The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (22 page)

“And?”

“I soon discovered what the others had, of course, missed. Gray’s family—his wife and two young boys—had been horrifically murdered just days prior to his disappearance. It appeared to be the work of the criminal gang I spoke of, the Order of the Red Hand, a network of robbers and thieves who had set upon them in the street and cleared out their pockets before disappearing. The bodies were still lying unidentified in the morgue.”

“But why did Gray believe he was under suspicion? Last night he was most anxious to clear his name when you raised the matter.”

“Once I had discovered the truth about his family, the imbeciles at the Yard were quick to proclaim his guilt, despite my evidence to the contrary. They simply could not fathom why a man might flee in the aftermath of such harrowing events, unless he was himself the killer or somehow connected with the perpetrators.”

“That’s preposterous!” I said.

Holmes laughed. “An all too familiar story, I fear, Watson.”

“One can hardly blame him for taking matters into his own hands when faced with that as an alternative. I should imagine any man in his position might have chosen to do the same.”

“Grief drives people to do terrible things, Watson, as you well know.”

“Indeed,” I said, quietly. “What will happen to Gray now?”

“Most likely an institution, I’d wager. At least until he’s had time to recover from the shock and torment that drove him to such extreme ends.”

“Extreme ends indeed. I can only imagine that, when he attacked Sir Maurice, Miss Hobbes and I, he’d mistaken us for the very same criminals who had attacked and killed his family. Particularly when Newbury tossed a flare in his direction.”

“I believe you’d be safe in that assumption,” said Holmes. “I imagine he saw only what his shattered mind had conjured.”

“And what of the Order of the Red Hand?”

“Ah,” said Holmes, brightly. “Their story is far from over. We shall face the Order of the Red Hand again. I am sure of it.”

“I have no doubt you’re right,” I said, knowingly. “Well, that’s an end to a remarkable sequence of events, Holmes,” I continued, with a sigh. “And a most satisfactory resolution. For both of us.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, rising from his seat and crossing to the fireplace to search for his pipe and Persian slippers. “I believe the old adage, Watson, is ‘to kill two birds with one stone’.”

“Quite so,” I agreed. “It is almost as if...” I paused, hesitating to give voice to a nagging doubt that had been plaguing me since I’d woken that morning. “It is almost as if someone masterminded the entire thing.”

“Really, Watson?” said Holmes, laughing. “You do have a tendency towards the fanciful.”

“Hmm,” I replied. “So where were you last night while all of the excitement was going on?”

Holmes smiled, returning to his seat and beginning to meticulously stuff the bowl of his pipe with shag. “A violin concerto. German. It was quite exquisite, Watson. The company was only in London for one night. It was truly not to be missed. Not under any circumstances.”

“A violin concerto!” I exclaimed, astounded. “Really, Holmes!”

Holmes laughed. “Now, Watson. Breakfast!” he said, lighting his pipe and ringing the bell for Mrs Hudson. “There’s a little matter I wish to discuss with you, regarding a missing jewel...”

* * *

The story of the Higham Ruby is a tale for another time, of course, and following the peculiar events of which I have just given account would seem entirely prosaic.

I sent word to Newbury that the matter had been successfully concluded and took pains to outline the story recited by Holmes, regarding Xavier Gray’s unfortunate circumstances and the true nature of the mechanical beast we had fought. I received a brief note of thanks from Miss Hobbes, who explained that Newbury had been detained with other matters but wished to extend his thanks for the part I had played in proceedings, and to reassure me that the submersible stolen by Gray had been given over to the appropriate authorities.

It would be nearly two years until I once again encountered Sir Maurice Newbury and Miss Veronica Hobbes, in connection with the incidents I have previously set out in “The Case of the Five Bowler Hats”. Events at that point would take a decidedly more sinister turn, and perhaps if I’d had the foresight I might not have wished so readily to find myself engaged in another mystery with that ineffable duo.

As it was, I’d found myself most invigorated by my association with Newbury and Miss Hobbes, and knew that, should the circumstances again present themselves, I would most definitely enjoy the prospect of joining forces with them once again to investigate a mystery of the improbable.

Moreover, as I tucked into Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfast, I was content to know that for once in the long history of our friendship, I had been able to successfully surprise Mr Sherlock Holmes.

“Unhand me, you darned scoundrel!”

