Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (5 page)

All the long afternoon I waited impatiently, vainly trying to imagine the direction Holmes' chain of reasoning had led him; attempting to discern which fact had struck him as the vital clue upon which his interpretation of the mystery was centered. The promised message from Holmes did not arrive until shortly after nine o'clock, just as I contemplated ringing the bell for my supper.

“
Dining at Goldini's, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Come at once. Bring my black Engine trousseau from the bureau drawer, the blood-light from my workbench, my burglar kit, hunting crop, and your revolver. Avoid getting arrested, please. —S.H.”

Quite a nice collection for a respectable citizen to carry about, thought I. Holmes' allusion to his burglar kit and Engine trousseau filled me with a palpable sense of foreboding, for with the aid of the former he could break into any building, safe and strong-room made by man, and with that of the latter access whatever information he desired from any Babbage Engine, no matter how advanced or complex its programming. Nevertheless, I obediently filled every pocket of my overcoat with the required equipment, and set out into the dim, fog-draped streets.

When I arrived at Goldini's Restaurant, I was greatly surprised to see Mycroft Holmes seated beside her brother at a small round table in the corner, the surface of which was covered with a number of maps, guidebooks, and cigar ash.

“Ah, Watson,” called Holmes. “I hope you have not yet had your supper—no? Excellent, you must join us in a coffee and Curacao. Have you brought my tools?”

“They are scattered about my pockets.”

“Marvelous! Try one of the proprietor's cigars; they are less poisonous than one would expect. Dear me, what a lovely night; absolutely ideal for our purpose.”

Mycroft Holmes raised her eyebrows very delicately, but said nothing. My misgivings returned in a rush.

“What is your plan, Holmes?” I asked, warily.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes lowered his voice to a dramatic pitch, “we are going to commit a felony. How does a round of breaking-and-entering sound to you?”

“Holmes!” I ejaculated, eyes rounded in horror. “You don't mean it!”

“Afraid so,” Holmes said, puffing out a huge cloud of blue smoke. “You see, if we are to succeed in learning the truth of this strange matter, and consequently retrieving the lost cards, we must discover how the theft was accomplished, who besides Cadbury was involved in the matter, why he was killed, and why the seven cards replaced in his pocket. After my reconnaissance and research of the afternoon, it is clear that our next step must be to search the premises which I suspect to have been the location of the crime, and learn for ourselves what secrets they may disclose.”

“We might get caught,” I expostulated. “And then what would become of us? These are dangerous stakes, Holmes.”

“For home, health, and beauty, eh, Mycroft?—Martyrs on the altar of our country. But perhaps, Watson, I should give you some indication of my reasoning up to this point. Then, if our obvious path remains unclear to you, I shall condescend to further explain the necessity of what I propose to do tonight.”

I frowned, but, lighting my cigar, I leaned back in my chair and listened.

“It must be evident to you, as it is to me, that Cadbury's body was placed on top of a train after he was killed, and so came to rest where it was found. Very good. How was such a feat accomplished, I asked myself. Maybe thrown from a bridge or overpass, or possibly an airship. Or perhaps dropped from the back window of one of the many houses and flats which flank the train line. I did not seriously prefer the latter choice over the others until I received Mycroft's reply to my telegram asking her for the addresses and names of foreign agents in London.

“You are aware, Watson, that my knowledge of the byways and hedges of London is quite minute, and my intimate acquaintance with certain unusual features of our great city has in times past been of some use to me. Well, when I saw the name of Caulfield Gardens, Kensington, listed as the residence of a leading international agent, I recalled that some time ago, while on one of my leisurely rambles, I had noticed that the houses along one side of this quiet lane had their backs so close to the railway, as to practically brush against the sides of the trains as the latter rush on by. Woe be to the passenger who leans out of the window along that stretch of railway. At that very point, too, the trains are often held in suspension for some minutes, due to the presence of switches some way ahead, near Aldgate Station, where two Metropolitan lines cross.

