The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures (45 page)

Holmes looked amused. I felt that embarrassed frustration which sometimes comes over me when I cannot follow some elaborated chain of reasoning. And yet, the case seemed simple enough. “The sovereign,” I said. “Disregarding the resistance of the air, as the heavier of the two – ”

Wells released the coins. They fell side by side, and struck the carriage floor together.

“I am no expert in Gravitational Mechanics,” Holmes chided me, “but I do remember my Galileo, Watson.”

Wells retrieved the coins. “It is all to do with various Laws of Newton. Under gravity, all objects fall at the same rate, regardless of their mass. Think of it this way, Watson: if you were in a lift, and the cable snapped, you and the lift would fall together. You would feel as if you were floating, inside the lift car.”

“Briefly,” I said, “until the shaft floor was reached.”

“Indeed. It was precisely this effect which Ralph strove to study. In the luncheon chamber I showed you, with an apparatus of coils and cones and loops, he managed to create a region of space in which – as Ralph showed us with a series of demonstrations and tricks – thanks to the adjustment of the gravity field with electrical energy, heavier objects did indeed fall more rapidly than the lighter! This was the ‘Inertial Adjustor’, as Ralph called it. It sounds a trivial feat – and is much less spectacular than shooting a capsule at the moon – but it is nonetheless quite remarkable. If true.”

“But you doubt it,” Holmes said. “In fact, you employed the word ‘tricks’.”

Wells sighed. “Dear old Ralph. I do not think he lied deliberately. But his optimism and energy for his own work would sometimes cloud his critical judgement. And yet the acceptance of his theories and devices – particularly his Inertial Adjustor – were central to his life, his very mental state.”

“So central, in fact, that they led to his death.”

“Indeed,” said Wells. “For it was in that very chamber, within the Intertial Adjustor itself, that Ralph Brimicombe died – or was killed!”

It was after three o’clock when at last we reached Chippenham. We took a trap to the Brimicombe residence, a well-appointed affair of the Regency period which had been rather allowed to run to seed.

Holmes stepped from the trap and sniffed the air. He walked to the verge of the gravel drive and inspected the lawn grass, which I noticed was discoloured here and there by small brown circles, samples of which Holmes disturbed gently with the toecap of his boot.

A young man came out to meet us: tall and blond, his eyes a vacuous grey. He greeted Wells rather contemptuously – “If it isn’t Bertie Wells!” – and introduced himself as Tarquin Brimicombe. We were escorted into the house and introduced to various others of the household. Jane, the widow of Ralph, was a tall, willowy woman who was younger than I expected, and her eyes were puffy as if from habitual crying; and Jack Bryson, Ralph’s trusted engineer, bald of head and square of shoulder, appeared puzzled and ill at ease.

Holmes smiled at the widow with the sudden kind warmth perceived in him only by those who know him well, and which made my own heart rise, for I sympathized all too well with this lady’s loss of her spouse. “Madam,” said Holmes. “My very deepest sympathies.”

“Thank you.”

“And how is your labrador? Is she still ill?”

She looked confused. “Convalescing, I think. But how did you know?”

He inclined his head. “The patches on the lawn are clear evidence of a canine – and a bitch at that, for it is well known that a bitch will empty her bladder in a single spot, so depositing enough material to damage the grass, whereas a dog will release small quantities of liquid to mark his territory. I have a monograph in draft on the excretory habits of other domestic and urban wildlife. And as to her breed, the golden hairs adhering to your lower skirt are evidence enough of that, Mrs Brimicombe, as well as to your affection for the animal.”

“Oh! But you knew of her illness?”

Holmes smiled sadly. “If she were well, I should expect her to come bounding out with you to challenge three such rough strangers as ourselves.”

Wells clucked admiringly.

Jane Brimicombe waved a hand rather vaguely. “The illness is baffling to the vets. Sheba has some difficulty standing, and her bones are oddly brittle and prone to breaking. She was involved in experiments of Ralph’s, you see, and – ”

“I know,” said Holmes.

“You do? But how?”

But Holmes did not answer. Instead he drew me aside. “Watson, I’d be grateful if you’d take a sample of the droppings from the wretched animal. Perform some kind of assay.”

“Looking for what?”

“My dear fellow, if I told you that I might prejudice your results.”

