Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Part 21

"I understand that none other than the Martian amba.s.sador himself, a certain Yerkell-Jheer-Carral, was a frequent visitor to your establishment?"

"'Was' is right, Mr Holmes. The amba.s.sador stopped coming here about six months ago, and I right miss him I do. The amba.s.sador was a bit of a character, you see."

My friend considered her words and stroked his chin with a long forefinger. "That is interesting, and informative," he murmured to himself. "Now, could you tell me if any of your ladies are in the habit of visiting the amba.s.sador at the Martian emba.s.sy?"

"What? And you think I send my girls out into the city? I protect my girls, I do."

"I am sure you do, Madam Roch.e.l.le," said Holmes. "I wonder if you can recall, when the amba.s.sador visited your establishment, if he exhibited a preference for a certain type of lady?"

Madam Roch.e.l.le thought about that. "He liked 'em dark, Mr Holmes. No blondes for the amba.s.sador. Dark and sultry was how he liked his wimmen."

Holmes thanked Madam Roch.e.l.le, a.s.sured her once again that we did not care to avail ourselves of the pleasures of her establishment, and withdrew.

We escaped the cloying confines of Madam Roch.e.l.le's and once again breathed the refres.h.i.+ng spring air of the Strand. Holmes made a beeline for a Communications Kiosk - yet another wonder for which we had to thank the Martians - on the corner of the Strand and Northumberland Avenue. "Excuse me one moment, Watson," he said, and squeezed his angular frame into the kiosk.

He stepped out minutes later and explained, "I contacted Mr Wells and Miss West, and arranged to meet them, in secrecy, on Hampstead Heath at six." He crossed the pavement and slipped into W.H. Smith's, emerging soon after to hail a pa.s.sing taxi.

"And now?" I asked as we climbed aboard.

"To the Martian emba.s.sy," Holmes said, and within seconds we were hurtling through the streets of the capital.

An underling Martian showed us into the emba.s.sy and summoned the deputy amba.s.sador.

Holmes asked if he might again examine the amba.s.sador's bedchamber, and Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee escorted us up the stairs to the penthouse suite.

Holmes hurried over to the bed while I remained on the threshold with the deputy, stopped in my tracks by the foul stench issuing from the corpse. Holmes, for his part, seemed not to notice the aroma. With his back to me, he appeared to be searching through the late amba.s.sador's inert tentacles.

"Aha!" he said at last, and turned on me a look of triumph.

Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee perambulated itself past me and into the room. It gave vent to a series of oesophageal belches which the box at its midriff translated as, "Mr Holmes, if I might enquire as to how the investigation proceeds?"

"I am happy to inform you that the case is solved," Holmes said. He stood beside the bed and gestured at the tangle of dead limbs sprawling across the counterpane. "My initial examination of the corpse failed to locate the implement which caused the fatal injury for the very good reason that it was concealed beneath the amba.s.sador's forelimb."

Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee hurried to the bed and I, gagging at the stench, joined them.

I stared down at the tangle of tentacles and beheld, gripped in a suckered pseudopod, a bloodstained letter-knife.

The Martian spoke. "Are you saying, Mr Holmes, that...?"

My friend said, "My investigations led me, in due course, to an establishment at which the pleasures of the flesh might be indulged by those of little self-restraint. It is my painful duty to inform you that the amba.s.sador was a frequent visitor to this establishment, where he developed a predilection for human ladies of a certain type."

Before me, Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee appeared to slump. "I was aware of his weakness," it said, "and more than once attempted to reason with His Excellency, to no avail."

"It is my opinion," said Holmes, "that remorse overcame the amba.s.sador, and in the throes of self-recrimination, and guilt at his unfaithfulness to his mate - at this very moment travelling the gulf between Mars and Earth - he took his own life."

The deputy amba.s.sador said, "A tragic affair, Mr Holmes..."

We took our leave, and, as we hurried across the square towards the taxi rank, I said doubtfully, "Suicide? But... how was it that you didn't find the letter-knife when you first examined the corpse?"

"All will be revealed in time, Watson. Have patience." He opened the rear door of the taxi and slipped inside. "To Hampstead Heath," he told the driver.

We came to the crest of the hill and stood in silence, all London spread before us. The sun was setting, and a roseate light bathed the capital. I made out familiar landmarks, St Paul's and Nelson's Column, and more recent additions to the city's skyline: the s.p.a.ceyard in Streatham constructed by the Martians, and the stanchioned air-port for the new flying machines over at Bermondsey. Prominent across the city were the towering tripods, stilled now after the activity of the day, hooded and slightly sinister. Soon, when the sun went down, they would begin their curiously mournful and eerie ululations, the meaning of which was still a mystery to us humans.