The familiar voice reverberated throughout the old manor house like the bark of a cornered dog. Sir Maurice Newbury looked up from where he slumped against the wall of his makeshift cell, and smiled.

Despite the circumstances, he was relieved to hear the voice of his old friend, Charles Bainbridge, to know that the chief inspector was still alive. He’d been worried that the people responsible for their capture might have proved less inclined to keep Bainbridge alive when they’d discovered he didn’t have what they were looking for. Thankfully, that seemed not to be the case. So far, at least.

Newbury heard boots thundering in the hallway on the other side of the door. There were at least three of them, he estimated, along with their uncooperative prisoner. Consequently, he decided it wasn’t the time to try to make a break for it, especially given his own rather beleaguered condition. He’d have to bide his time for a while longer.

The bolt grated in the lock, and then the door to the room was flung open and Bainbridge was shoved rudely inside.

“God
damn
you!” he exclaimed loudly, as he stumbled and caught himself on the edge of the fire surround, barely managing to keep himself upright. The door slammed shut behind him, allowing Newbury only the slightest glimpse of their black-robed captors.

Bainbridge glanced around warily, taking in his surroundings. His eyes fixed on Newbury, who remained slumped in the corner on the other side of the room. Bainbridge’s relief was immediately evident from the look on his face. “Newbury! Thank goodness you’re still alive!”

Newbury grinned, and then winced as the gesture set off a series of sharp pains in his head. He’d taken quite a beating as he’d tried to evade capture, and even after three days, he could barely move without being reminded of it. Then, of course, there were the further beatings he’d received twice daily ever since he’d been holed up in the room. “I see the rescue attempt is going exactly as planned, Charles?” he said, with a chuckle.

Bainbridge sighed and crossed the room to stand over him, limping ever so slightly as he walked. Newbury realised Bainbridge wasn’t carrying his cane. That meant yet another hope of escape was dashed. He must have lost it in the fight or had it confiscated by their captors.

Newbury glanced up at his old friend. Bainbridge looked as if he’d put up a good fight, which was entirely in keeping with what Newbury would have expected; Bainbridge wouldn’t have taken lightly to being set upon and bundled into a hansom in the dead of night. The front of his shirt was torn and he was sporting a bruised and swollen eyelid. Newbury felt a brief pang of remorse.

“I’m sorry, old chap. Miss Hobbes and I have been searching for you for days,” said Bainbridge. He sounded a little sheepish, and he unconsciously stroked his bushy moustache as he spoke; a nervous gesture Newbury had seen a hundred times before. “Thought you’d gone off on another of your... episodes. We imagined you’d eventually turn up in one of those blasted Chinese dens you seem so intent on inhabiting. Miss Hobbes and I have spent hours searching in back rooms all across the city, expecting to find you half dead, in a stupor, or worse.” He paused, looking Newbury up and down appraisingly. “Mind you, half dead appears to be a fairly fitting description. What the devil happened, Newbury?”

Newbury expelled a long, plaintive sigh. “Devil is quite the word, Charles,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Sit down and I’ll tell you everything.” He glanced at the door. “I don’t imagine we’ll be hearing anything more of our captors for a while yet.”

Bainbridge shrugged and—evidently realising there was no furniture in the room upon which to take a seat—lowered himself to the floorboards beside Newbury, groaning quietly at what Newbury took to be the result of another recent injury. He couldn’t help feeling responsible for Bainbridge’s suffering, and would have preferred to avoid involving his friend in the whole wretched affair, but in the end he’d felt he’d had no choice.

The room they were in had once been a bedchamber—and a grand one at that—but had long since been stripped bare and turned into a makeshift holding cell. The windows were boarded and barred, the oilcloths had been torn up and staunch bolts had been fitted to the other side of the door. There was nothing left in the room that could be used as a weapon. Newbury had checked. Even the fire grate had been emptied of coal. Every inch of the room was now familiar to Newbury, from the dark oak panelling to the untreated floorboards. Three days spent locked within its four walls had left him with little else to do but study his surroundings and try to conceive a means of escape. At least, now, things finally seemed to be coming to a head.

“Well? Are you going to enlighten me?”

Newbury turned his head to regard the chief inspector. “Tell me, Charles, what did you learn of our captors during your abduction?”