“And how am I supposed to achieve it? I am no vet, Holmes, still less a chemist. And we are a long way from town.”

“I am sure you will find a way.” Now he turned back to Mrs Brimicombe, and with deft skill, began to draw her out on the subject of her husband’s demise.

“It was early morning. I was in the kitchen. Mr Bryson had just come in, having completed an hour’s work already.” She avoided the eyes of the engineer Bryson, I observed, and the soubriquet “Mr Bryson” did not come naturally to her lips. “We would often eat together, though Mr Bryson was always busy and in a rush. For breakfast he would eat one fried egg and a slice of toast.”

“Egg?” asked Holmes. “What egg?”

“From the small coop we keep at the back of the house,” Mrs Brimicombe said.

Holmes asked, “And how was the egg that day?”

Mrs Brimicombe dropped her gaze. “Mr Bryson remarked on its fine flavour. I recall Tarquin – Mr Brimicombe – brought them in from the coop, fresh that morning.”

“Really?” Holmes turned an appraising eye on the brother, Tarquin. “Sir, are you in the habit of visiting the hen-house?”

Tarquin blustered. “I should say not – I used to help Millie with the eggs as a boy – it was a fine morning – can’t a fellow act on impulse once in a while?”

Wells was growing impatient. “Look here, Holmes, why are you so interested in this business of a breakfast egg? Isn’t it rather trivial? And can’t you see it’s causing the lady distress?”

I knew my friend well enough to understand that nothing is truly trivial – there was surely some pattern to his close questioning which none of us could discern – but Mrs Brimicombe was, indeed, becoming agitated, and so Holmes dropped his interrogation of her and allowed Tarquin to lead us through to the drawing room, where he provided sherry. “I have to say I did not invite Mr Wells here,” he said. “At first I regarded his interest and his insistence on coming here as an intrusion into my family’s grief. But my view has changed, as I have meditated on the recent tragic events. Now that you are here I am glad, Mr Holmes. I need your help.”

“Why so?”

“Ralph’s life was not lost. Mr Holmes, it was stolen. After the coroner’s report, the police are not interested. I was not sure who to approach, and – ”

Holmes held up his hands. “Tell me exactly what you mean.”

His pale blue eyes were fixed on Holmes. “Ralph’s death was no accident.”

“Who was present in the Inertial Adjustor chamber at the time of the incident?”

“Only two of us. Myself and Bryson, my brother’s engineer.”

“Then,” I said doggedly, “you are accusing Bryson – ”

“– of murder. That is right, doctor. Jack Bryson killed Ralph.”

Holmes is always impatient to visit the scene of a crime, and Wells was clearly enjoying the whole affair hugely; and so we agreed to accompany Tarquin at once to the Inertial Adjustor chamber, the site of Ralph Brimicombe’s death.

We had a walk of a hundred yards or so across the grounds to an out-building. By now it was late afternoon. I took deep breaths of wood-scented air, trying to clear my head after the fumes of the train. I could hear the clucking of chickens, evidently from the hen coop Mrs Brimicombe had mentioned.

I was startled when an insect no less than six inches long scuttled across my path, disturbed by my passage. At first I thought it must be a cockroach, but on closer observation, to my astonishment, it proved to be an ant. It ran with a blur of legs towards an anthill – a gigantic affair, towering over the lower trees like an eroded monument.

“Good Lord, Holmes,” I said. “Did you observe that? What was it, do you think, some tropical species?”

He shook his head. “Ralph Brimicombe was no collector of bugs. Given the pattern of events here I have expected some such apparition.”

“You expected it? But how?”

“Surely that repulsive red leech of Wells’s was enough of a clue. But in any event – all in good time, my dear friend.”

We reached a laboratory, of crude but functional construction, and I ran my eyes for the first time over the gruesome details of the Inertial Adjustor itself. The main chamber was fifty feet tall; and it was dominated by the stupendous wreck of a vehicle. This latter had been a cone some fifteen feet in length and perhaps as broad, but it was without wheels, sails or runners: for its purpose, Tarquin told us in all seriousness, had been to fly, freed of gravity by Ralph’s invention, into Space! To simulate to its occupant some of the stresses and impacts to be expected during a flight, the vessel had been suspended in midair, at the heart of the Intertial Adjustor itself, by a series of cables and gimbals.

