Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (34 page)

If our murderess was surprised, she didn’t show it. She pivoted at the waist and her outstretched pistol hand sought another target, training itself upon the running figure of Warlock Holmes. It was then that my cowardice came in handy (I am humbled and amazed by how often this happens, by the way). In order to make myself feel less endangered, I had been fidgeting with the handle of my own pistol, which lay tucked into the bottom of my thieving bag. Thus, even as she spun to gun Holmes down, I thrashed free of my concealing curtains. I leveled the Webley at her and shouted, “Don’t!”

Without a pause she changed targets again. Her pistol hand arched through the air, ceasing only when it pointed directly at my face. Now I was staring down her barrel, just as she stared down mine.

“Don’t,” I said again.

The hood of her cloak was down over her face still, but in the reflected firelight I made out two features. First: her eyes. They were nearly as green as Holmes’s and alight with at least as much mischief. The second was her smile. It was not only confident but also pitying, as if she found me… cute. We might seem to be on equal footing, she and I, yet I came to realize that only one factor was even: our armaments. The weapons might be alike, but the warriors were not.

Look at you
, her smile seemed to say.
Look at your wide eyes and your trembling hand. You, sir, are not a predator. Yes, you remembered to bring a gun to our gunfight. But you also brought a scrawny, sickly human to our tiger fight. How sad.

Even as I recognized my terrible mistake, even as I realized I was about to die, Charles Augustus Milverton’s chest gave its final, capitulatory heave. Holmes cried out in anguish and the room filled with…

…souls?

…destinies?

Thousands of delicate purple lines began to trace themselves upon the air. Like strands of hair. Like wisps of seaweed floating upon an unseen current. These destinies, I realized, had always been present, but invisible to all but the man who lay expiring on the ground before me. The murderess and I both stood agape as the purple threads traced themselves around and between us. They crawled through the air like violet vines, growing even as we watched. They emanated from my heart and Holmes’s and hers. Even Milverton’s. But whereas the vines that grew from the living hearts moved and stretched towards one another, Milverton’s only fled from him.

I could see the purple lines of my fate reach towards the murderess’s and tangle themselves with hers. And why not? It is a powerful thing, to come so near to killing another person, or to dying by their hand. I was sure I would never forget her after that.

Yet the thing that most impressed itself upon my memory was the glimpse of Warlock Holmes’s soul I got that day. He was a mess. As Milverton had promised, Warlock Holmes was a magnificent, tangled knot. The number of threads within him was vast. Even given the speed I’d seen them grow between the murderess and me, it was hard to imagine anybody cultivating so many. Yet Holmes’s threads had bound themselves within him in sickly tangles. They could not flow as they ought and in the tension of their arrested movements, one could not help but notice the mark of pain. Their torment was perpetual and unrelieved. It was—so strange to say it, but it was… obscene. So repugnant was the vast violet tangle of Holmes’s soul that I recoiled with horror when I saw how many of those strands reached out to intertwine with my own. I reached out to try and swat them away, but my hand passed right through them.

If she had been less distracted than I, the murderess might have gunned me down with impunity. I was not concentrating on covering her. Nor, fortunately, was she paying much attention to me. Our eyes were fixed upon the same thing: the flame. Trapped within the tangled morass of Holmes’s soul there was an angry blue fire. It bolted this way and that, striving to be free of him, but could not escape its ropy prison. As we watched, it became excited. It moved with an increased, almost gleeful energy. Soon, the reason for its joy became apparent. As the purple lines of Milverton’s destiny that were intertwined with Holmes’s faded, they began to release some of his tangles. Milverton, it seemed, had used certain threads of his own destiny to bind some of Holmes’s into specific patterns. Now that Milverton’s influence was gone, the bonds were struck away. The flame within Holmes bounded back and forth within its cage of tortured violet strands and at last burst free. It hovered in the air before him for a moment, changing in shape. It was a picture, I realized, or a word. Yes… in some language, it must be… a name? The burning name hovered a moment longer, then flew at Holmes and struck him on the forehead. He howled with pain and fury as the name branded itself upon his brow, then he crumpled to the floor.

