JUST AFTER LUNCHEON, ON A QUIET TUESDAY AFTERNOON, I said, “No, Holmes; Robert E. Lee was not a demon.”
Holmes stared at me, mouth agape.
“That is what you were thinking, is it not? Well, it is incorrect; he was a gifted general—that is all.”
“But, Watson,” Holmes gasped, “I said nothing! Nothing! You have read my mind!”
“I did no such thing.”
“But you did! For that indeed was my last thought!”
I sighed, folded the front section of The Times into my lap and said, “Holmes, you know better than that. Simple observation has revealed your thoughts to me and—if you are going to persist in explaining away your demonic insights as detective work—I think you had better take the trouble to learn how to correctly observe and deduce.”
“Do you expect me to believe your little parlor trick affords insight into another man’s inner thoughts?” Holmes scoffed. “To that, I say a loud, abrupt ‘pshaw.’”
“Holmes…”
“Pshaw!”
“Holmes! Let me detail my observations for you; perhaps you will begin to understand. First, I noticed you reading the featured article in my military history magazine, in which Lord Huffington sings the praises of General Lee’s martial prowess.”
Holmes nodded that this much was correct.
“You then ran to the bookshelf and picked up a volume of poetry by Stephen Crane, the newspaper correspondent who turned to apocalyptic poetry when he was sent to report on the war. It may be the darkest verse the hand of man has ever put to paper and I wish you wouldn’t read it, for I fear it gives you ideas.”
“It does, Watson. Oh, it does.”
“After you had read enough poems to turn your mind from generalship to demonics, you suddenly gasped and stared in amazement at the portrait of Robert E. Lee which hangs above our bookshelf—for reasons I still do not understand.”
“His was the picture that came in the frame when I purchased it, Watson.”
“Ah—mystery solved. After staring for some time with your mouth hanging wide, you ran to the desk and began sketching another version of the same portrait, wherein the general has horns, fangs, a tail and slitted snake eyes. You then gave a cry of triumph and threw down your pencil as if you had proven a great truth, at which point I chose to inform you that Robert E. Lee was not a demon. Now do you see how observation led me to that deduction?”
“But it looks just like him!”
“Of course it does—you drew it to look just like him. This does not prove—”
The ringing of our bell cut me off.
“Yes?” I asked.
From behind our closed front door, Mrs. Hudson’s voice said, “A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.” Judging by her breathy tone, I imagined it must be an attractive gentleman indeed—perhaps worthy of inclusion in one of her smutty novels.
“Enter,” said I.
Warlock gave me an angry glance and flew back to his desk. He flung a book over his devilish sketch, still certain he had discovered a secret that must be guarded from the eyes of the common man. The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Hudson hanging from our guest’s left arm in a half-swoon. She might have fallen in love on the strength of his facial hair alone, for our visitor wore a dashing moustache, such as one might find in the circus or on certain cavalry officers. He held himself with a feminine reserve and a demure, almost subservient air, yet his upper body bulged with musculature. As he stepped forward, I noted he had the trace of a limp and that his left foot turned in slightly.
“Mr. Percy Trevelyan,” Mrs. Hudson announced, dreamily.
“At your service,” our guest added, then asked me, “You are Mr. Warlock Holmes?”
I indicated my companion with a wave and sat back to watch.
“Yes, I am Warlock Holmes,” said he, rising to shake Trevelyan’s hand. “How may I be of service?”
“It is a matter of some delicacy…” Trevelyan said, then held his silence until Mrs. Hudson realized that he was waiting for her to leave. She favored Mr. Trevelyan with a gaze that promised… well… everything, then fired a hateful sneer at Holmes and me, and departed.
“Ah… that’s better,” said Holmes. “Now, tell me all.”
“Well, I am the founder of Trevelyan’s Aerial Ballet…”
“And a dancer,” Holmes declared. “I perceived it at once.”
“Trapeze, I think you’ll find,” I said. “Observe his calloused hands, muscular upper body and the club foot which would surely preclude a career as a dancer.”
“Oh… Damn…” mumbled Holmes.
I saw from Trevelyan’s glance that I had wounded him somewhat, but he agreed, “It is just as your… colleague… says. I’m sorry, you must be…”
“Dr. John Watson, at your service.”
“Oh, well, I am very pleased to meet you,” Trevelyan said, then, in a lower voice added, “Very glad to find you here, indeed.”
I did not like his inference. I had observed the marks of—shall we say—a gentleman’s gentleman about Mr. Trevelyan. I supposed he assumed himself to be in like company, and thought my relationship with Holmes was a romantic one.
“Holmes and I are merely fellow lodgers; it helps to share expenses,” I explained.
“Even for a doctor?” Trevelyan asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow.
“Well… I… Yes, for this doctor. I am not currently in practice, so…”
“Ah!” said Trevelyan, raising a finger. “I am here to ask Mr. Holmes’s advice over just such an arrangement.”
“I think a different arrangement,” I said, but he ignored me and continued.
“Last spring I was approached by a gentleman after one of my shows, name of Blessington.”
I cringed, hoping the story was not to be too lurid.
“He found me at Le Café Majestique, taking dessert with a few of my admirers, still in my costume. He walked straight up to us, declared an interest in trapeze and offered to pay for the entire table if he might be allowed to join. Well, we were delighted and admitted him at once. Yet he proved to be so crude, I found myself amazed that a mind like that could have any interest in the arts at all. As the evening wore on and people began to excuse themselves, it became clear that he was waiting to be the last man at the table with me. When he had me alone, he made a very strange proposition.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair, which drew a look of annoyance from Trevelyan. Holmes was yet to give any indication that he understood the situation our guest was describing.
“Blessington told me he wished to become a patron of the arts, but knew nobody in London’s creative circles. That very night, point blank, he offered to support me. He promised me room, board, spending money and financial support for my trapeze show. All I had to do was come live with him and offer a share of my profits.”
Here Holmes brightened and asked, “I say, do you make a lot of money at trapeze?”
“No. I don’t. Nobody does.”
“I imagine that did not concern Mr. Blessington,” said I.
“It did not. I chided him for his forwardness, but told him I might be interested. He offered to show me the place that very night and I will confess, I agreed. Imagine my surprise when he had me installed in a separate room from his own.”
“Why should that surprise you?” Holmes asked.
Trevelyan gave Holmes a sly look. I attempted to explain, “Well, Holmes, Mr. Trevelyan enjoys the company of other men…”
“As do I,” Holmes agreed.
“No… I mean, instead of women.”
“Well, that is understandable,” said Holmes. “Much as I would like to say I am beloved of the ladies, I find I never know quite what to say to them. So, I suppose, I must also state that I find myself more comfortable in the company of men.”
I sighed and said, “You misunderstand. Mr. Trevelyan is a confirmed bachelor.”
Holmes threw up his hands. “Well? If anybody asked you or me to confirm our marital status, would we not have to proclaim ourselves bachelors also?”
