Holmes found me standing outside Scotland Yard, gulping air like a fish out of water. He did me the courtesy of not enquiring about my health and instead called a cab. We sat in silence all the way back to Chelsea, and exchanged few words until we were safely installed in my drawing room, supping a restorative brandy.
“Mr Agares affected you deeply,” Holmes said.
“Deduced that, did you?”
“Come now, this is no time for sarcasm.”
“What time is it then, exactly? Time for throwing years of medical and rational belief out of the window? You have spent the best part of our lives astounding me, Holmes, but never like this. That you, of all people, should believe that… man’s story.”
“I never said I believed it, only that he does. Unfortunately, at present, I have no other theory to offer, not one that fits the facts anyway.”
“There has to be something. I cannot believe—”
“That human life, no matter how grotesque, can be manufactured on an operating table?”
I let out a deep sigh. “Yes.”
“Neither can I, Watson, but what if I am wrong? Our forebears believed that the world was flat, that the sun circled the earth. They were wrong. They believed that odours and not germs transmitted diseases; that blood could not be transplanted from one body to another. They were wrong. No, that is unfair. They were mistaken. They did not have all the facts at their disposal. Discoveries were yet to be made.
“Today we heard that new life has been born out of necrotic flesh. We have seen evidence with our own eyes that perhaps such beings exist. We don’t know how. We do not have all the facts at our disposal. But, if that creature in the cell had told us that Elsbeth Honegger was conjuring spirits from hell, I would not have believed him. If he told us that London was crawling with the nosferatu, I would have laughed in his face. What he suggested was that through scientific endeavour, such a feat has been made possible. No magic. No superstition.”
“But science?”
“But science… There is so much we don’t yet understand, Watson. It could be that, no matter how ghoulish it may sound, such a miracle is possible. Perhaps scientists of the next century will look back at us and laugh; those primitives, who didn’t believe that bodies could be recycled. How backward. How stunted. No different from those who thought you could fall off the edge of the world if you sailed far enough.”
“Here be dragons?”
Holmes nodded. “None of this sits easy with you, does it, old boy?”
“Not one bit.”
“Nor does it with me, to be truthful, but Mr Agares is safely under lock and key and Inspector Tovey will see that he remains that way. He will provide the answers I seek, one way or another. I shall understand, Watson. I shall get to the bottom of it.”
I went to speak, but stopped myself.
“What is it?” Holmes asked.
“I keep thinking about John, or Daniel, or whatever we are meant to call him. Could he really have been created by Elsbeth Honegger?”
“Mother knows best?” Holmes asked.
My stomach clenched. “Oh good Lord. You don’t mean—”
“Maybe he wasn’t talking about his mother sending him off to war. Maybe he was talking of a woman on the battlefield, bringing him life. Do you remember Elsbeth’s brooch, Watson, the one that belonged to the Frankensteins?”
My mouth was dry. “The crow.”
“Caw, caw, caw,” croaked Holmes.
I shivered, despite myself. Could it all be true? I had thought that John was calling for the birds outside the window, but if he was remembering the clasp on his mother’s collar… No, it was madness, but I knew one thing. While I struggled to believe Agares’s wild story, I believed in Sherlock Holmes. If any man alive could make sense of all this, it was my friend, and I would stand by his side every step of the way.
Little was I to know that in doing so, I would nearly lose Holmes in the process. But we had been set on a path, one that beckoned us further just a few minutes later when the telephone rang.
“Oh, thank God,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Mrs Sellman?”
“I’ve been calling all afternoon, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What’s happened? Is it Frederick?”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s my sister.”
“Elsbeth? What about her?”
“She wrote to us, Doctor. She’s alive.”
* * *
The following morning we were back in Hampstead, being welcomed by Mr and Mrs Sellman. Frederick was up in his room, but the item which had prompted our summons awaited us in the drawing room.
“It arrived yesterday morning,” Mrs Sellman informed us, showing us to the drawing-room table. “We were both out, so Miss Wilkins took delivery. Here.”
At the centre of the table was a toy lion, roughly fifteen inches from nose to tail and standing beside a deep emerald cardboard box. The creature was covered in flocked material, with a bushy mane made from what looked like real fur.
“Another automaton?” Holmes enquired.
Mr Sellman nodded. “It was all I could do to prise it out of Freddie’s hands this morning. He thinks it’s simply marvellous.”
“And for good reason,” said Holmes, bending to examine the toy. “Such craftsmanship. Look, Watson, those eyes are positively lifelike, and as for the teeth!” He reached out and touched one of the sharp incisors that lined the toy’s jaws. “Made of ivory no less. May we see it in operation?”