The threads faded. I could tell they were still present, but as invisible to folly-prone man as they ever had been. Only firelight remained. Firelight and four humans: two upon the ground and two upon their feet, wondering if they ought to shoot one another. For an instant it seemed as if only one of us would be walking out of that fire-lit study, until I turned to my murderess and said, “Go. Just… get out. I’ll… I don’t know… I’ll cover for us, somehow.”

She stared at me as if she expected some trick. I could see her weighing the wisdom and the risk inherent in my offer. Eventually she gave a little shrug, turned and sped off into the night, out through the door she had come in. That was the first time I met
The Woman
.

If only it had been the last…

Even as she fled, I realized my present difficulties were not done. The gunshots and our voices had raised the household. Even now, cries of alarm rang out in the hallway beyond. Holmes was still insensible, yet his pain seemed to have passed. He was slumped on the floor, limp and languid, laughing to himself. I did not see the burning name that had rested upon his brow, nor did it seem to have left any injury. Still, he didn’t look as if he intended to be very helpful. I leapt to the study door and locked it. I threw a chair beneath the handle to wedge it, too, but in a room with so many windows and an outside door, how could I secure us?

My eyes flew about the room. The safe: no time to crack it now, but then the damage to Holmes was done and Milverton’s threat to our client had likely died with him. The windows: most of the curtains were drawn, so I could not tell if some of the household were already out on the lawn, closing in on us. The fire: Yes! The fire!

I swept up the pincers from the stand of tools and, with them, grabbed the uppermost log off the fire. This I flung, still burning, against the curtains on the far side of the room. I followed it with another and then another. The long bolts of cloth did not disappoint me, but burst immediately into violent flames. That would give them something else to think about.

“Come on, Holmes, we’re leaving.”

From outside the study door, I could hear excited yelling. The doorknob rattled. I reached down to slip my arm beneath Holmes’s shoulder to help him up. He regained his feet, but moved irregularly, as if he were unaccustomed to the length and function of his own limbs. He looked at me and laughed merrily. He attempted a few words, which ended in muttered gulps, as if his tongue would not answer to his command, then finally said, “Yes, Doctor. Let us depart.”

We staggered through the veranda door and out onto the lawn. I could just see the murderess’s dark green cloak disappearing over the wall to our right. I made for the wall to our left. Holmes moved uncertainly and tripped several times. I had to drag him along. It could not have been more than twenty-five yards to the wall, but it took us an age. Fortunately, the fire I’d started did seem to be distracting most of the people who spilled from the house. Unfortunately, it also illuminated Holmes and me. One of the men shouted and pointed at us. He and two others charged.

I cursed and hauled Holmes to the wall. He climbed like a drunkard and I had to pause to shove him over before leaping up myself. One of the men reached us. His hand closed on my ankle and he began to pull me down. He was larger than me and fitter as well. For a moment, I feared he would have me. Then I had a happy remembrance: I was holding a pistol. This I brought to his attention by firing a few rounds into the air. His zeal diminished somewhat and I made it over the wall to join Holmes. A few heads peeped over to watch us go, but one or two more shots just above the wall convinced them all to duck.

We made it across the street, through a hedge on the other side, across a neighbor’s lawn, two more hedges and a back garden. Here I encountered a large ornamental pond, which was welcome indeed. I stripped off my mask and Holmes’s, which I deposited in my satchel with the dark lantern and thieves’ tools. I added two large rocks and flung the thing into the center of the pond, to sink out of sight. My pistol I kept. This may have been inadvisable, yet I knew that—so long as we remained presentable—Holmes and I looked enough like gentry and little enough like the criminal class as to avoid most scrutiny on our journey home.

* * *

In fact, all the scrutiny we would suffer came in one dose, waiting upon the step of 221B Baker Street. As we neared, I could see Inspector Lestrade leaning against a wall, staring with frustration and dread into the gathering dawn. When he saw us, he made directly towards us.

“Good evening, Holmes,” he said, then added, “Doctor.”

“Good evening, Vladislav,” I answered. Holmes nodded.