“Holmes, when a gentleman agrees to move into another gentleman’s house and allows that man to pay his way through life—”
Here Holmes interrupted to say, “Just as you and I do…”
“No, Holmes. This is a different arrangement entirely.”
“It sounds exactly the same.”
Finally, Trevelyan nodded to me that he would take over. He leaned close to Holmes and whispered a few words in his ear.
“Oh,” Holmes said. “Yes, that is different. I have heard of such things, of course. But Mr. Blessington was not offering such an arrangement?”
“No!” said Trevelyan in exasperation. “Once he had me installed and dependent, he ignored me entirely. Still does. We rarely speak more than a few words to one another. I have the whole top floor to myself; he keeps the lower one. In payment, I give him four-fifths of my box-office takings whenever I mount a show.”
“Eighty percent?” I coughed.
But Trevelyan waved me down. “It is a pittance! What is eighty percent of nothing, Doctor? He’s squandered a fortune on me, yet he never complains of the loss. The only way I can upset him is by staying out too late. He is insistent that I spend every night in my rooms. He seems to want me there during all hours of darkness.”
“Curious,” mumbled Holmes. I agreed.
“This arrangement held until yesterday evening. Earlier this week, an actress friend of mine brought me a card. It bore the name of Gerard Me’doreux—a confederate of the great father of trapeze, Jules Léotard. She told me that Monsieur Me’doreux wished to meet with me and might consent to instruct me on a few of Léotard’s techniques. Well, I was ecstatic! I agreed to meet him at my house, yesterday evening. Blessington spends his early evenings at his club, so I knew we would not disturb him. Monsieur Me’doreux arrived in the company of another gentleman—quite the specimen. He was nearly fifty I should think, but muscular, very short and with reddish hair. Monsieur Me’doreux introduced him as a colleague, but said that his companion—unlike myself—was unworthy to learn the secrets of the Great Léotard. He made the man wait in the hall while we spoke.
“If I hoped he would open the floodgates of knowledge, I was much mistaken. Monsieur Me’doreux first insisted that I tell him all I know of trapeze in order that he waste no time instructing me in that which I already understood. We spoke for almost an hour but all I had from him were questions—it was I who shared my knowledge. Just as it seemed he might be ready to favor me with his own wisdom, his companion burst in upon us and announced that it was time to go, as Monsieur Me’doreux had theater commitments later that evening. He bustled the old man out without another word.
“I was frustrated by the meeting and still hopeful that I might arrange another, when Blessington came home. I heard his footsteps in the hall and then a few moments later, a great cry. In a twinkling, he was up the stairs and crashed through my door, demanding to know if I had been in his rooms.”
“You hadn’t, of course,” I interjected, “but you must now realize that the old gentleman was merely keeping you busy while his accomplice rifled Blessington’s rooms.”
“I fear that is so,” said Trevelyan.
“In which case, the old man probably had no knowledge of trapeze to impart. That is why he endeavored to keep you speaking of what you knew; as soon as he was forced to demonstrate knowledge, his sham would have been revealed.”
“Likely,” sighed Trevelyan. “Alas, for I heartily crave contact with the master of my art and his secrets.”
“Just as I crave a heart attack, on the part of Mrs. Hudson,” said I. “Yet here we both sit, disappointed. Tell me, did you recount any of this encounter to Blessington?”
“No. I merely said I had not been in his rooms, at which he grew pale and agitated. I think he was up very late. When I awoke this morning, I crept out, hoping to shield myself from further interrogation. I returned just before lunch, to find him erecting a barricade across the top of the stairs. I had no idea what to do! I could not account for his strange behavior and he refused to answer my questions. One of my friends suggested you, Mr. Holmes, as a man who understands the bizarre better than he understands the commonplace.”
I had to laugh at that, but Trevelyan ignored me and asked, “What do you think, Mr. Holmes? Can you make any sense of the matter?”
“Hmm… let me see…” Holmes said and tapped his lips thoughtfully with his finger for a few seconds before deciding, “No. I can’t. How about you, Watson?”
I had a few notions, but most of the story was a mystery still, so I asked, “Did Blessington tell you nothing? He gave no further clue?”
“Well… I did hear him talking to himself last night. He was pacing back and forth in his bedroom below me and I several times heard him swear, ‘He shall not have it, by God, Moran shall not have it.’”
In a trice, Holmes was on his feet.
“Watson, get your coat!”
* * *
Upon our arrival at Trevelyan’s residence, Holmes stepped cautiously from the cab, observing the street in both directions before approaching the door. Trevelyan and I followed, uncertain. We were just behind Holmes and a little off to his left when he reached the door and knocked. No sooner had his hand touched wood than a series of loud reports rang out from behind the door. Shattered wood erupted towards us as a series of holes traced itself across both the door and adjacent wall. Dust and flying splinters filled the air. I can hardly describe the familiarity and horror a battle-wounded soldier feels when he realizes he is once again coming under enemy fire. I must have cried out. Holmes calmly stepped to one side, a look of irritation on his face. Trevelyan froze—the wrong instinct, but one I could well understand, for I had done so myself at the Battle of Maiwand. Turning from the door, I flung myself upon Trevelyan and pulled him down into the gutter.
“Holmes! Get down!” I cried, but he disregarded me and stood his ground, just to one side of the door.
“Calm yourself, Watson,” he said. “He’s nowhere near me. The shots are all off to my left.”
So they were, but not by more than two feet. One round struck the top hinge from the door, then the cascade of bullets began to travel in Holmes’s direction. Warlock huffed his annoyance and took a few steps to his right as the stream of bullets came closer, tracing a line of destruction. A round or two must have struck the latch, for there was a shower of brass and iron lock parts.
At last the firing ceased. The door sagged on its one damaged hinge, then slowly fell outwards into the street. From within, I heard a voice call, “Don’t come any closer! I have a gun!”
“So it would appear,” Holmes shouted back. “I don’t suppose you would stop firing it long enough to speak with my friends and me?”
“Who is that? Moran?”
“My name is Warlock Holmes; I am here with Mr. Trevelyan.”
“What does he want?”
“To return to his quarters without being blown to scraps,” said Holmes.
Raising my head, I could just see past the ruined door, into the hallway and up the stairs to a curious fort. It was constructed as if by a child on a rainy afternoon. Several cushions had been propped up with empty suitcases, becoming makeshift walls. Half of them were draped with blankets, to form a cozy little hiding place. If the armor afforded by this emplacement was sparse, it was more than recompensed for by its armament. A six-barrel Gatling gun protruded from between two cushions, venting smoke.
An instant later, a fat, flushed face—which I assumed belonged to Blessington—appeared over a cushion. “No! You can’t come in! It’s my fort!”
“Blessington,” Holmes remonstrated, “I am coming up there.”
“No.”
“I may be your last chance to set this right, Blessington.”
“I don’t care! Go away!”
“I am going to count to three and then I am coming in.”
“I won’t let you!”
“One…” Holmes said slowly. As he spoke, he gestured for me to get to safety.
