Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (23 page)

“Torg!” I cried. “Torg!”

But he did not look up. I had to climb inside the ring—right inside with him—before he spied me. A cheer went up from the assembled crowd and the ringmaster declared, “Here’s a… um… likely lad!”

Money was already flying from finger to palm when I called out, “No! No bets! No fight! Torg! Torg, please! You have to come with me.”

“Watson man?” he asked, peeping up at me.

“Torg, come home.”

This suggestion cast him once more into grief-fueled fury. He smote the ground and bellowed, “Torg has no home! Torg can never go home!”

“No. It’s all right, Torg. It’s all right. Scotland Yard is not hunting you anymore.”

He wrinkled his brow at me, as if that was a very queer thing to say, and I realized he had no idea the Yard had ever been seeking him.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

“No. Can’t. She will see me, Watson. She called me ‘Ogre.’”

From the side of the ring, I heard Lestrade coax, “Torg, listen to Watson.”

“Can’t go home,” Grogsson insisted.

“Come to my house then,” I urged him. He paused to consider that.

“Oh, I don’t know…” said Holmes. “By happy chance, there are three of us. Holmes, Lestrade, Watson. We could just fight him.”

Grogsson cut loose with a wracking sob, but there was laughter behind it.

“Come stay with Holmes and me,” I said.

Grogsson cast his eyes down, stood still for a moment and finally gave a resigned nod. The four of us made our way out into the cold.

* * *

“How does our friend fair?” Warlock asked me as I strode into our sitting room. February was proving just as miserable as it ever does in the great, gray city, and I had just finished the long walk back from Grogsson’s.

“Not well,” I answered, yet I will confess my own spirits were high. Whatever Grogsson might be feeling, my month of misery was over. He was now installed in his own house once again, and I no longer had a giant moping in my sitting room, eating all my crumpets.

“Yes, but you do think he will recover, don’t you?”

I shrugged. “I am not so sure, Holmes. I think our friend may have suffered some permanent damage. I had to close every curtain on the west side of his house, lest he look out the window and spy her.”

“Well,” Holmes sighed, “we did the best we could.”

“Did we? Honestly, I think he might have preferred exile to Siberia.”

“You jest, Watson.”

“Not at all. Think about it Holmes: there is no law there but brute force. There are no societal mores to violate, no beauties to break his heart. He’d have all the tundra wolves he could punch and to top it all, the Russians are
famous
for ballet.”

I did jest, but there was some truth to my words. I have never, since that day, been to Grogsson’s home and found his west-facing windows uncovered. He cannot look upon Susan Cushing—the shame and the hurt are too much for him to bear.

In later years I found out that the phrase “I faced the Dancer” was a common dockside boast. I have never heard of any that claimed to have beaten him, only that they climbed into that ring, faced him and survived. Of course, most of the sailors who make that boast are lying. They do not understand the depth of that claim. But I do. Because I did. I climbed into that ring. I faced the Dancer.

And I pitied him.

AS I SIT TO PLACE THE HISTORY OF MY ADVENTURES
with Warlock Holmes on paper, it necessarily follows that I must pause to reflect upon my actions. I am generally proud of them. Yet, when the light of retrospection shines down upon any man’s past, it is bound to cast one or two unsightly shadows. This is one such case.

Ever since the conclusion of our first mystery, I had labored under the resolution to teach Holmes the process of deduction. He had used it—but not well—to explain away his demonic insights on the first day I met him. I had since seen him make the same attempt to other fellows. Though Holmes had a good facility for lying, he had never bothered to learn the tricks of observation, inference and deduction that he claimed mastery of. Therefore, several men had seen through his lies and this caused Holmes to fear his true nature might one day be discovered by the wider world—an event likely to be followed by torch-waving, pitchfork-brandishing lynch-mobbery such as would be remembered for all ages. Thus, I took every opportunity to demonstrate observation and inference to him. I may have taken it too far, on occasion.

I remember, we had just returned from Regent’s Park to find Mrs. Hudson standing outside the door to our rooms, brandishing a battered tobacco pipe at us and complaining, “He wouldn’t stay! I told him wait an’ he said he would an’ then a second later, he up and walks out again, leaving this still smoking on the side table. Almost burned me curtains, he did.”

“Who did?” I asked.

“Man with the pipe,” she said, eyeing me as if I were an imbecilic child.

“That is not helpful, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Go easy, Watson,” said Holmes. “You can hardly have expected more, eh?”

“You don’t think so?” With a huff, I snatched the pipe from our stunted landlady and turned it over once or twice in my hands, examining it.

“The man who owns this pipe is left-handed, just as you are, Holmes. He has a strong grip and good teeth; he is not wealthy, but comfortable enough not to have to worry about extra expenses. He is a man who prizes old comforts, but not enough to take care to preserve them.”

“I can do better than that,” Holmes scoffed. “Hand it to me.”

As he stepped forward to take the pipe, his coat began billowing about his frame in a manner that foretold a fairly impressive demonic consultation was about to begin. I placed a hand against his chest, held the pipe away from him and said, “I do not doubt, Holmes, that you could find a way to tell me the man’s name, his hair color, his favorite tie and what he ate for dinner last Wednesday. That is not the point. The point is to learn as much as you can from the clues presented to you.”

“That is the hard way,” he complained. “Besides which, I can do better.”

“You can’t! I won’t let you. Listen, Holmes… See how the pipe is singed down its right side? No simple match does that; he likely lights it from a burner or—since that is liable to sear the hand—a gas lamp.”