Bainbridge furrowed his brow in thought. “Very little. They came out of nowhere. Three of them, dressed in black robes, with hoods obscuring their faces. They set upon me on Wardour Street with a blackjack. I put up the best fight I could, but one of them caught me with a blow to the head and before I knew it I was being restrained and bundled into the back of a hansom. They forced a cowl over my head and went through my pockets as we barrelled off into the night. I’ve no idea how long I lay like that in the footwell. An hour, maybe more. None of them said so much as a word, and every time I made a sound I received a sharp boot in the ribs for my effort.” He shook his head. “Anyway, next thing I know, we’re in this big house and I’m being goaded along the passageway to this room.” He sighed. “I must admit, I’m relieved to see you here, Newbury. At least now I know it’s more than just an opportunistic robbery. I’d feared I might end up dumped in the Thames with a knife in my belly by the end of the night, all for the sake of the contents of my wallet. At least this way we have a fighting chance of effecting an escape. But who are these people? What do they want with us?”

Newbury steeled himself for his friend’s response before he spoke. “Cultists, Charles. They’re demon-worshipping cultists from an organisation known as ‘The Cabal of the Horned Beast’.”

“Cultists!” Bainbridge spat the word. “Good God! As if I hadn’t seen enough of this devil-worshipping claptrap in my time...”

Newbury raised his hand to still Bainbridge’s outburst and the chief inspector—red-faced—fell quiet. “They’re dangerous, Charles. They have very unusual beliefs, centred around the worship of obscure entities from ancient pagan mythology. This isn’t your typical, run-of-the-mill cult. They’re very serious, and they have money and influence. Their members number in the hundreds and their influence is felt far and wide. Do not underestimate them.”

“Pah! Surely you’re not telling me these people are actually in possession of other-worldly powers? That’s too much, Newbury, even for you.”

Newbury raised an eyebrow. “Too much? Surely, Charles, your mind is no longer as closed to such matters as it used to be?” It was a rhetorical question, but he let it hang for a moment before continuing. “But no, that’s not what I’m saying at all. Whether they have genuinely harnessed occult power, or whether they simply
believe
they have, matters little. They’re just as dangerous regardless. Perhaps more so, because of their arrogance, because they’re driven by their beliefs. And besides, their wealthy patrons ensure the Cabal’s coffers are always brimming with funds enough to feed their arsenal. They have some bizarre and dangerous weapons. Some of them very unconventional indeed.”

“But why now, Newbury? What’s inspired them to take action against you now?”

Newbury sighed and rubbed at the three-day-old bristles that were beginning to irritate his throat. “Because I stole something from them, Charles, and they want it back very much indeed.”

“You
what?”
Bainbridge sounded utterly indignant. “Do I take it you were acting on behalf of Her Majesty?”

Newbury shook his head, slowly. “I was acting on behalf of a dear friend.”

Bainbridge exhaled slowly, and Newbury could tell he was struggling to contain his fury. “Well, I won’t even begin to attempt to decipher your motives, Newbury. I can only put my faith in your judgement and trust you would never endanger yourself and your friends without good reason.”

“I can assure you, Charles, it was for the very best of reasons.”

Bainbridge eyed him for a moment, as if weighing him up. “Very well.” He winced as he stretched his legs out before him. “So tell me, what
is
this mysterious object that’s caused these fools to become so agitated?”

“A book,” said Newbury. “A very old and very rare book.”

“All this for the sake of a book!” Bainbridge guffawed loudly. “I hope it’s a ruddy good read!”

“Hardly,” said Newbury, with a wry smile. “It’s in ancient Aramaic. A book of rituals and incantations, entitled
The Cosmology of the Spirit,
the only original copy known to exist. There are others, of course, but all of them are missing vital passages. This, the earliest surviving example of the text, was uncovered centuries ago by a crusader, who brought it back to Scotland from the ruins of Constantinople. It languished for half a century in the vaults of a highland church before passing into the hands of a hermeticist named John Charterton. Charterton was a pragmatic man, and realising what he had in his possession, he sold the book for a king’s ransom and retired on the proceeds. It’s said that when the true nature of the book came to light, the Vatican attempted to acquire it through means both legal and illicit. The stories claim they raised a small army of agents to act on their behalf, but by then it was too late, and the book had disappeared, along with the mysterious man who had purchased it.” He coughed and attempted to moisten his dry lips.