I propped myself up out of the mud somewhat and said, “Holmes, you mustn’t.” With one hand I indicated first Trevelyan and then the rest of the world—meaning that the former should not see Holmes perform any unnatural feats and the latter should not be overrun with demons. I think he understood—vague as my warning was—but he tutted away my protests and again gestured for me to get clear.
“Two…”
“Damn him,” I cursed, then grabbed Trevelyan by the sleeve and dragged him to safety further down the street.
“Three,” said Holmes and stepped in through the door. Blessington opened fire; I heard three more shots ring out, then a strangled scream and a series of thuds, as if someone were kicking the walls inside the house. A lone sofa cushion bounced down the stairs, out the ruined door and into the street.
“Come on,” I told Trevelyan. “Let’s go see what he’s done in there.”
There were two possible outcomes and I wasn’t sure I liked either of them. Either Blessington had triumphed and I was about to behold Holmes’s earthly remains, or Holmes had triumphed and I was about to behold… well, it might be anything. I hoped it wouldn’t be too bad—that I wouldn’t find the upstairs crawling with chittering imps or every wall dripping with shreds of Blessington.
When I peeped around the remains of the doorway, I beheld Holmes, standing on the landing at the top of the stairs, looking down at Blessington’s bulk. All seemed well enough, until I crested the stairs and got a proper look at Blessington. He lay athwart the wreckage of his pillow fort, flat on his back with his limbs contorted. His eyes were open wide and rolled back and forth in a paroxysm of fear. From his mouth issued tendrils of black, oily smoke. These spilled down upon the floor and splayed outwards, moving with an undulating regularity. So cohesive were the strands that it looked as if an octopus made of smoke had just set up home in Blessington’s mouth and was now feeling about the floor with all its tentacles, searching for the wallet it had dropped on its way in. Just as disturbing was the impression that Blessington was pinned to the floor by a great weight situated at the back of his mouth. His limbs would convulse and strain from time to time, yanking his torso this way and that. Yet, try as he might, he could not make the back of his head budge from its spot.
“By God!” cried Trevelyan, from the stairs behind me. “What has happened to him?”
Holmes whirled around and, in wide-eyed guilty stammers, explained, “Oh! Um… He was… He fell down, you see…”
I raised a finger, stepped in front of Holmes and told Trevelyan, “Holmes has employed the ancient art of karatei, a sacred fighting style from far Japan.”
“Yes, but that’s… that’s just kicking and punching, isn’t it?” Trevelyan asked.
“It is,” I said.
“Then where did all that smoke come from?”
“You have seen Blessington take a cigarette from time to time, have you not?” I asked. “Holmes struck him in such a way as to release all the residual smoke that was trapped within him, after all those years of tobacco. It should be quite cleansing for him.”
“Remarkable!” said Trevelyan.
“Thank you,” Holmes said, with a sigh of relief.
“And here we have a chance to practice some deduction,” I continued. “Now, Mr. Trevelyan, did you not tell us you keep the upstairs rooms, while Blessington here has the lower floor?”
“I did,” Trevelyan said.
“Then why do you think he has constructed the barricade across Mr. Trevelyan’s door, Holmes, and not his own?”
Holmes shrugged, “It might have just been a better place to build a fort.”
“It might,” I conceded, “but perhaps there is a more logical deduction. Perhaps he has stashed something precious in Trevelyan’s quarters. Mr. Trevelyan, would you come with me please? I should like to search your rooms. If you find anything that does not belong to you—or anything that does, but which is out of place—you must point it out to me immediately.”
He agreed with an earnest nod. Holmes and I tossed aside the cushions and stepped through, but there was nothing to find. Trevelyan kept his quarters neat and had decorated them with circus and trapeze paraphernalia. The best of his pieces was an ingenious clockwork tableau. Only wind the key, press the lever on the front and the whole thing came to life. As the clockwork ringmaster raised his hat, the cannon behind him elevated and fired a thrashing clown towards a solid brick wall. Just before he hit, a man on a trapeze swooped down, caught him by the hands and swung him to safety. I found the story highly unlikely, yet I could not help but marvel at the hundreds of minute brass gears and levers that turned a simple swing of a pendulum into such perfect mimicry of life.
My fascination with this clockwork wonder notwithstanding, we found nothing of interest in Trevelyan’s rooms. He was able to answer for every item, down to each plate and spoon—nor did he think that anything had been disturbed. Lost for further inspiration, I suggested, “Shall we journey downstairs, gentlemen, and see what Blessington was so keen to protect?”
“He keeps a great deal of money in the house,” Trevelyan suggested. “I thought that must be the source of his fear.”
“Is it well hidden?” I asked.
“Not at all. He keeps a cashbox on his desk.”
“Well secured?”
“No. Not even locked.”
“Strange,” I pondered. “Given the amount of time you spent with our Monsieur Me’doreux, I would have thought his accomplice must have discovered such an obvious haul. If so, they would already have taken it, wouldn’t they? Blessington would be furious at the loss, but what would be left for him to protect? Either this cashbox was overlooked, or the thief was after something else.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what.” Trevelyan shrugged.
“Well, show us the box, to begin with,” I said. “Perhaps we shall find another treasure.”
In the hall we passed Blessington, still pinned to the floor, gasping for help.
“He’ll be all right,” Holmes said, then gave Blessington a little kick and reminded him, “I did warn you, if you recall.”
Blessington’s rooms were… what shall I say… like a kingly hovel. At first I thought the thief had ransacked the place, yet I soon realized that no man but Blessington had wrought this destruction. The mess was too personal and too established. Dirty clothes lay in every corner, the wreckage of meals in every nook. Yet—even in this filthy den—the man’s wealth was evident. I kicked aside a discarded dinner jacket; its extreme size testified that it did belong to Blessington, but only when it was in the air did I realize it was one of Savile Row’s finest, fit for any duke. Hanging from a doorknob nearby was the shirt to match it and in the cuffs were a pair of platinum links, emblazoned with a pure gold monogram: H.M. The workmanship was extraordinary and the cost must have been vast. Clearly Blessington was accustomed to the finer things, but not to treating them finely. For a moment I despaired of ever finding a clue amidst the clutter, until Trevelyan said, “Ah! There’s his cashbox.”
Holmes gave a sudden gasp and stood frozen in the doorway to Blessington’s study. Peering round him, I beheld the plainest wooden box I think I have ever seen. It was constructed of some kind of dark, well-worn wood. It had hinges of heavy bronze and a latch of the same. Apart from that, it was all but featureless. I could not name the artistic style it was constructed in, nor even guess at the country of origin. All I could say for certain was that it was old—very old indeed. I tried to push past Holmes to examine it, but he thrust me back, crying, “Do not touch it, Watson!”
“What is it?” I asked, but he ignored me and turned instead to Mr. Trevelyan.
“Have you ever seen Blessington open that box?”
“Many times.”
“What does it contain?”
“Well… money, obviously.”
“Nothing more?” Holmes demanded.
“Not that I have seen.”
