think we have time for the niceties of your bedside manner.’
‘Just habit, dear,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you do something about those straps?’
As Mary began to unfasten Maudie’s bonds, I began my internal investigation. Though this sort of procedure would not normally affect me, I found myself becoming strangely aroused. Forcing myself to think of good wholesome things like cricket, Wedgewood pottery and summer meadows, I felt heartened when my unwanted stiffy began to subside. When my fingers came into contact with the base of a small glass bottle, I gave it a gentle tug. Extracting the object from Ratched’s orifice, I felt my face flush scarlet as the object provoked a loud slurp.
Giving the bottle a wipe, I cast my eyes over the label:
H. Blackwood’s All-healing Antidote
For use by Dr J. Watson
(Should he be clever enough to find it).
Mary unfastened the last of the straps holding the prisoner to the bench and located a dusty bedsheet to wrap around her.
As we reached the foot of the stone steps, I heard a loud boom followed by the kind of rumblings I’d become all too familiar with in Afghanistan. Holmes had succeeded in blowing off the front doors. At least we’d be able to escape.
Glancing at my pocket watch, I said, ‘Only a few minutes left. Mary, you take Ratched outside, I’ll get to work with the antidote.’
Mary grabbed my arms and pulled me to her bosom. ‘I don’t care about those old fogies, Johnny. Save Mycroft and the ambassadors, but please don’t get yourself killed.’
I nodded, feeling jolly uncertain about what I had to do.
While Mary and Ratched made their escape, I ran up the stairs to the dining room and crossed to where Mycroft still sat, staring ahead like a stuffed antelope.
Unscrewing the dropper from the bottle, I pulled Mycroft’s head back and dripped four drops into his mouth. By the time I’d done the same with the ambassadors, Mycroft had jumped to his feet.
‘Where’s Sherlock? Did he catch Blackwood? Has he located the bombs and diffused them?’
‘Don’t know, no, and no.’ I moved to the next table and continued my anti-poisoning schedule.
While Mycroft led the ambassadors out of the room, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of irritation that I’d been left to save the lives of approximately forty strangers while the Holmes boys were saving themselves. But that wasn’t fair. After all, Holmes had rescued Mary and me.
Glancing at my watch again, I noted I had perhaps seven minutes before the bombs were due to go off. A quick look at the remaining diners told me there wouldn’t be enough time to get to them all. Dripping the antidote into the mouths of three more grizzled old men, I helped them to their feet and led them to the newly-formed exit at the front of the Club.
Outside, the street lay strewn with debris from the explosion. Holmes and Mary were on the opposite pavement talking to Mycroft.
‘I’ve done as much as I can,’ I muttered, handing the antidote to Sherlock.
He nodded, his face pale and tired. ‘Thank you, John. You’re a brick.’
‘Don’t call me a prick, you tart,’ I quipped, prompting laughter all round.
But the seriousness of the situation soon regained its hold as a thunderous blast shook the ground. We all turned to watch as the shuttered windows of the Diogenes Club blew outwards and the walls began to crumble downwards, clouds of filthy dust filling the air.
As the dust began to clear, I saw crowds of onlookers at either end of the street, several police constables straining to hold them back.
‘Where’s Lestrade?’
‘He and that doorman chappie went to Scotland Yard,’ said Holmes. ‘Though even if he got there in time to evacuate the building, he wouldn’t be able to save anyone who ate the soup.’
‘Now look here, Sherlock,’ said Mary, poking his chest. ‘We’ve all done our damnedest to stop Blackwood. If even a fraction of his intended victims has survived that’s one up to us.’
‘You’re right, Mary,’ said Holmes. ‘Which reminds me, we have an appointment with Lord Blackwood.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘He’ll be at his country residence by now with his collection of bent politicians. God knows what he’ll be telling them.’
‘Where is this country residence?’ said Mary.
‘Tossingly Park House. About ten miles from here.’
‘Then there’s no time to lose.’
‘I think you’d better stay here with Mycroft, Mary,’ said Holmes.
‘Don’t be a twat, Sherlock. I’m not missing this for anything.’
Holmes grinned and the three of us ran off, leaving Ratched in the care of Mycroft and a brace of constables.
Whatever Blackwood had in mind, I had no idea if we’d be able to stop him. Indeed, his villainous plan might already be in motion, in which case we might simply be giving him another opportunity to finish us off for good.
Commandeering a police carriage, Holmes whipped the horse into action, and we set off for what might be our last attempt to prevent the whole of Londen falling into the hands of a criminal mastermind.