Mr Sellman produced a small bronze key. “Of course.”
Our host inserted the key into a hole in the beast’s side and began to wind. When he removed his hand, the key started to turn of its own accord, driven by the clockwork mechanism inside. Springing to life, the miniature lion nodded its head, the jaws opening and closing. After repeating the motion four or five times, the automaton sat back on its haunches, emitting a throaty mechanical roar. I found myself chuckling, but then started as the clockwork beast leapt once more to its feet.
“Enchanting,” cheered Holmes, applauding the device. “Most ingenious. I can see why your son is so enamoured.”
“But how do you know it is from Miss Honegger,” I asked, “other than by her fascination with automata?”
With a shaking hand, Mrs Sellman passed me an envelope. “This was in the box.”
The envelope was plain, but inside was a note written on light cream paper. In neat, crisp handwriting it read:
Darling Freddie,
Sorry that I had to go away so suddenly. Here is a friend to keep you company until I return.
Your loving aunt,
E.
Tears had formed in Camille Sellman’s eyes by the time I passed the note to Holmes. It was easy to see that many tears had been shed over the last twenty-four hours.
Holmes sniffed the paper before reading. “Your sister doesn’t care for perfume.”
“She never wears it,” Mrs Sellman confirmed.
“And is not fond of crowds either.”
Mr Sellman looked confused. “She is a solitary soul, but how can you tell?”
Holmes reviewed the handwriting again. “She leaves considerable room between words, a sure sign that the writer enjoys freedom and doesn’t like to be encroached, with a tendency to become overwhelmed at large gatherings.” He looked up from the paper and smiled. “Graphology is such an intriguing subject.”
“The analysis of a person’s handwriting,” I explained. “Holmes believes that an individual’s personality spills over into his – or her – script.”
“Each one of Elsbeth’s letters is tiny,” he continued, “indicating a meticulous, even obsessive person, while the slight slant to the right, no more than five degrees, indicates that Miss Honegger is ruled by her head, rather than her heart, repressing emotion wherever possible.”
“Not when it comes to Frederick,” bristled Mrs Sellman.
Holmes favoured the comment with a smile, before asking how the package was delivered.
“In the post.”
“Excellent. May I see the postmark on the wrapping paper?”
Mr Sellman’s face darkened. “I’m afraid not. Miss Wilkins, with her usual efficiency, threw it away before we returned home.”
Holmes nodded twice. “I see, but all is not lost.” He held the paper up to the light to inspect the watermark. “Your sister is in Germany, Mrs Sellman.”
“Germany?”
“This is a product of the Gaertner-Melnhof Paper Mill, a stock sold only to their domestic market.”
“Has she been to Germany before?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” admitted Mrs Sellman.
“You did say she has travelled a good deal?”
“For her research, but she is a very private person. She wouldn’t always tell us where she had been.”
“Thankfully, our friendly lion is less reticent,” said Holmes, reaching for the clockwork toy. “May I?”
“Of course,” Mrs Sellman replied.
With great care, Holmes turned the toy over in his hands, running his thumb against the seam of its belly and, placing the beast back on all four feet, removing the key from its side.
“Yes, I thought so. May I also see the box? Thank you.”
Holmes removed the lid and turned it over to reveal a crest and a company name printed on the reverse.
“Foerstner Automaten GmbH,” Holmes read. “The abbreviation stands for Gesellschaft mit beschränkter Haftung, German for a limited company.”
“Yes,” said Mr Sellman, “I’m aware of what it means, but where are they based?”
“I’m afraid I do not recognise the crest above the name, although it is undoubtedly a coat of arms,” Holmes admitted, turning the lid to face me. “Watson?”
I took a closer look, but was none the wiser. Beneath a typically Germanic cross lay a solitary key with a diamond-shaped head and square teeth. “I’m afraid I have no idea,” I admitted, “although the presence of a key suggests a financial connection. A centre of commerce, or some such?”
Holmes nodded. “A fair assumption.” He replaced the lid neatly on the box. “Either way, a visit to your attic will reveal its identity, I am sure.”
“The doctor’s attic?” Mrs Sellman said, looking from Holmes to me.
“It’s a long story,” I told her, not relishing the thought of facing Holmes’s vast collections of books once more.
“And one that will soon be at a close,” Holmes added. “Once we have identified the coat of arms, finding your sister will be simplicity itself.”
“George will pay your travel expenses, of course,” Mrs Sellman insisted.
I was unsure who looked more shocked, Mr Sellman or myself.
“We’re going to Germany?” I asked.
Holmes gave me a knowing smile. “Reisen bildet und erweitert den eigenen Horizont, Herr Doktor.”