“I hate to inconvenience you at such an hour,” Lestrade said, with a sniffle, “but it seems we’ve had a spot of bother out in Hampstead. Nasty business. Murder. Arson. The whole thing
reeks
of witchcraft. There were two suspects, spotted as they fled the scene.”

“Oh… well… that is unfortunate…” I admitted.

“Let’s see,” said Lestrade. “Two masked men. Age indeterminate. One wearing a dark brown suit and bowler hat—much like yours, I think, Dr. Watson…”

“Er… there are so many, you know…”

“And a tall gentleman with striking green eyes and a queer cap that folds down at the front and back.”

“Yes but that might be anybody,” I said. “Why that might even describe Holmes here.”

“It might,” said Lestrade. “It
very well might
. So, I suppose my question to you two is this: might this be a case we do not wish to see solved? Perhaps something that might be left on Lanner’s desk, following a brisk evidence-destroying sweep?”

I heaved a sigh and mumbled, “By God, that sounds wonderful, Lestrade. Of all the friends I have ever had, I think you may be the most useful of the lot.”

He smiled… sort of. He was not accustomed to compliments. Mine made him uneasy, I could tell. I saw him struggle, weighing his internal desire to obliterate anything and everything against the warm, yet unwelcome, glow he felt whenever anybody addressed him as “friend.”

“I think that is all I needed to know,” said Lestrade. “So sorry, Holmes, but I don’t think Scotland Yard will feel the need to consult you on this particular case. Good night, gentlemen. Well… good day.”

With that, the stunted Romanian turned and left, measuring each of his steps against the burgeoning pink glow upon the eastern horizon. Holmes and I went inside. We were both exhausted. I stumped up the stairs. Holmes, I noted, needed to drag himself up, leaning heavily on the bannister with his right hand. When we reached the landing, I suggested, “Tea?”

This had a visible effect on Holmes, who brightened and said, “Yes, Doctor. Thank you.”

He had trouble getting his coat off once we were inside—as if buttons were suddenly unfamiliar to him. Once it was off, he seemed momentarily unsure which hook to place his coat upon. I deposited him in one of the armchairs and set about making the tea. I purposely put him in the one that faced the fireplace, hoping he would not notice that I took a moment to rifle his room as I bustled back and forth. I didn’t need long; I knew just what I was looking for—the big brown package from our local dispensary.

I found it. I took it to the table with me, when I went to brew the tea. I returned to find Holmes sitting in the chair, opening and closing his hands as if practicing with them. On his face was an expression of pure triumph.

“Quite a night,” I said.

“It was indeed, Doctor.”

“Your tea.”

“Thank you.”

He reached out to take it with his right hand, then cradled it beneath his nose, treasuring the scent as if it were a long-forgotten familiarity—which I suppose it was.

I waited until he savored a long, slow sip, then asked, “Who are you?”

His green eyes flicked up to meet mine. “I’m sorry, Doctor?”

“Holmes calls me ‘Watson’ or ‘John.’ Never ‘Doctor.’ Nor does he drink tea. Even if he did, he wouldn’t drink it in the same manner as you do, because the man who normally inhabits that body is left-handed. An easy detail to overlook, I suppose, yet all these things together lead me to deduce that the man who got up off Charles Augustus Milverton’s floor was not the same man who fell down upon it. I shall ask again: who are you?”

“Well spotted, Doctor.” He smiled at me, took a long drink of tea, shrugged. “It makes no difference, I suppose…”

Another sip.

“I am Professor James Moriarty, at your service.”

He smiled at me again—the smile of a man who is about to take your bishop and declare checkmate. He held one of his hands palm up, just in front of his face. With a sudden whoosh, the gas lamps winked out. The fire in the hearth winked out. All their flames coalesced into a tight orange ball; a miniature inferno, hovering just an inch above his extended palm. His grin shone diabolically in the strange, swimming light and he chuckled, “Or, if we are to be honest, it must be said: you, Dr. John Watson, now find yourself in
my service
.”

“I am Professor James Moriarty, at your service…”