I make this statement at the request of Sherlock Holmes and his associate Doctor John Watson in connection with an incident at the Diogenes Club on Monday last.
Having met Messrs Holmes and Watson and two other individuals as they entered the Club, I continued with my usual duties for about another half hour. At that point, I became aware of two gentlemen approaching me. As they were not familiar, I stepped forwards to prevent entry until I’d had the opportunity to examine their credentials. However, before I could do so, one of the gentlemen hit me over the head with what I suspect to be a wooden mallet.
The next thing I recall is waking up on the ground with a large cut to the back of my head and a headache like I’ve never before experienced.
Getting to my feet, I heard a knocking sound coming from inside the Club and realised someone must be banging on the doors. That’s when I noticed several planks of wood had been nailed across the double doors and a heavy chain looped around the handles.
When the knocking stopped, I heard a voice.
‘Clackett? Are you there?’
I recognised the voice immediately as Mr Sherlock Holmes, the aforementioned famous detective.
‘Yes, sir,’ said I. ‘How can I help you this evening?’ (I realise now this was a particularly stupid response, but I did have a very sore head at the time.)
‘Clackett,’ continued Mr Holmes. ‘I am placing a large explosive device at the door. I suggest you withdraw to the pavement and prevent anyone else from approaching.’
I called out my agreement and hurried down the steps to the road. A few moments later, I found myself sailing through the air as if a terrific wind had erupted from nowhere.
When the dust cleared, I perceived that the doors to the Club had gone, replaced by a hole several times larger than the space formerly occupied by the said doors.
A man I now know as Inspector Lestrade, hurried out into the street and helped me up.
‘Can you stand, Clackett?’ he said.
‘I can, sir.’
‘Then I want yer to come wiv me ter Scotland Yard.’
‘But inspector, I can’t leave my post—non-members might gain entry to the Club.’
The inspector placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘This may come as a shock to you, but in a few minutes the Diogenes Club will be blown ter fuck. Now. Are you wiv me?’
I nodded and we pushed through the gathering crowds along Pall Mall and found a cab. Racing across The Mall, the Hackney veered left into Horse Guards Parade, under the arch, and out onto Whitehall where we careened left again followed by a sharp right into Whitehall Place.
Lestrade shouted at me to pay the cabbie while he ran up the steps.
A minute later, I found him shouting at two constables in the lobby. The pair looked a little suspicious until the detective flashed his warrant card.
‘I ain’t gonner tell yous again, lads—we ‘ave ter evacuate the building right now, cos there’s a fuckin bomb an it’s gonner blow this place sky bloody high.’
‘But there ain’t no-one ‘ere, Inspector,’ said one, waving his arms as if to demonstrate the lack of police officers.
‘What d’yer mean, there ain’t no-one ‘ere?’
‘It’s a bank ‘oliday, sir. There’s only a skeleton crew here tonight. An anyway, we got an offer of soup and stovies from that wee Scots lassie that runs the soup kitchen round the corner. Since Commissioner Gordon sent round that notice sayin we weren’t ter consume food on the premises, the lads that were on duty ‘ave gone round there.’
The inspector let out a long sigh and I saw the tension of the situation drop from his face like suet pudding hitting the floor.
‘Right,’ said he. ‘You two go outside and make sure no-one gets back in here.’
‘Oughtn’t we ter try an find this ‘ere bomb, Inspector?’
‘No time. Outside, now.’
No sooner had we crossed the threshold than that (by now familiar) terrific wind erupted again and all four of us flew up into the air. We landed in a heap of arms and legs back in the Hackney cab we’d just got out of.
After we’d picked ourselves up and examined our various injuries, the inspector sent the two coppers off to check on their colleagues and warned them to arrest whoever had made the soup. Just as they ran off, he called them back.
‘Just so yer know, yer colleagues might be dead. If they are, well…just do what yer can.’
The pair hurried away. Then the inspector told me to go home and come back in a few days to make a statement.
‘Where will I come back to, sir?’ I said, gazing at the ruins of the police headquarters.
He rubbed his chin. ‘Good point. Leave me your address and I’ll come to you.’
As I walked away, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by it all, I saw the inspector gazing up at the great mounds of rubble that a few seconds earlier had been Scotland Yard.
I’d only got as far as Trafalgar Square when an almighty explosion shook the very street I walked upon.
That’d be the Diogenes Club, then, I thought to myself.
No amount of pulling and twisting did any good—the ropes were too tight and our balancing act on top of the bomb too precarious. Anything other than small movements might trigger the mechanism and blow us to smithereens.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I said. ‘Holmes will find us.’