Holmes edged into the room, eyeing the box with deep distrust. Taking up a silver fountain pen, he inched closer to the box and gingerly pried back the latch. Then, with his eyes squeezed almost shut, he tipped the lid up, ever so slightly.
Nothing happened.
Holmes breathed a thankful sigh and casually flipped the lid open the rest of the way. I could just see a disorganized wad of one- and five-pound notes, which rested on an equally disorganized wad of ten- and twenty-pound notes.
“Only money,” Holmes laughed, then snatched up the box and swept past Trevelyan and me into the hall and up the stairs. When he reached the top landing, he crouched over the recumbent bulk of Mr. Blessington and reached inside the fallen man’s mouth. Holmes plucked out an object that looked like a fuzzy, coal-colored cotton ball—from which the tendrils of dark smoke emitted—and flicked it into a nearby corner.
“Where is the other box?” Holmes demanded.
Freed from his smoky bonds, Blessington hauled himself into a sitting position and shuffled backwards, coughing and wheezing, until his back bumped against the far wall. Holmes had no consideration for the man’s recent plight, but urged, “The other box, Blessington! It’s a matter of some urgency, as I think you must realize.”
Yet, when our rotund host found his voice again, it was only to say, “No other box.”
“You mean to say you have never owned another box? Just like this one?”
“No. Never. Why should a man want more than one cashbox?”
“For that matter, why should a man keep so much money in one, then leave it unlocked and unguarded? There’s a perfectly good bank just round the corner,” said Holmes.
“Ha!” Blessington scoffed. “Never trust a bank, Mr. Holmes! No, I shall never trust a bank!”
“You, of all people, wouldn’t, would you? I will ask you one more time, Mr. Blessington, and then I am leaving: where is the other box?”
“There is no oth—”
“The truth! Speak the truth to me, Blessington, or I cannot help you!”
Yet, he did not. “Get out! Get out of my house!” he shouted at Holmes, then turned on Trevelyan and howled, “And you—you mincing fairy—get back in your rooms, do you hear? You get back in there and don’t you dare leave before I say!”
Holmes shook his head, stood up and turned to Trevelyan, saying, “Don’t. That is very poor advice. In fact, I think you had better only set foot in there once more. Go and gather those things that are most precious to you—only as much as you can carry. Make haste. You are moving out.”
“Today?” asked Trevelyan.
“This instant.”
“But… but what shall I do? I have nowhere to go.”
“We shall just have to make sure you possess the means to render such concerns moot,” Holmes shrugged. He flipped open Blessington’s cashbox, extended it towards Trevelyan and said, “How much do you think you will need? Keep in mind that it should be enough to start anew—somewhere far from here, if you are wise.”
“Stop that, you!” Blessington shouted.
Holmes turned back to him with disgust and said, “Unless it is the truth about the other box that is crossing your lips, I do not wish to hear more from you.”
“You can’t give away another man’s property!”
“This is not your property,” Holmes countered, then turned to us and said, “He stole it. So don’t feel bad, Mr. Trevelyan. Take what you need and forget this place.”
“To start anew…” Trevelyan reflected.
“In comfortable style,” said Holmes.
“Well that might take… perhaps… five hundred pounds, don’t you think?”
Five hundred pounds, indeed! I don’t know how much Jules Léotard earned in his storied career on the trapeze, but I will wager it was less than that kingly sum. Holmes just smiled and said, “It’s best to be sure, though, don’t you think?”
“So… seven, then?” Trevelyan asked, hopefully.
“That sounds apt,” Holmes agreed. Blessington gave a cry of protest, but was silenced by a harsh look from Holmes.
“Now go to your rooms,” Holmes ordered Trevelyan, as soon as the latter had selected his handful of banknotes, “and gather what is precious to you. Watson and I will wait. Take a few minutes only, this place is not safe.”
“I shan’t need much,” Trevelyan said. “Why keep those old rags now?”
“Why, indeed?” said Holmes.
Trevelyan disappeared into his quarters and I hissed to Holmes, “I can stand it no more! What in the world is that box?”
“This box? Merely a portal.”
“To what?”
“Another box.”
“Don’t be vague, Holmes,” I said. “If you keep secrets from me, how can I be expected to deduce the truth?”
Holmes softened somewhat, but said, “I will not speak of it in front of Blessington. He may yet have some chance to work mischief before you and I are prepared to deal with the second box. We must return on the morrow, girt for battle. All I will tell you now is that you have heard of this item before, or at least its first unfortunate owner.”
“Have I?”
“Pandora. As with all myths, the story has diverted from the truth, but the cautionary core—that a terrible beast lives within a simple box—is correct.”
That was enough to quiet me. Trevelyan returned, dragging a laden trunk. As I assisted him down the stairs, Holmes turned to Blessington, who still sat on the landing clutching a pillow across his breast and staring past us at the front door with an expression all of fear, devoid of hope.
“Last chance,” Holmes said. “Tell me the truth and I may yet save you. Cling to your promises, your lies and your misbegotten treasure and they shall devour you.”
Blessington said nothing. Holmes shrugged. “I thought as much. Well, I wish you luck of it. Perhaps we shall meet again.” Holmes chucked the cashbox and remaining bills into Blessington’s lap and turned for the door.
We hailed two cabs. Trevelyan drove away in the first, still in awe of his newfound fortune. Once we were settled in the second, Holmes asked, “What do you make of Blessington?”
“To begin with, Blessington is not his true name,” said I.
Holmes sat up in surprise and fixed me with a look of admiration. “I say! Well done, Watson. How did you know?”
“I noticed a pair of cufflinks in his rooms. They were monogrammed ‘H.M.’”
“Well, that solves one little mystery, then,” said Holmes. “He must be Henry Moffat.”
The name struck me as familiar, but though I wracked my memory, I could not say why. Holmes watched me puzzle a moment, then prompted, “I think you must have heard of the Worthingdon Bank Gang.”
“Ah! The Worthingdon Imploders! Yes, it was in all the papers. I recall the trial: They caught the gang, hanged the leader, sent the rest to jail. The one who informed on them got a shorter sentence—that would be Henry Moffat, I assume. If I recall, Scotland Yard never did find out how the gang smashed open the bank vaults, did they?”
“I think I know, Watson,” Holmes mused. “They used ancient and terrible magics. The box we saw today, as I told you, is a portal to another box. Whatever is placed in one box can be withdrawn from the other, no matter how far away the boxes may be. The contents effectively exist in two places. There is one notable exception: in the dangerous box—the true Pandora’s box—there lives a terrible beast. It can only enter and exit through the true box.”
“What has this to do with bank robbery?” I asked.
“It is quite elementary. Suppose Blessington—or one of his confederates—is in possession of both boxes. He goes to a bank and deposits the true box. It sits in the vault, dormant and harmless, until one night the owner of the boxes pricks his finger and drops some blood into the second box. Remember that whatever is present in one is also in the other—so now the beast has had a taste of blood. Hungry for a complete sacrifice, the monster abandons its home in the first box and seeks prey. At night, there is nobody in the bank—maybe a night watchman, but he would be outside the vault. That is important, for the beast would have to go to get him and everything it touched on the way would corrode.”
