Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (10 page)

“'Ello, Vickie,” said he in a guttural, mocking tone, lifting, as he spoke, his bogus eye-patch from his left eye, and transforming into the shrewd detective of Baker Street. “So we meet again, poppet.”

My jaw dropped in horrified astonishment at this disrespectful sally, so uncharacteristic of Holmes, and most unworthy of his chivalrous nature.

“I beg your pardon, sir!” cried Nemo, springing to his feet. But Miss Valentine's reply was the most startling.

“You!” she shrieked, eyes blazing with fury and horror; she seized a long heavy pin from among the folds of her elaborate headgear, and hurled it at Holmes with all her might.

We gasped in uniform surprise. Victoria Valentine's long stiletto-bladed pin
whizzed
past us and embedded itself with a thud into the wooden partition which backed Holmes' bench, inches away from his head.

In an instant Mycroft Holmes had seized the girl's wrist, arresting her sudden attempt to fly, and clapped a gun to her head. Pierre Nemo leaped forward with an indignant shout, brandishing a terrible-looking weapon, but Holmes' crop flew up and knocked it from his grasp, which intervention so enraged the man, he seized his own stick and swung heavily at Holmes. I had scarce time to spring to my feet before pandemonium had erupted inside the club. Alerted, no doubt, by Miss Valentine's screams as she struggled against Miss Holmes' restraining grasp, every man was on his feet, every pistol and knife and weapon leveled. Amid the cries and confusion came the report of a gun, and then it seemed every firearm reacted in its turn, and the room was alive with gunshots, men rushing from the shadows, leaping through the curtains, springing madly from every recess, into a chaotic melee.

In my shock I had remained rooted in my place, my mechanical arm poised to attack or defend, when suddenly the scene before me became clear. Mycroft's agents, strategically hidden within the club's many nooks and crevices, or mingled among the guests, had leaped into action at some given signal, and those loyal to Nemo—or, as was equally possible, those scoundrels who tenanted and frequented this barbarous establishment—were responding in like fashion to the sudden aggression. There was a rush of bodies towards the doors, as the more timid, or more compromised, of the clientèle attempted to beat a hasty retreat.

A fresh infusion of police whistles and uniformed men scurrying into the great subterranean chamber through various entrances alerted me that not only our own quarry but every other illegal procedure in the club had ample cause for fear that night.

At that moment a large pewter tankard sailed through the air towards me, and I ducked only in time to avoid an intimate acquaintance with it, though I could not wholly avoid a light shower of choice ale as it smashed into the wall behind me. The tankard was followed a second later by a huge hulking form, who in his crashing fall managed to upset our table, one of the benches, and my person; I extricated myself from the scene of collision without any great injury, though the human projectile remained a senseless heap under the mangled furniture.

In the confusion, Holmes was separated from his original opponent, and had barricaded himself behind an overturned table, his revolver spitting murderously at intervals against a gang of ruffians, who, no doubt having recognized the famous detective, had singled him out as their principle enemy. Miss Holmes' appearance was that of a great biped panther, for her black fur train was thrown about her shoulders, and with her face ensconced in the same half-mask that had enveloped her in our last encounter with enemies, she was emptying the charges of two Moriarty-727 pistols into a line of armed roughs, which fast dispersed as some of their number collapsed. Realizing that both Holmes and his sister were otherwise engaged, I scanned our surroundings for the man and woman whom we had originally come to seek.

It appeared that Miss Valentine, having somehow wrenched herself free from Mycroft's grasp, had turned at once to escape; Nemo, on his part, had taken advantage of Holmes' diverted attention to break away from their fight and join his lover in retreat. My eyes, smarting in the smoke-laden atmosphere, quickly caught sight of his tall figure darting through the chamber, picking his way, as it were, across a debris-strewn battlefield peopled with crazed warriors. Not three yards ahead of him, halfway towards the exit, ran Miss Valentine, plainly recognizable by her blonde head, severely disarranged by the absence of the long hairpin which had kept her locks in place. I started forward to follow and arrest their flight, but as I did so, the woman suddenly gave a shriek, and with a paroxysm of motion, collapsed upon the ground.