‘Before or after the bomb goes off?’
I told myself to stay positive and tried a different tack. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have one of those clever little devices about your person?’
‘Which clever little devices?’
‘You know—like your wind-up lamp, or that vibrating thing you had on the SS Mangochutney.’
‘Even if I did have that ‘vibrating thing’, I’d have to remove my French knickers to get at it.’
‘Oh. Of course.’
We fell silent for a moment. Then, realising the end must be near, and with a trembling lip, I murmured, ‘Mary, I want you to know that you have been the best part of my life. You’ve brought me companionship, unexpected joy, thrilling escapades, and laughter. Not to mention undreamed of carnal adventures of such intensity—’
‘Will you shut up a minute?’
‘What?’
‘Quiet. There’s someone outside.’
I listened. Something squeaked. For a moment I thought it must be the toilet seat, then I recalled a similar sound when I’d pushed open the bathroom door only a few short minutes earlier.
‘Who’s there?’
‘For God’s sake, Watson. You’ve not got the squirts again, have you?’
‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘We’re in here but don’t open the door. There’s a bomb.’
I heard muttering, a few thumps and a minute later Sherlock’s head appeared over the top of the cubicle.
‘One thing we can say for the Watsons—they never do anything by halves.’ His beady eyes took in our situation, and he barked instructions to Lestrade.
‘D’you know about the bombs in the dining room?’ said Mary.
‘I do,’ said Holmes.
‘I expect Mycroft’s panicking, is he?’
Holmes coughed. ‘He would be if he could talk.’ In typical Holmesian pragmatism, he outlined the events of the last few minutes. As he finished, Lestrade returned.
‘I got scissors, a knife and a tin-opener.’
I heard Holmes clamber down from on top of the toilet and a moment later the big-nosed detective’s face appeared under our cubicle door. Twisting himself round, he managed to get one arm under the door and stretched upwards until able to position the scissors next to the wire.
‘You do know that cutting it might trigger the bomb, Holmes?’ I said.
‘I do, Johnny. So, let’s hope it doesn’t.’
I closed my eyes and heard a metallic snip. Holding my breath, I opened my eyes and looked down. The wire had been cut and we were still alive.
Using various other kitchen utensils, Holmes and Lestrade cut through the ropes holding Mary and I together, then lifted us bodily, one by one, away from the bomb and into the relative safety of the washroom.
‘How long have we got left?’ said Mary.
‘Not long enough,’ said Holmes. ‘The external doors and windows are locked and shuttered. I suggest we use this explosive device to fashion an exit.’
‘You what?’ said I.
‘We need to blow the bloody doors off.’
‘What about the antidote?’ said Lestrade.
Holmes rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Given the occupations of our dining room friends, I did consider leaving them to their fate, but even Mycroft doesn’t deserve that. Besides, we don’t really want to start a war between America and Russia, which is exactly what would happen if the ambassadors were killed.’
Lestrade shook his head. ‘I don’t see ‘ow we can ‘ope to find a bottle of antidote in a place this size. It just ain’t possible.’
‘For once Lestrade, you’re absolutely right.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Where would you hide such a bottle, Mrs Watson?’
Mary frowned. ‘Why are you asking me?’
‘Because, Mary, I seem to remember a certain incident on a certain steam ship where you extracted a small device from a certain part of your anatomy.’
‘We were just talking about that,’ said I. ‘She’d shoved it up her—’
The slap echoed around the small room. ‘What the hell was that for?’ I whined, rubbing my offended features.
Mary glared at me. To Holmes, she said, ‘You’re right. I kept if up my vagina, but as I’m not in league with Lord Henry Blackwood, I can assure you that—’
‘Yes, yes, I know, Mary. I’m simply suggesting that a woman in the employ of Blackwood, should she fall foul of him, might, as punishment, serve as a receptacle for such a hiding place.’
I looked at Mary, who inclined her head in a way that suggested she already knew the answer.
‘Of course,’ I muttered. ‘Ratched.’
‘Ang on,’ said Lestrade. ‘Why would Blackwood punish Maudie?’
‘Tell him, Mary,’ said Holmes.
‘Because, Inspector, I broke her wrist. Blackwood might easily see that as a betrayal—don’t forget, she wasn’t his woman, but Moran’s and as Moran doesn’t exist…’
Holmes glanced at his watch. ‘We have to find her. And we have only fifteen minutes before the bombs go off.’