“I remember it from the papers,” I said. “At each bank they hit the vault doors had rusted away and the walls had crumbled to dust.”
“After eating the night watchman—or whoever else it could find—the beast probably slunk back to its home, happy and docile as a well-fed cat. Then the robbers needed only to walk into the ruined vault and stuff any surviving monies into the dangerous box, knowing they could be removed from the safe box at any convenient moment. A few days later, the owner could go withdraw the dangerous box from the wreckage of the bank and deposit it in the next one they had decided to rob.”
I shook my head and said, “Such things are foreign to my understanding, Holmes. Yet if it works as you say, it is an ingenious method.”
“Moriarty was clever,” said Holmes.
The statement piqued my interest, for I knew Moriarty only as the demonic voice that issued from Holmes from time to time. His prognostications had always proved true—and highly useful—yet I knew Holmes to harbor extreme distaste for him. I chose my next words delicately. “How does Moriarty enter into this, Holmes? Who exactly is he?”
“Nobody now,” said Holmes. “He is gone forever.”
I knew that to be untrue, but I held my tongue until Holmes added, “He used to be a criminal mastermind. Oh he was a spider, Watson, ever at the center of a vast, invisible web. He never got his hands dirty and his name was unknown to most of his victims. Yet make no mistake, he was responsible for almost every crime of a magical nature committed on this continent—much of America and Asia too, I think. Through these crimes, he amassed a collection of magical artifacts unmatched by any other man in history. And how did he use them? For further crime. He armed his gangs with an arcane arsenal sufficient to render his men unstoppable and their methods inscrutable to the common investigator.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“I knew Moriarty. I knew him very well,” Holmes said. “In fact, I have seen the boxes before. I knew them to be a prized possession of Moriarty’s, though I failed to guess the true nature of the thing that lived therein. My first inkling came when Trevelyan mentioned that Blessington was trying to protect the box from a man named Moran. Sebastian Moran was a trusted lieutenant of Moriarty’s—a most dangerous fellow in his own right, I might add. Once I learned Moran was involved, saw the box, saw Blessington’s wealth and heard his low regard for banks, I surmised the rest.”
“Well that is it, Holmes! That is deduction! Well done!” I cried. “But exactly what is it, Holmes? The thing that lives in the box, I mean.”
“Time.”
I think I must have sat agape for a moment, until Holmes took pity on me and leaned forward to disclose one of the greatest secrets of this world.
“I have told you before that our realm is a virtual paradise to the beings of other realities. That is not to say we have no demons of our own. The greater ones are so dominant that they are perceived by mortal men not as monsters, but as fundamental qualities of reality. They are gone beyond entities; they are physics.
“Time exists in every realm I know of, but in many of them it is not a poison. In other realms, age is more likely to improve a thing than to wear it down—thus very ancient things are amongst the most powerful. Here, every man and bird and rock and tree must know that time will eventually corrode and destroy it. That is what lives in the box: the ability—or no, let us say, the onus—of time to destroy all things. Let me tell you: if outside entities understood exactly how deadly time is in our realm, they might be less eager to join us.”
I gave a low whistle and asked, “If that is so… if that is our nemesis, how are we to combat the killing power of time?”
“That is the question of the day, isn’t it?”
Holmes returned his gaze to the world outside the carriage window. He had a particular love of windows and seemed always fascinated with what lay beyond them. He could stare for hours at the world presented by the pane, wondering if the things he saw were true or only a projection upon the glass, offered to deceive him.
* * *
I hardly saw Holmes for the rest of the day. Upon our return to 221B Baker Street, he flew from the cab, up the steps and into his room. There, he busied himself with a number of his books and his strange alchemical laboratory. He spent the remainder of the afternoon tink-tink-tinking at tiny scraps of metal with a minute hammer, staring down at them from time to time with that magnifying glass of his. Gradually, the metal scraps and the bubbling beakers of foul-smelling fluid he occasionally dipped them into became too much for his tiny desk to accommodate. At this point, he emerged from his room and begged the use of the sitting room, enjoining me to find some outside entertainment for the evening.
I made Holmes a steaming pile of toast and a pot of soup, then wiled the evening away at a local second-run theater. I returned home at just about ten to find Holmes still puttering. He looked worn, but rebuffed my attempts to get him to rest. I myself went to bed less than half an hour later. I did not see him again until the dead of night. As I lay in slumber, a shadow fell across my face and the sudden change in light induced me to wakefulness. There was Holmes, leaning gleefully over my bed.
“Watson, I’ve a gift for you!” Warlock piped up, then immediately his expression fell to one of deepest dismay and he cursed, “No! Damn! I can’t say that, can I?”
I rolled over and stared at him, blinking the sleep from my eyes. “What are you talking about, Holmes? What gift? What time is it?”
“Gift? There is no gift. Damn! You see? Now I can’t give it to you. I’ve promised you a gift and it wouldn’t work if this was the gift, would it? Ownership is damnably important in magical matters.”
“I have no idea what you are speaking of. I ask again: what time is it?”
“Two or so…”
Holmes had roused me from almost the exact middle of my slumber, to announce that he had chosen this moment to give me something, or not to. The revelation was not a welcome one. I think I yelled. Holmes merely raised a finger and said, “Just a moment, please; I shall be back presently.”
He leapt through my doorway and into the sitting room. He returned, not fifteen seconds later, with his shirtsleeves flapping freely about and declared, “There! As I said: a gift. For you.”
In my hand, he deposited a pair of cheap tin cufflinks.
“Why have you given me your cufflinks, Holmes?”
“No. They are your cufflinks. I got them for you.”
“Then why are they inscribed with an H?”
“Ah… well… because your middle name is Heimdal!”
“True, Holmes, but this is something I prefer to conceal—an undertaking which would not be aided by having to explain it over and over to everyone I met, from this day on, as evidence that I am not wearing another man’s cufflinks.”
“You have much to learn about gratitude, Watson,” Holmes huffed.
“Again, I ask: why have you given me your cufflinks?”
“Look, the important thing is that I have. I promised you a gift—now I have delivered one.” He beamed at his own cleverness and reached into his pocket. “It must therefore be a completely separate transaction when I mention that I have made you something. Oh! Damn! Well that won’t work either, will it? If I have made it for you, that’s as good as giving it to you, isn’t it?”
“I am going back to sleep, Holmes.”
“No you aren’t. Wait a moment, I’ll figure this out.”
With that, he scurried into the pantry. I could hear him banging about in there, occasionally calling, “You aren’t asleep, are you? Really, don’t make me fetch the accordion, John—you know I will.”
In less than five minutes, he returned, announcing, “There, I have made you something: this plate of toast.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Watson, don’t be difficult. Take it. Eat some—at least one bite—it is a matter of some importance.”