"Who would have guessed, Watson, that in the last years of the nineteenth century, our world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than, and yet as mortal as, our own?" Holmes sighed. "Who would have guessed that, in time, they would cross the vast gulfs of s.p.a.ce and settle our planet? If that first invasion had succeeded, if the microbes of this world had not fought off the invaders as successfully as any army, then life on Earth would now be under the yoke of terrible oppressors. Give thanks that a second, more altruistic Martian nation followed, who worked to cure the microbial disease that did for their cousins, and who brought a new, technological age to our planet. And yet, Watson..."

"And yet?"

"And yet, the Martians are an invading army still, for all their technological accomplishment and largesse, and they bring with them their own ignorance, and evil."

He paused, his aquiline face plunged in melancholy introspection for a s.p.a.ce, and then he roused himself and pointed. "Look, Watson, down by that oak. Mr Wells and Miss West, holding hands like the lovers they are. Shall we join them?"

We made our way down the incline and met the pair beneath the spreading boughs. Both looked suspicious, West's beautiful visage drawn and even paler than usual.

Wells stepped forward. "You said you had news...?" he began.

"The case is resolved," said Holmes. "We located the weapon."

At this Wells flinched. "Located...?" he echoed.

"It was concealed beneath the amba.s.sador's tangled limbs," Holmes explained.

Miss West stared at him. "But isn't it curious that you did not find the knife when you first examined the corpse?"

"Not in the slightest," replied Holmes, "for the knife was not in situ when I first made my examination."

"What?" I cried.

"Then how...?" Wells began.

"I placed it there just one hour ago, when I entered the amba.s.sador's bedchamber for the last time."

I stared aghast at my friend. "Do you know what you're saying, Holmes?" I expostulated. "Why... but that means the amba.s.sador cannot have taken his own life!"

Holmes smiled, and turned to Mr Wells and Miss West. "That is correct, is it not? Would you care to explain?"

Miss West opened her mouth, quite shocked. "Why, I have no idea what you mean..."

"Come, my dear. I am quite aware of the amba.s.sador's... predilections, shall we say?"

At this, Miss West broke down and sobbed. Wells embraced her, and it was a minute before she regained her composure, looked Holmes squarely in the eye, and said, "Six months ago, upon my appointment as the amba.s.sador's private secretary, he made his feelings known. I was revolted, of course, though I was well aware of the... the tastes of some of his kind. The amba.s.sador, for all his status, was not exempt from these depravities... and with increasing insistence he proceeded to press himself upon me. Last night he asked me into his room, ostensibly to dictate a last letter. However..." She sobbed, biting her knuckle. "Oh, it was horrible, horrible! His strength, his ghastly, overwhelming..."

Holmes reached out and touched her shoulder. "Please, there is no need to go on."

Wells interposed. In a trembling voice he took up the story. "I was pa.s.sing the room, Holmes, when I heard Rebecca's cries. I fetched the key and let myself into the bedchamber, and what I saw there..." He shook his head bitterly, his expression wretched. "I was beside myself with rage, sir, and, blinded to the consequences, took up the letter-knife and... and plunged it into the horror's torso..." He looked up, defiantly. "I am not proud of what I did, but my love for Rebecca and my revulsion at the amba.s.sador's vile actions..." He paused, then went on. "I opened the window and gouged a mark in the wall beneath, to make it appear that the murder was the work of an intruder. I then left the emba.s.sy and disposed of the knife in the Thames."

He looked up, staring Holmes in the eye, and said, "I do not regret what I did, for the animal had it coming to him, and I will face the consequences like a man. If you inform Scotland Yard of my actions, I will have my day in court."

Homes smiled at this, then said, "Well said, but it will take more than pretty rhetoric to persuade me that what you said is the truth of it."

I stared at my friend. "What the deuce are you driving at, Holmes?"

The great detective turned to Miss West, and said, "Well?"

Miss West faced the detective foursquare, thought for a s.p.a.ce, and began, "I -"

Wells gripped her hand. "Rebecca..."

"No, Bertie," said she, "the truth is better out... You are correct, Mr Holmes, Bertie did not kill the amba.s.sador in a fit of rage." She took a deep breath, then said, "I did... for when he pressed himself upon me, held me down with his tentacles and... and proceeded to... You must understand that I was beside myself with terror, and when I saw the letter-knife on the bedside table, I reached out and grasped it and..." She stopped, almost out of breath. "I did what I did, Mr Holmes, in self-defence, but I too will face the consequences if that is what you feel right and proper."

Holmes shook his head. "As far as the authorities are concerned, both human and Martian, the affair is closed. The amba.s.sador killed himself in a fit of remorse and guilt for his philandering with human women. The Martian judiciary will not arrive for another five weeks, by which time what evidence there is will be corrupted. While not condoning your actions, I understand the terrible fear that drove you to commit the deed."