The man behind her screamed her name in a heart-wrenching cry of anguish and agony I shall never forget. He flung himself down by her side. My training as a battlefield medico sprang instinctively into action. In an instant I had crossed the room, heedless of the flying projectiles all about me, and knelt by the woman's fallen figure. She had been struck down by a great volley of bullets; her blood soaked through her vestures and pooled about her on the ground.

I toiled over the lady in a desperate and futile attempt to save her life. Pierre Nemo knelt opposite me by his lover's prostrate form; he alternately caressed her brow and assisted my actions, as great tears dropped from his face onto the bloody mass of clothing and hair which lay between us. He held her limp hand tightly, kissed her fingers and face profusely, all the while whispering endearments in a language I could not understand, though I thought it might be German.

The shattered body of Victoria Valentine lay heaving, unresponsive to my efforts, until one last long moan of anguish escaped her lips, her eyes became glassy, and the motion of her chest subsided into stillness. Feverishly I cast aside my last reserves, and attempted by every means in my power to bring the breath of life back into the corpse before me. All my efforts were in vain.

I looked up, conceding defeat at last, from the patient who was beyond my reach, to the face of the man before me. His fine, wide-set black eyes, streaming in the profusion of his grief, met mine at that moment, and read in my expression the conclusion of all hope.

His look will haunt me until I too meet my last rest in silence. Never have I witnessed a more poignant baring of another human soul as in that instant, when every vestige of Pierre Nemo's loss and grief was transmitted from his eyes to mine. I could have wept with him, and indeed my own eyes stung with a sudden flux of moisture. We neither of us said a word; for one moment all time was suspended, and the two of us knelt, alone in an empty world of silence, beside the hollow cocoon which had housed the beautiful Victoria Valentine.

Suddenly the moment was broken, the silence shattered, the deafening shouts and noise of gunfire and mayhem once more surged up in my ears and pounded through my brain. Nemo's eyes hardened, rage and hatred welled up, expelling the pathetic grief from his countenance, and he gave a bass cry that chilled the blood in my veins. Then, flinging his lover's corpse across his shoulders, he rose to his feet, and ran through the confusion towards the door.

Sherlock Holmes brushed past me at that moment, running after the fleeing Nemo, a smoking revolver in one hand, as I remained in my posture of genuflection, deeply moved by all that I had just witnessed.

“Been amusing yourself, have you, Watson?” he called to me in passing. “Hurry, man, hurry!” A menacing figure suddenly rose up before him from the shadows, barring his way to the door; Holmes swatted away this obstruction with his loaded crop, and disappeared through the aperture. I followed after Holmes up the rotting steps and along the passageway to the door by which we had first entered.

Outside, the bitter air, tinged with its foul reek, stung our faces after the heat and smoke of the den below. The strife had expanded into the street; police sirens and garish lights pierced through the night mist, illuminating the traffic which jostled in every direction, setting an appropriate backdrop for the bloody battle which raged inside the building and out.

A few policemen, well accoutered in full battle regalia, ran past us through the open door of the Foul Fish and Fowl club whence we had just emerged. Among them I recognized the bulldog countenance and grim-set features of Inspector Lestrade. He did not pause to greet his amateur counterpart, and I admit that neither Holmes nor I spared a thought for the official forces as we swept over the scene in search of our prey.

“There!” Holmes pointed to a figure, dimly visible through the yellow swirling currents seamed with black shadows, in the act of throwing a bulky bundle into a steam gurney some distance away. “There they are!”

I started to run thither, but Holmes' hand stayed me. He pulled a long thin bird whistle out of his cuff and blew it three times; a moment later, just as I despaired that our quarry's getaway vehicle had vanished into the gloom, the rumbling of a powerful motor eclipsed the terrible noise around us, and the Widowmak'r sped around the corner and screeched to a halt before us. I scarcely saw the boy who drove it to Holmes' summons; he seemed to have vanished before ever the Widow came to a full stop. Holmes had instantly leaped astride the seat, and I, without a moment's hesitation, vaulted into the sidecar, and we roared off down the street in the direction of the retreating gurney.