With a sigh, I reached over and snatched a slice of unbuttered toast from the plate he offered and bit into it with exactly no eagerness at all.
“There,” he said, over my dry, reluctant crunching. “That’s better. Now, as a separate matter—for we must admit that both previous issues have been brought to conclusion—I would like to inform you that I have made this.”
From his pocket, he drew a sort of amulet—an irregular yellow disc, hanging from an ornate chain.
“It is not for you,” he continued. “It is mine and mine alone. The magical protections bound within this amulet were granted to me and my possessions, not to any other man. Therefore, I do not give you permission to touch it, much less wear it always. But I do admit that it would be greatly beneficial to you if you did. It may even protect you from the foremost evils of this world, though such punishment would wear it out quickly. And now, I will leave it undefended, in your room.”
“You needn’t bother,” I snorted. “I have no desire to wear such a thing.”
“Damn it, Watson, yes you do!”
“It looks horrid! What is it anyway?”
“The rent,” he replied, raising his eyebrows as if he had just done a hideously clever thing. “So—though it is from you—it is a thing you owed to me, which makes it very much mine. Remember: I am not giving this to you; you gave it to me. Such matters can be of great magical importance.”
“Why is it all yellow and lumpy?”
The dangling abomination was indeed roughly the same shape and size as a one sovereign coin, but was encased in a rubbery coating that hid its true nature entirely. So hideous was the medallion that it took me a moment to recognize the beauty and intricate workmanship on the chain. Warlock had not deigned to answer my question, so I asked another. “I say, that is a singular chain. What is it made of?”
“Ah,” he said, “that was no small trick. Some links are copper, some are bronze, some iron. I had a devil of a time shaping such fine pieces, much less getting them to fit together.”
“You made this?” I marveled, staring at the links. They were minute, irregular shapes, joined together with such cunning that I am sure I could not describe the process, even if I understood it. Three shapes were repeated, over and over, in the three metals. They were familiar to me, but I could not say from where. A book, I realized. I had seen them in a book, somewhere. On numerous occasions. A medical book?
“Good lord, Holmes, are those… ear bones?”
“Well spotted, Watson! The hammer, the anvil and the stirrup—the tiny, calceous marvels that allow hearing!”
“But why?”
“It has often been said, Watson, that the ear is the gateway to the soul.”
“The eye.”
“What?”
“The eye, Holmes. The eye is the gateway to the soul.”
“Egads, Watson, don’t be disgusting! Anyway, it is the ear, I assure you. Whenever magics must be bound to a particular individual, the bond is always strongest if they are bound to the ear. Or hair. Or ear hair.”
“The ear? Well then… Oh God… Holmes! This is earwax! You have coated the sovereign I gave you in earwax?”
“Of course I did.”
“And you expect me to wear it? You wish me to clothe myself in another man’s earwax?”
“Well,” said Holmes, with a shrug, “not another man’s…”
“By God! Do you mean to tell me that you are holding in your hand a sovereign coated in roughly two tablespoons of my own earwax?”
“Just so.”
“It has often been said, Watson, that the ear is the gateway to the soul.”
“Well, you are lying,” said I, “or you are jesting with me. There is no possibility I ever had that much wax in my ears.”
“Not all at once,” Holmes conceded, “but you must realize that I was concerned for you before you even took up residence here. I must take some care to shelter all my living companions from harm. Thus, I began my harvest on the night you moved in.”
“You’ve been stealing my earwax?”
“Stealing is not a term worthy of a gentleman…”
“Since the day we met?”
“If you have been feeling a bit… dry… you now know the cause.”
“Damn it, Holmes!”
He gave me a hurt look and sat at the foot of my bed. “Watson, please understand: we are hunting dangerous prey. I have no idea where the true box may be hidden, but I know the thing inside has become used to regular human sacrifice. It might sally forth at any time it considers itself slighted or hungry or even bored. It would surely devour the first man it finds. I am not sure I could defend myself from such a beast and I know that I could not defend you. I only wish for you to be as safe as possible, Watson.”
My thoughts were sleepy and troubled. I did not know whether to yell at Holmes or thank him. As I struggled to decide, Holmes’s words closed a link for me. I made a sudden connection.
“I know where the box is.”
“How?”
“Think, Holmes: Blessington had no interest in Trevelyan as a lover, did he?”
“He doesn’t seem to have.”
“Then why did he want him? Why would he open his home to another man, support him and keep him?”
“I don’t follow,” said Holmes.
“The box!” I cried. “If Blessington—or Moffat, or whatever his name is—if he knew the beast might erupt at any moment and slay the first man it found, wouldn’t he take care not to be that man? That’s why he wanted Trevelyan always to spend his evenings at home! He wished Trevelyan’s bed to be always occupied. That’s why his Gatling emplacement was set across Trevelyan’s door and not his own! Don’t you see? The box is built into the underside of Trevelyan’s bed! Blessington kept him not as a lover, but a sort of resident sacrifice, always on hand in case the beast got hungry!”
“By Jove, I think you’ve got it!” Warlock cried. “Come, Watson, let us go put a stop to it!”
“Right now?”
“How could you sleep at a moment like this?”
“But… it’s cold outside. How would we ever find a cab at this hour?”
“Tosh! It is less than an hour’s walk.”
“Holmes…”
“We are engaged in a race, Watson! If Moran is indeed seeking to reclaim that box, I am loath to surrender even a minute to him. If he finds it before we do, the box will disappear into Moriarty’s criminal empire and who can say how many innocents will be sacrificed to it, ere we have another chance to get our hands on it?”
I grumbled, of course, but he was right. Besides, I was firmly awake by that time and faced only an empty, sleepless night if I stayed. Though I bundled myself up tightly, the cold crept in at every seam as we walked the streets betwixt Baker Street and Trevelyan’s. My muffler continuously slipped down, revealing my nose—moist from my breath—to the mercy of the cold. I sniffled and snorted piteously as we approached our goal.
Holmes’s urge to hurry proved prophetic. As we rounded the corner onto Moffat’s street, we beheld a trio of shapes emerging from the bullet-riddled ruins of his door.
“Stay close by me, Watson,” said Holmes, stepping out into the middle of the street. Through the patchy clouds, enough moonlight shone down that the intruders could not help but notice him. He threw open his overcoat and let it flap about his shanks as he advanced slowly down the street. This Holmes did to show himself unarmed but his steely gaze declared that he had no need of pistol or blade. He himself was the weapon. I scurried from the shadows behind him, wary of danger and longing for the warm bed I had left behind.
The first of the three figures instantly beheld Holmes and turned his steps to intercept our own. Behind him, the others followed, though with less zeal. As he neared us, I got my first look at an adversary who would haunt several of my future adventures. His hair was chestnut, shot with gray at the temples; he wore it in a short, martial cut. Indeed, everything about the man was short and martial. Though he stood no more than five foot three, he had the bearing of a soldier. His gaze was cold and unwavering, devoid of all fear. He did not walk; he marched. Something in his stride gave the impression that you might shoot him two or three times in the chest and not arrest his progress. I couldn’t recommend shooting him a fourth time—he might be very cross with you indeed. He wore a gray bowler at what would have been a rakish tilt, if it were not for the fact that rakishness, happiness, hope and humor all withered away within a twenty-yard radius of the man. As he drew up before us, Warlock announced him: “Sebastian Moran.”