Now the cables dangled uselessly. The ship, after an evident fall, had gouged a crater a few inches deep in the floor; it looked as if a great hammer had pounded into the concrete. And it was inside this capsule, this aluminium dream of flight in Space, that Ralph Brimicombe had fallen to his death.

Around the massive wreck were arrayed the elements of the Intertial Adjustor apparatus: coils and armatures, cones of paper and iron, filamented glass tubes, the poles of immense permanent magnets, great shadowy shapes which reached up and out of my vision, the whole far beyond my comprehension. There were besides some more mundane elements: drafting tables laden with dusty blueprints, lathes and vices and tools, chains for heavy lifting suspended from the ceiling.

I observed, however, that the fall of the vehicle had done a pretty damage to the equipment in that chamber, surely rendering it inoperative.

My eye was caught by a series of small glass-walled cages, beside a dissecting table. There was a series of leeches in stoppered jars, none of them as big as the specimen in Wells’s photograph, but all so large they were indeed unable even to sustain their characteristic tubular forms; they lay against the thick glass at the bottom of their jars, in evident distress. Among the higher animals imprisoned here there were mice, but of an unusual morphology, with remarkably long and spindly limbs. Some of the mice, indeed, had trouble supporting their own weight. I remarked on this to Holmes, but he made no comment.

Holmes, Wells and I stepped over the crater’s cracked lip and walked around the wrinkled aluminium of the capsule’s hull. The fall had been, I judged, no more that ten feet – a drop that seemed barely enough to injure, let alone kill a man – but it had been sufficient to compress the ship’s entire structure by perhaps a third of its length.

“How terrible,” Wells said. “It was in this very spot – suspended under the glittering hull of Brimicombe’s moon ship itself – that he bade us dine.”

“Then perhaps you have had a lucky escape,” said Holmes grimly.

“The workmen have cut the capsule open.” Tarquin indicated a square rent in the wall, a shadowed interior beyond. “The body was removed after the police and the coroner studied the scene. Do you want to look in there? Then I will show you where Bryson and I were working.”

“In a minute,” said Holmes, and he studied the corpse of the fantastic ship with his usual bewildering keenness. He said, “What sort of man was Ralph? I see evidence of his technical abilities, but what was it like to know him – to be related, to work with him?”

“Among those he worked with, Ralph stood out.” Tarquin’s face was open and seemed untainted by envy. “When we were children, Ralph was always the leader. And so it remained as we entered adult life.”

Wells remarked, “I never knew if you liked him.”

Tarquin’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot answer that, Bertie. We were brothers. I worked for him. I suppose I loved him. But we were also rivals, throughout life, as are most brothers.”

Holmes asked bluntly, “Do you stand to benefit from his death?”

Tarquin Brimicombe said, “No. My father’s legacy will not be transferred to me. Ralph made out his own will, leaving his assets to his wife; and there is no love lost between the two of us. You may check with the family solicitors – and with Jane – to verify these claims. If you are looking for a murder motive, Mr Holmes, you must dig deeper. I will not resent it.”

“Oh, I shall,” muttered Holmes. “And Ralph Brimicombe is beyond resenting anything. Come. Let us look in the capsule.”

We stepped over the shattered concrete to the entrance cut in the capsule wall. A small lamp had been set up, filling the interior with a sombre glow. I knew that the body – what was left of it – had been taken away for burial, but the craft had not been cleaned out. I dropped my eyes to the floor, expecting – what? a dramatic splash of blood? – but there were only a few irregular stains on the burst upholstery of the aviator’s couch, where Ralph had been seated at the moment of his extinguishing. There was surprisingly little damage to the equipment and instrumentation, the dials and switches and levers evidently meant to control the craft; much of it had simply been crushed longways where it stood.

But there was a smell, reminiscent to me of the hospitals of my military service.

I withdrew my head. “I am not sure what I expected,” I murmured. “More – carnage, I suppose.”

Tarquin frowned thoughtfully; then he extended his index finger and pointed upwards.

I looked up.

It was as if a dozen bags of rust brown paint had been hurled into the air. The upper walls and ceiling of the ship, the instruments, dials and switches that encrusted the metal, even the cabin’s one small window: all were liberally coated with dried blood.

“Good Lord,” said Wells, and his face blanched. “How did that get up there?”