“Anyway, it struck me that anybody residing in one of those houses might quietly and easily dispose of a body in just such a way as I had imagined. When I further discovered that the agent residing at that very address had left London precipitately late last night, I was satisfied that I must be on the right track. Mycroft has heard the full extent of my reasoning, and agrees that Mr Peter von Oberon, employed in Moriarty Industrial as manager of the International Research Department, is most likely the man we are after. And as he has not seen fit to return home since his speedy departure after the events of last night, we might try our luck in searching his unsuspecting house for any useful shred of evidence that might put us on his track.”

“Doubtless you are right, Holmes,” said I, trying to prevent my admiration from seeping into my stern-set features. “But could not we get a warrant and legalize our search?”

“Tut, man; we have no evidence against the fellow; hardly even a plausible suspicion. Besides, in applying for a warrant we would be compelled to put our incomplete knowledge into the hands of the law, and that would be catastrophic at this stage.”

“I still don't like it,” said I.

“Neither do I,” said Mycroft Holmes suddenly. “But I fear my brother is right, Dr. Watson. There can be no doubt that von Oberon had a confederate in this affair. We can only hope that a search of the house will reveal something to help us unravel these mysteries.”

“Exactly,” chimed in her brother. “Besides, I promise that I shall do the illegal part. You shall do nothing but keep watch, and hold my lantern. Mycroft, I wish you would come along too.”

Miss Holmes began to shake her head vigorously, but stopped abruptly and tilted her head to one side.

“I just will, then,” said she after a moment's pause. Holmes appeared pleasantly surprised, and taking her hand kissed it gallantly. “Thank you, Mycroft,” said he. “You honor us with your company. It's nearly 11. Shall we be on our way? Watson, you'll have to ride with me, and Mycroft can take the sidecar.”

Miss Holmes' eyes narrowed to slits. “If you imagine,” said she to Holmes in a soft coo tinged with steel, “that you shall ever convince me to ride on that infernal machine of yours, you are very much mistaken.”

“I shall accompany Miss Holmes in a cab,” I said hastily, vastly relieved. Holmes looked reproachfully at me, but I diverted my eyes and, taking up my hat, left the restaurant in search of a four-wheeler.

Half an hour later, we had crossed through the gate of number 19 Caulfield Gardens, and become felons in the eyes of the law.

Sherlock Holmes courteously allowed his sister Mycroft to precede him up the porch steps, whilst I endeavored to replace the broken chain upon the gate as noiselessly as was possible in the smoggy gloom. By the time my task was accomplished, Holmes had already managed to beguile one of the locks on the front door, and was rapidly persuading the other to likewise give way. In the hazy darkness I could hear the faint tink-ing of his instruments, as I kept my eyes fixed on the street, and Miss Holmes stood idly by.

I noticed in the distance the glow of a lantern slowly traveling in our direction, even as my ears picked up the leisurely tread of a policeman on his beat.

“Put out your torch, Holmes,” I called to my friend in an alarmed whisper, “or our presence will surely be discovered.”

At that moment Holmes' work was rewarded with a loud click, and the front door swung open. Mycroft Holmes passed into the house first as her brother held the door for her, and I ducked inside last, quickly shutting the door behind me.

The hall was miserable and bare in the dim light of the lantern, no ornaments or bric-a-brac of note to add any personality to the room. Holmes was already marching briskly up the long, curved staircase, taking the torchlight with him; his sister followed. I looked around the hall, my uneasiness increasing as the fan of light extending from the lantern receded, before squaring my shoulders and following my companions up the stairs, hunting crop in hand. Holmes had insisted, as we made the transfer of the equipment I had brought at his request, that I take his favorite loaded crop, while he pocketed my weapon to keep his own revolver company.

Holmes' brisk voice now shattered the gloom. “Ah, this
must
be the very place. Observe, Sister Mycroft, if you please, the position of this window over the railway lines below. Now, where
is
Watson? Ah!” he exclaimed I entered the room, and thereupon turned again to the window without paying any further attention to me. “Yes, I'm sure this is the place. Do hold this lantern for me, Mycroft dear—yes, indeed, this can only be... by Jove, these are bloodstains, or I'm an ass twice over.” Holmes seized the torch from his sister's hand, and fumbled with one or two of its dials.