“Warlock Holmes,” Moran replied. A shudder passed through his two companions and they exchanged glances. They must have recognized Holmes’s name, I realized. They must have feared it. One of Moran’s companions was commonplace in the extreme—an old man with a bushy white beard. Over one shoulder he carried a short stepladder and in the other hand, a box of tools. Judging by Trevelyan’s descriptions, I supposed this to have been the man who passed himself off as Monsieur Me’doreux, with Moran himself as the “unworthy” accomplice.
Moran’s other companion was horrific. He was shorter even than Moran, a fact accentuated by his deformed spine, which hunched him forwards and well off to the right. His hair hung in greasy black strands and his skin—even in moonlight—gave the impression of a greenish tint. In his right hand, he held a dagger. His left hand walked nervous fingers up and down the blade. The knife was clean, but his right trouser leg was not. With horror, I noted the dark stripe where he had wiped the blade upon his trousers. I was sure it must be blood. He smiled at me—a goblin’s grin.
Nodding his head towards Moran’s empty grasp, Holmes noted, “I see you’ve failed to find the box, eh?”
“I do not answer to the unworthy vessel,” Moran said, “but—” and this still to Holmes “—it is good to see you, Master.”
Suddenly, Moran, his confederates and the street behind them lit with a green glow. Though I was behind him, I could tell that Holmes was the source of this illumination, so I knew the voice that would come next. A deep, slow laugh escaped Holmes’s lips and in the creeping tone I had heard just three times before, Moriarty spoke, “Faithful one, you please me.”
“You are well, Master? You are sheltered?”
Moriarty did not answer; instead Holmes slumped forward, then staggered to one side. It was common for him to be weak when Moriarty departed, even for him to be rendered entirely insensible. Yet this time, Holmes did not fall all the way to the ground. Even as he stumbled, he slapped aside Moran’s outstretched hands and declared, “I’m not sheltering him, Moran; I’m digesting him.”
“Time shall choose a victor,” said Moran, then turned his eye on me and asked, “And who is this new face?”
“Tell him nothing, Watson!” Warlock urged, struggling to reclaim his balance. “And for God’s sake, John, don’t let him learn your name!”
Moran smiled. I sighed and shook my head. Then, since it seemed I had nothing to lose by it, I extended my hand and said, “Dr. John Watson, at your service.”
This surprised Moran, who stared at me as if trying to decide whether it was madness or boldness that lay behind the gesture. He crept slowly forward and took my hand in his. The grip was firm, but more remarkable was the steadiness of his hand. I had thought that only a surgeon could cultivate such absolute stability. Only later did it occur to me that a sniper might, as well. As we shook, he leaned in and stared unblinkingly into my eyes, taking the measure of me. After a time, he said, “You call yourself a doctor, but I think you are a brother of mine. Are you not a son of Mars, Dr. Watson?”
It took me a moment to fathom his meaning. Mars? The planet? No, the Roman god of war!
“Very astute,” said I. “I was a soldier for a brief time.”
“How many have you slain?”
I was taken aback. “Well… I prescribed morphine to a sunstroke victim once; that did the trick.”
“You jest with me, but I perceive that this hand has sent many to the grave. Either it has, or one day shall.”
I pulled back my hand and cried, “No, sir! It has not and it shall not! I am a doctor! I took an oath. Yes, I have seen battle, but I did not revel in it. I have no love of war!”
“That is ungentlemanly, sir, and unkind! He loves you!” For just a moment, Moran’s inexpressive façade cracked and he fixed me with the look most people would reserve for someone who had just called the queen a common street harlot. It took him only a moment to recover his composure. He stared coldly up at me and added, “Perhaps one day you and I shall meet upon the bloody field to see whom he favors more.”
I stared at him a moment, then whispered, “You, I expect.”
“I expect so, too,” said Moran.
Turning to Warlock, I noted, “Really, Holmes, the quality of people you associate with leaves much to be desired.”
Holmes snorted and said, “Who? Moran? Think nothing of him, Watson. I’d say he is merely a lapdog, but surely a dog would have been able to sniff out the box before now.”
“No need to worry, Holmes, I expect the box shall soon make itself known,” said Moran, turning to smile at the smaller of his two companions. The stunted man raised his dagger and tapped it twice against his own chest. I turned back towards Holmes to ask what the little creep meant, but found he had gone. Holmes was no longer by my side, but pelting down the street in the direction of Trevelyan’s house. For lack of a better plan, I took to my heels as well. One cannot run with a walking stick, so I was forced to waddle after Holmes as best as my wounded and wasted frame allowed. I am sure my progress must have been more amusing to Moran than frightening. Over my shoulder, I could just hear him call, “Until next time, Doctor…”
My first instinct would have been to run up the stairs and search Trevelyan’s rooms for the missing box, but as I entered by the shattered front door, I heard Warlock cry out from within Moffat’s rooms downstairs. Bustling in after him, I beheld a horrible sight. I’d not had time to guess what purpose Moran had for the ladder and toolbox his elderly hireling carried. Now I saw his reason and—even as a doctor, accustomed to blood and viscera—it turned my stomach.
Moran and company had taken their time with Moffat. Four sturdy anchors had been affixed to the ceiling in the bedroom. From these hung iron chains; tangled within them was Moffat himself. He had been stripped to his undergarments and hung spread-eagled over his precious cashbox. He was soaked in blood. His face was pale. He had been stabbed in several places—on the inside of his thighs, the base of his neck, and the inside of his arms, just below the armpit. Though the wounds were small, they told a clear tale to my doctor’s eye. Moran’s little knifeman had nicked both Moffat’s jugular veins as well as his femorals and axials. It must have taken him some time to bleed out—indeed, he may have still been alive—but the wounds were mortal. Compounding this cruelty, the cashbox had been opened and placed directly beneath Moffat. The chains were arranged such that he could pull himself to one side, while he had strength, causing the blood to drip beside the box, rather than into it. As most of the blood soaked the carpet, I could see that Moffat must have struggled as long as he could to see that no blood touched the tousled wads of banknotes within the box. Yet, as his blood had drained, the strength left him. He must have slumped into unconsciousness even as we entered, for the thin red stream that dripped from his vast belly had only just begun to paint its crimson upon the money. From the floor above us, there came a terrible rumble. The house creaked and squealed, as if all the boards of her frame had warped, pulling at the nails that bound them.
“Oh, damn!” Warlock cried. “Quick, Watson, the stairs!”
We rushed upstairs to Trevelyan’s bedchamber. With a reluctant grimace, Holmes opened the door and peered inside.
How can I describe what I saw?