“So?”

“See how the burns are all on one side? That means he must have held it on the other. Observe how my hand covers them if I use my right. He must therefore regularly hold this pipe with his left. He has gnawed all down the amber of the stem; to leave such marks, he must possess a strong bite and good teeth.”

“I don’t care about such things, Watson.”

“Well you ought to, or you will be caught!”

“Caught at what?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Nothing!” Holmes and I said together. Mrs. Hudson frowned even harder and made her way out. At least she had a good sense of when she was intruding—a pity it did not stop her doing so whenever the chance presented.

I tried a different tack. “Here, Holmes, hold the pipe in your left hand and see if you can tell me why I suppose the owner has a strong grip.”

He gave a huff to indicate that he was only doing so to humor me, then took the pipe from my hand. At first he seemed uninterested, but as he turned it from side to side, I could see his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Your thumb is on it, right now,” I prompted.

“Yes… It’s this silver band, I suppose. It seems a touch jagged and irregular. What is it?”

“Well done, Holmes! It is a repair. With only the strength of his thumb, our man has accidentally snapped off the stem of his pipe, then had it repaired with silver. Such a repair would cost more than the pipe had originally. Also, it would take more time than simply purchasing a new pipe, but he was willing to go to the expense and also to stand the wait. Why? Because he loves old, familiar things.”

“But not enough to keep him from thrusting them into gas lamps.”

“Precisely, Holmes! By Jove, we shall make a detective of you yet!” I clapped him on the shoulder and he beamed proudly at me, but our reverie was cut short. Before either of us could utter another word, a tall man in his late thirties or early forties came up the stairs and swept past us. He marched into our sitting room, flung himself upon one of the armchairs by the fire, heaved a sigh of annoyance and began patting down his pockets.

“Who is that?” inquired Holmes. “What is he doing?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but I would suppose he is searching for his lost pipe.”

Holmes and I followed our strange visitor into our chambers. I held his pipe out towards him and asked, “Were you looking for this, sir?”

“I was!” he said, at first delighted. Then his expression returned to one of annoyance and he asked, “How did you get it? Who are you?”

“I am Dr. John Watson and this is Warlock Holmes.
We live here
.”

“Capital! You are just the fellows I came to see! I must… Hang on a moment… Did I knock?”

“You did not.”

Our guest threw his hands up and cried, “Ah! I am sorry, gentlemen, heartily sorry. The truth is I am so put out that I cannot concentrate. I hardly know where I am and I’ll be dashed if I know what to do with myself.”

“Perhaps we can help, Mr. Munro,” I offered.

“Yes, I… By God! How did you know my name?”

“It is written inside the brim of your hat, which is turned towards us.” I fixed Holmes with a look that said he ought to remember this trick and endeavor to repeat it whenever possible.

“Ah. Yes, so it is,” said our guest, with a nervous laugh, “Mr. Grant Munro. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” said I.

“I came because I have seen Mr. Holmes’s name in the paper. I will confess: I previously made sport of you, sir. But my wife seems to think you one of only a few in London who possesses a true understanding of the world at large.”

“She sounds like a wonderful lady.” Holmes beamed. He joined Munro by the fire, sinking into the remaining armchair. I took a seat on the sofa.

“She is. And—as it is she whom I wish to consult you about—I chose to follow her advice and seek your help above all others.”

“I shall do my utmost to justify her confidence in me,” said Holmes. “Now, tell all. What has upset you so?”

“My wife! Now, I understand that the fashion is for a man to care for his wife but also maintain a certain aloofness. Ask most men and they will tell you they love their wives, but they will also speak of how they are henpecked. They may accuse women of pettiness or smile at the failings of what they call ‘the weaker sex,’ but I will not. I love my wife, gentlemen, and I tell you that I never did anything to deserve so fine a companion. She dotes upon me! She sees to my every whim and care. She cooks my meals, brings my tea and slippers, she rubs my shoulders when I am distraught and listens to my every gripe, though I know my problems are often petty. All the while, she treats me as if I am the best, most noble creature that ever walked the earth. Well, I protest that I am not, but
she
very well may be. We have known one another three years now and spent them each declaring the other to be our better. We live in a state of mutual worship.”

“It sounds like the ideal match.” I smiled. “Why, if man could design himself the perfect companion, it sounds as if your wife would be the result.”

“It does,” said Holmes, though some thought made him crease his brow as he said it.

“But now she has become distant,” Munro wailed. “Something which I do not understand has come between us and… Oh God! What shall I do? I cannot bear the thought of losing her, gentlemen. I do not understand what has happened and I do not know what to do and I dread the consequences!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Munro,” I urged. “You must tell us exactly what has upset you so. When did it begin?”

“Well, the first thing—the first strange thing I can think of—occurred about six weeks ago. She came to me and asked if she might have some money. She asked if she might have a hundred pounds.”

“What for?” I wondered.

“That is what I wanted to know,” said Munro. “Understand, that if she had wished to purchase the world’s most expensive biscuit, I should not have protested. The money is hers by right. She was a widow when we met, just recently arrived from America. She’d been left well-monied by her previous husband and when we wed, she insisted on transferring all this wealth to me. It and all she owned belonged to me, just as
she
belonged to me, she said. Of course I protested that it was not her money that had captured my interest. She said she knew it was not, but that I must take it anyway, for I was master now.”