I remembered that some months before, Holmes had toiled several hours at his workbench over that torch, installing a device to which he had assigned the rather macabre name of 'blood-light'. “It illuminates bloodstains, no matter how old,” he had told me, “a vast improvement on that clumsy and altogether unwieldy liquid re-agent to hemoglobin I discovered on the day of our acquaintance.” And putting out the lights in the room, he had proceeded to demonstrate his new contraption's ability, by pricking his palm and allowing a drop or two of blood to drip onto the bench. I had been most interested to note the effect of the invisible light upon the blood then.

I could see the same effect now as I looked about the room in which we stood. The windowsill and floor appeared peppered and streaked with iridescent green splotches.

“Aha!” said Holmes triumphantly, “What did I say? Blood—on the window, along the floor, across the passage and most probably down the staircase, too.” He shone the light along the trail of gleaming green patches, and followed their trail back down the steps.

“Hallo, hallo! What have we here?” he exclaimed, whipping out his powerful lens and inspecting a barely perceptible smudge on the landing. “A footprint, eh? Now this does simplify matters.” He proceeded down the stairs, muttering to himself. Presently he bolted back up the steps, looking like an excited cat in his agitation. “Mr Cadbury was killed just inside the front door; the porch was swilled down not long after the crime was enacted, but there remains ample evidence that he bled copiously. He was then dragged up the stairs, along the passage, into the room, propped against the window, and pitched over the sill just as a train slowed in its emergence from the tunnel. The evidence is indisputable.”

Holmes returned the lantern to Miss Mycroft, and resumed his inspection of the window sill. The latter, beyond her first nod of approval, seemed to lose all interest in her brother's proceedings. She lay the lantern gently on the sill, and wandered around the room, occasionally glancing surreptitiously at her watch; she finally drifted through an open door leading into an adjoining room.

I took her place by Holmes' side and watched him inch his way along the sill with his great magnifying glass. The walls trembled suddenly as a train rumbled through a nearby tunnel, and Holmes' cry of elation pierced plainly through the thunderous roar. “See there, Watson, how the train slackens its speed as it emerges from the tunnel? Now then, it has come to a full halt! Cannot anything be easier than to place a body onto the roof of the carriage not five feet beneath the window? And no one inside the train could possibly suspect its presence!”

I could not stop myself from breaking into an expression of profound admiration. “You have again proved yourself a veritable master, Holmes,” I said. “Never have you risen to a greater height than this! How you discovered all this is inconceivable.”

Holmes waved away my praise. “Tut, tut, my dear Watson, on the contrary. Once I had observed that the body must have fallen from the roof of a train, the remainder of the affair became necessarily trivial. We had only to discover whether anyone had the means of thus disposing of the body, and what his motives were... ”

To my complete astonishment, before Holmes had quite finished his sentence, he had hurled me violently against the far wall, and the successive reports of his revolver eclipsed his warning shout. I heard bullets ricocheting off metal with a deafening ring; a volley of flying discs embedded themselves in the window frame exactly where I had stood only a split second earlier. I recognized the cast of the weapons. Chakram discs—Rajput warriors!

Hardly pausing to wonder what on earth had brought Rajput fighters into Mr. von Oberon's respectable house in Caulfield Gardens, and whence they had suddenly appeared, deployed the cannon embedded in my mechanical arm and fired at another disc-throwing assailant. This latter collapsed instantly under the shock of the cannonade. I jumped to my feet and hurriedly surveyed the situation as I leveled my cannon again to take aim.

Holmes' initial shots with his two revolvers had been deflected by the Rajput’s armor; he was engaged now in battle with a fearsome helmeted fighter wielding a short curved dirk in one hand and a Khanda sword in the other. I admit I was momentarily enthralled by the sight of my friend firing relentlessly at his opponent; the bullets at that close range found gaps in the armor, and as I watched, his attacker crumpled to the floor with a horrible gurgling noise.