I am familiar with height, width and depth, but I think there must be four or five spatial dimensions, for the creature defied physics as I understood it. Its horrid appendages seemed disjointed, appearing in several different places at once, though through their movement I began to perceive how they must come together, into a whole. It had no color—or no color I could understand. Its shape was defined to me as the area I could not see—the space where human perception failed. It pulled itself up out of the center of Trevelyan’s bed, which wasted and fell in upon itself, even as we watched.
Only when Holmes shut the door did I realize that I had been screaming. I clutched at the sides of my aching head and felt my pulse pound against my hands with terrible force.
“Oh dear,” said Holmes. “It’s even worse than I expected.”
“Wha… what do we do?” I stammered.
“Hmm… That all depends upon you, I think. Watson, did you or did you not steal my protective amulet?”
My hand went to my chest. I flushed. Understand, I was not embarrassed that I had stolen the thing—Holmes had made it abundantly clear that such was his wish. No, I was merely ashamed to be wearing such a monstrosity; horrified by the feel of the ever-warming earwax of Holmes’s horrid trinket against my skin. Though I said nothing, Holmes must have comprehended my expression, for he said, “Good! Now understand, Watson: that thing is looking for a human sacrifice. Moffat is gone. Trevelyan is gone. There’s only one thing for it. Good luck.”
With one hand, Holmes swept open the door. With the other, he thrust me inside. The wave of sickness that washed over me made it impossible even to protest. I heard the door slam shut behind me and turned to face my destroyer. One of the creature’s unspeakable upper limb-things shot towards me and impaled my chest. It passed straight through me. I felt no pain; indeed I felt nothing touch me at all, for the beast and I did not share an equal number of dimensions.
Instead I saw a flash. No, I saw the flash: the fundamental, big, bright start to everything. All the matter that ever was or would be spun across an expanding cosmos in a luminous cloud. Gravity began to work upon it, drawing this sea of chaos into whirling spheres, which grew into stars and planets. Plasmas cooled to burning gas, then liquid and finally stone. Water rained down. Upon one such planet, slimy things began to crawl with legs upon the slimy sea. These creeping forms became ever larger and more distinct—fishes, insects, slugs and snails. They grew legs and traversed the cooling continents as plants sprang up all around. In an instant so small I could barely perceive it, man came. I saw the pyramids rise and the winds begin to corrode them. I saw great armies march, fight and fall. I saw my parents, younger than I had ever known them. I saw myself, but even to me, I was a thing of no value. What a small part I was, of the whole. What an insignificant jot was the span of my existence. It was already over, I realized. If ever I had truly been—if that tiny period of time was enough for anything to be said to exist at all—such a thing as might live in that inconsequential blink of time was of no account. I was gone as soon as I began.
Yet as this revelation struck me—even as I ceased to be—the tentacle that probed my chest happened across the amulet. There was a whoosh—a great rush as all of time fell in upon me, drawn into my chest and up into my body. Suddenly, everything but the room around me was gone. There were no more planets in my mind, no more stars. Something must have been holding me up in the air, for I fell almost from the ceiling down to the floor. My head crashed into the floorboards and my left ear flared with burning pain. I had a moment of panic, for in my time as all things, I had forgotten how to be only one thing. I had no recollection of how to be an animal and no longer knew how to breathe.
Old habits began to recall themselves to me and at last I drew a gulping breath. I curled up on the floor and stayed there, letting the air fall into my chest and out again, re-acclimating myself to the strange sensation of owning arms and legs. Behind me, a door creaked open. A head interrupted the light outside and poked in to intrude itself upon my bedroom realm.
“So…” said Holmes, “how did that go?”
* * *
We stayed in Trevelyan’s room well into the day. As the sun slowly warmed the room around me, I became more and more myself again.
Holmes set Trevelyan’s clockwork tableau before me. Over and again he wound it and I beheld the clown flung through the air to his sure demise, saved at the last second each time by the man on the flying trapeze. I marveled to see the tiny figures. They moved and existed in a way that so resembled free will, yet I knew the action and outcome every time it began. The little clown had no way to prevent his ordeal. The shining brass trapeze artist, no alternative but to save him. Did they believe themselves masters of their own choices? If so, they were deceived in that notion.
I cannot say why, but this was comforting to me.
“You might as well keep it,” Holmes said. “Nobody owns it now.”
Dumb, I nodded. After a time, I asked, “Is it gone? The thing in the box?”
To answer my question, Holmes drew two plain wooden boxes from the folds of his overcoat. One was from the ruins of Trevelyan’s bed, the other from Moffat’s study downstairs. He flipped open both lids and showed me the contents.
“See? Nothing.”
“So… what does that mean?” I asked. “Have we changed the world? Can time no longer waste us?”
“Oh, no!” Holmes scoffed. “The beast still lives upon this plane, Watson. We have merely bound it. Understand that the power of time to wither all is not anything the beast does on purpose, merely a side effect of its existence.”
“Oh.”
“So, it will still kill us all.”
“I see.”
“It just won’t lunge out and kill us all.”
“Well… that’s something, I suppose.”
“Against such a foe, Watson, yes it is. It is indeed. I think I’ll leave the boxes here. Moran must be skulking close by, waiting for the house to fall in and reveal where the dangerous box was hidden. Let him have it. He’ll find it disappointing, I think.”
I rose and wandered about. The rooms were familiar to me, but they seemed a distant memory. Still, I began to recover enough of my senses to recall that I had things I wanted to accomplish, both great and small. I drifted downstairs and finished one of the smaller errands, ere I left.
Holmes was waiting for me upon the bullet-riddled front step.
“Ready to go home, Watson?”
“Holmes, did you know the amulet would save my life?” I asked. “Or did you mean to sacrifice me?”
He smiled. “I knew that either the amulet would save you, or you would be doomed anyway.”
“I hate it.”
“Well, you don’t have to wear it anymore. I am sure that after such a strain it is useless now.”
“Good.” I dug down beneath my clothing and began pulling melted, re-fused chunks of earwax out of my chest hair. A charred and twisted sovereign fell from my shirt. Holmes swept it up and regarded it with a jolly smile. The chain I kept. I prize it still.
Holmes waited patiently as I divested myself of the ruins of his gift. After a time, I said, “Oh! Holmes, I got a present for you.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Here.”
In his hand, I deposited a pair of platinum cufflinks, emblazoned with Holmes’s initials in 24-carat gold.
“Wonderful, Watson! Wonderful! You shouldn’t have,” he proclaimed, tracing the W and H with his fingertip.
Though he had the means, Holmes was not in the habit of purchasing luxuries for himself. Still, he could appreciate fine things when they were presented to him. He seemed to like the cufflinks; I often saw him wearing them and occasionally smiling at them.
We stepped into the street and directed our steps homewards, to Baker Street. I don’t know if it ever occurred to him to wonder what I had been doing in the house that day, while he waited on the front step. I laugh to think that, in all the time we spent together, he probably never realized how Henry Moffat’s fine platinum cufflinks would appear if one wore them upside down.