"You mean...?"

"In my opinion you have suffered enough, Miss West. Naught will be gained by hauling you before the court, for while a human law might have sympathy with your plight, I cannot say the same for the Martian judiciary."

She stared at him open-mouthed, tears glistening in her eyes.

"If I were you," Holmes went on, "I would leave the emba.s.sy, turn your back on the terrible memories of last night and start anew. Your secret is safe with Watson and me."

Wells said, "Why, but I cannot thank you enough, Mr Holmes!"

Miss West stepped forward and placed a kiss on the detective's cheek. "Thank you," she murmured.

Presently we watched them step from beneath the boughs of the oak and, hand in hand, walk into the diminis.h.i.+ng twilight of the Heath.

Back at Baker Street, Holmes lit his pipe and pulled upon it ruminatively. I stared up at the stars scattered brightly across the heavens and said, "You think they'll be all right, Holmes?"

"They have talent, Watson. I've read a little of Miss West's journalism, and very impressed I was. And maybe Wells' jottings will come to something."

For a time I was lost in a brown study as I pondered the coming of the Martians and the many wondrous, and not so wondrous, incidents their arrival had entailed.

We strode on in companionable silence as the darkness deepened around us, and at last, from all across London, near and far, there sounded the first of the tripods' strange and mournful cries.

"Ulla, ulla," they called dolorously into the warm night air. "Ulla, ulla..."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Eric Brown has lived in Australia, India, and Greece. He began writing when he was fifteen and sold his first short story to Interzone in 1986. He has won the British Science Fiction Award twice for his short stories and has published almost fifty books. His latest include the novel Helix Wars and the collection The Angels of Life and Death. He writes a monthly science fiction review column for the Guardian and lives near Dunbar in Scotland. His website can be found at www.ericbrown.co.uk.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SWADDLED RAILWAYMAN.

BY RICHARD DINNICK.

As I have said before, from the years 1894 to 1901 inclusive, Mr Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. It is safe to say that there was no public case of any difficulty in which he was not consulted during those eight years, some of them of the most intricate and extraordinary character, in which he played a prominent part.

Just such a case came to light in the autumn of 1898. Holmes had taken to rising late and breakfasting at a time more appropriate to luncheon. It was therefore at least mid-morning before he began his perusal of The Times that day. He had taken a seat at the breakfast table laid by Mrs Hudson and had yet to even speak a word to me in greeting or acknowledgement.

He was in the final throes of filing his pipe after dissecting a pair of smoked kippers when he turned to me.

"What do you think of London's underground railways?" he asked.

"Well," I said. "It is progress. To traverse the capital underground is a marvel. The working cla.s.ses can travel in relative comfort and speed, can they not?"

Holmes sucked on his pipe and produced a cloud of blue-brown smoke that wafted up to the ceiling, causing a cloud level to form, caught in the sunlight coming in through the windows from Baker Street.

"No, Watson," Holmes replied at length. "They cannot. The carriages and system are hot and crowded. The companies behind these 'marvels' continue to disembowel London, while at the same time congesting both parliament and the Queen's Highway. It has sometimes proved near impossible to take a hansom cab across some districts of the metropolis due to the earthworks along the thoroughfare. And now this!"

Holmes had become animated in a manner I knew meant that not only his interest but also his pique had been aroused.

"Now what?" I asked, rising from my chair.

"See for yourself!" He folded The Times neatly and handed it to me, tapping the relevant piece with two elegant fingers.

Between an item on Jewish anarchists and the new progressives of the Liberal Party I read: RAILWAY WORK SUSPENDED BY FEAR OF GHOST.

Work on the new Central London Railway has been suspended at Bloomsbury because workers say the tunnels are haunted. Construction of the deep-bore tunnel and its stations began last year but now workers have downed tools and some have simply not returned to work. A figure was seen in the tunnel where none could possibly have been and disappeared when the foreman went to clarify what the person was doing.

I looked at Holmes.

"A ghost!" exclaimed he. "Fascinating, is it not, how the mind of the common man turns to myth and superst.i.tion to explain something that appears inexplicable."

"And you are sure it is not a ghost..."

Holmes laughed humourlessly. "I realise that to your eyes I am a slugabed, Watson, but do not presume that my ability to spot mockery has been dulled by the lateness of my rising."

"No," I said in an appropriately contrite fas.h.i.+on. "I am sorry, Holmes."

"You know my methods and you know even better my distaste for the fantastical. Rational explanations are often improbable or even implausible and yet the supernatural is repeatedly called upon to make up any shortfall in data."