As we raced along the corridor, I wondered what would be worse—being blown to bits or having to give Maudie Ratched an internal examination.
Having searched the guest bedroom and a couple of nearby closets, Holmes and I decided to go back to the dining room.
Back at our table, we found the Watsons had not returned.
‘How long have they been gone?’ said Holmes to his brother.
Mycroft checked his Half Hunter. ‘It’s just after seven, so almost fifteen minutes. Hadn’t you better go and look for them?’
Holmes started to rise from his seat, then sat down again. I followed his gaze to the far end of the room where a woman had stepped onto the stage. Standing at the lectern, she stared at the audience.
‘It’s Klopp,’ muttered Holmes.
While she waited for the diners to fall silent, I picked up my spoon and was about to start on the pea soup when Holmes touched my hand. His eyes went from mine to the soup bowl and back again.
‘Don’t.’
I looked at Mycroft and the two ambassadors, who had all finished their soups. With my stomach grumbling, I was about to complain that I hadn’t eaten for hours, when Professor Klopp began to speak.
‘Gentlemen and gentlemen, I vould like to zank you all for coming here tonight to hear my thoughts about bringing economic equality to ze world. Unfortunately, zer vould be no point in telling you zat, because by eight o’clock tonight you vill all be dead.’
A murmur of disapproval ran around the room, but rather unexpectedly, no-one stood up to protest. I glanced at Holmes whose beady eyes were scanning the other diners. When I looked at Mycroft and the ambassadors, I saw they were all sitting very still, with only their eyes moving.
‘What’s happenin, Holmes?’ I whispered.
‘It’s the soup. They’ve all eaten it. Probably laced with a formula taken from that damned book of Ravenscroft’s, or perhaps a substance similar to the one Blackwood used to murder his father.’ He leaned over and poked Mycroft in the chest. Mycroft’s eyes widened but he did not move.
‘They’re bloody paralysed.’
‘But still able to hear,’ said Holmes.
‘Yes, Mr Holmes,’ said Lord Henry Blackwood, who had now arrived on the stage, a tall black hat and long cape giving him the appearance of some sort of posh wizard. ‘In fact, you and the inspector are the only individuals still able to move. Unfortunately, you are also unable to escape, as all the doors and shutters have been locked from the outside. Your friends Mr and Mrs Watson are,’ he laughed, ‘also unavoidably detained. Anyway, on with the show. I’d like to welcome the American and Russian ambassadors, gentlemen of the British government and various other industrialists and businessmen. You were all invited here in the belief that you would hear something to your advantage. Sadly, that is not the case. As you will have guessed by now, you have all been poisoned. Our good friend, the world’s first and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, assisted me in locating a certain ancient book of spells. It is this book that has allowed me to develop a poison that would take effect approximately 30 minutes after imbibing it. However, the bombs we have planted above your heads will ensure that anyone who does not succumb, will be blown up.’
Holmes jumped to his feet. ‘You won’t get away with this, you fiend.’
‘Ah, Sherlock. Your rather stupid friend, Doctor Watson, said something along the same lines. Alas, he and his good lady are currently tied up in the company of one of my explosive devices and therefore won’t be with us for the rest of their lives. But I would not wish to kill everyone here without giving you, Sherlock, a small chance to save a few individuals, so I have hidden in this building, somewhere, a bottle of antidote. If you can locate it and give three or four drops to anyone still alive, you can save them. Of course, you still risk being blown to hell when the bombs go off, but you can’t have it all ways.’
‘Even if you kill us all,’ said Holmes, ‘you’ll still have half the government and the whole of the Metropolitan Police Force to contend with.’
Blackwood grinned. ‘The Government, yes, but not the dreaded fuzz. My men have also placed bombs at Scotland Yard and have utilised the services of a local soup kitchen to provide my special soup to any officers wishing to partake. So, you see, one way or the other, most of my current enemies will be dead by this time tomorrow.’
‘You’ve forgotten one thing, Blackwood,’ said Holmes. ‘You’re still here.’
‘For the moment, yes, but I have arranged an escape route for myself and my team.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘In half an hour, I shall be dining at my country estate in the company of several elder politicians who share my beliefs on the future of Londen. Which gives me what I believe the gentlemen of the law would call a water-tight alibi.’
With that, he grabbed Klopp’s hand and hurried offstage.
‘What the bleedin hell are we goin ter do now, Holmes?’ said I.
‘Find that bleedin antidote, that’s what.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘And save John and Mary, and find the bombs and…’ He sighed. ‘Or at least give it a bloody good go.’
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