We had not long to drive before we were at their heels, wending furiously along narrow and pitted paths between the dockyards. I saw then that there were at least three vehicles, careening along the streets at a frightful speed. We steadily shortened the distance between us, until we could see the barrels pointed at us from out of the backs of the vehicles we pursued.

A series of bullets sang past my ear; Holmes signaled to me to return their fire. I replied by raising my arm to fire my rocket-launcher. Though lights in the dockyards and alleys were sparse and altogether dim, my target was plainly visible in the powerful beam of light emitted by the compact Ruhmkorrf lamp fixed between the Widowmak'r's handlebars, and presently a dart-sized missile shot forth from its propulsive nest jutting from my arm, just as the Widow swerved around a protrusion in our path. The diminutive rocket traced a wild course and exploded into flame in the side of a sprawling warehouse.

I braced my arm again, took steadier aim, and fired. A burning rush of energy shot up into the flesh of my shoulder as another missile dislodged itself from its constricts and, trailing a glittering emission, crashed into the vehicle before us.

Holmes' lightning reflexes only just saved us from partaking first-hand of the blazing conflagration that had been the steam-gurney in front of us. The Widow sheered wantonly to the left, narrowly abrading the devastated vehicle and its unfortunate occupants, and stormed up a ramp into a boat-builder's shed, through the blackness of which we careened and skidded noisily until Holmes had brought us full-circle, with a few minor collisions along the way, and back down into the street.

During the moments in which we had been diverted from the chase, our prey had turned away from the maze of streets between the docks, and had far outdistanced us across a broken-up grassy plot expanding into the countryside panorama beyond the industrial fisheries, boat-repairers and clustered warehouses on this side of the river. We followed in their trail, Holmes ever unconscious of the colossal bumps and jostles to which he submitted his vehicle's springs, though we did not achieve our former speed.

As we left the dim lights of the dockyards behind us, I became aware of something churning the sky above us as we raced along over the pitted ground, skirting rocks and gullies, after our game. I looked up, and in amazement beheld the ponderous under-gusset of a huge dirigible, its rotors whipping the air like a mighty Aeolus of ancient mythology, illuminated from below by the reddish light of several lanterns at the stern and prow of its cabin. It passed over our heads and preceded the Widow easily enough, though our speed could not have been, at that moment, less than fifty miles per hour, and then, slackening its velocity, the airship hovered close above the vehicles we pursued.

In that whole desolate countryside no lights penetrated the dense darkness all around us, save those emitted by the headlights of the various ground vehicles, and the lanterns attached to the airship. My eyes, however, were not too dim to perceive that a human transfer was being enacted from a gurney to the airship, even as we bumped and jostled our way over the rough knolls at indecent speeds. A long rope ladder, it appeared, had been let down from the flying ship, and by this convenient, if somewhat dangerous, means, a man was endeavoring to climb from certain death or capture into the hallowed freedom of the skies. We were close enough, by that time, to our prey's vehicles, to clearly glimpse the escaping man's face as it came within the glow of the airship's lanterns. It was Pierre Nemo.

When he had vaulted over the side of the elongated cabin, the airship arrested its forward motion, and, performing a perfectly executed about-face, glided over our heads in a south-westerly course. Holmes veered the Widowmak'r around at once in the direction of the city of London, and leaving the remaining occupants of the gurneys to the attention of the agents of the law, whose vehicles I could see racing furiously in the fugitives' tracks with all the velocity they could muster, we resumed our pursuit of the airborne dirigible.

Holmes was compelled to pay closer attention than was his wont to the terrain over which we sped, for the ground was pitted with rocks and deep gashes, and more than once I felt the sickening feeling of weightlessness as we sailed headlong over protrusions in our path, or skidded precariously across ridges lined with brambles. Thankfully, Holmes was an expert cross-country driver, and the Widowmak'r was by no means a machine that required delicate handling. The thought of an upset while driving at high speed in the countryside frightened me far less than the prospect of a violent collision with a team of draft horses pulling pig iron in the heart of a busy London thoroughfare. Nevertheless, as we careened and pitched our way over the uneven ground, I braced my body tightly and committed my health and that of my companion to Heaven's keeping.