From the notebooks of John H. Watson, M.D.
During the many years in which I served as both a friend and chronicler of Sherlock Holmes, there were but a rarefied handful of occasions upon which I witnessed that cold logician rendered speechless or flustered by the unexpected outcome of a case. Irene Adler evoked one such response, and the events that I have come to consider as “The Case of the Night Crawler” elicited yet another. It is due in part to the sensitivities of my friend that I have never published my notes regarding this most singular of adventures, but I record them here for the sake of posterity and completeness. I am, if nothing else, a thorough man, and it would not do to allow such a startling series of incidents to go entirely unrecorded.
So, here, in this worn leather journal, where perhaps my words will go forever unread, I shall set it down. I am old now, and I have little better to do with my time but to reflect upon the more adventurous days of my past.
The biggest irony of all, of course, is that Holmes himself had very little to do with the unravelling of the case. Indeed, he resoundingly turned his nose up at the opportunity to involve himself in such “coarse, ridiculous matters,” as I remember so well that he put it, plucking violently at his violin strings as if to underline the significance of his words. His dismissive attitude was, in this rare instance, a cause for his later embarrassment, as it would transpire that the matter in question was quite as far from ridiculous as one might ever imagine. Not that Holmes was ever one to learn from such mistakes.
The aforementioned events marked also my first encounter with that remarkable individual Sir Maurice Newbury and his most astonishing associate, Miss Veronica Hobbes. It was not, much to my regret, the beginning of a long-lasting friendship, but Newbury and I nevertheless identified a mutual respect, and there would follow a number of other occasions upon which we would throw our hats in the same ring—most notable amongst them that dreadful matter of the Kaiser’s unhinged spiritualist during the early days of the war.
Holmes, of course, had quite a different opinion of Newbury, but I suppose that was only to be expected; although without equal in his field, Holmes was not above a modicum of professional rivalry if he felt his reputation—or more truthfully, his pride—was at risk. His attitude towards Newbury would change over time, and I believe by the end, following the resolution of that matter in 1915 and the destruction of the spectrograph generator, he might even have granted Newbury the respect he deserved. War does that to a man, I’ve found. It teaches him to work alongside those he might otherwise have considered, if not enemies, perhaps the unlikeliest of allies.
It was during that bitterly cold autumn of 1902, early in the season, when the leaves were first beginning to turn and the days were growing noticeably shorter, that the seeds of the affair were sown. My friend and fellow medical practitioner, Peter Brownlow, had called on me unexpectedly at my club. It was late in the evening and I’d been enjoying a solitary brandy by the fire when the poor chap practically collapsed into the chair opposite me, his face ashen. He generally suffered from a pale complexion and maintained a rake-thin physique, a condition he claimed was a result of a stomach disorder but which I attributed more to vanity than any inability to digest his food. Nevertheless, he had a good heart and was a fine doctor, but on that blustery September afternoon he had about him the look of a man who’d seen a ghost.
“Whatever is the matter with you, dear chap?” I said, leaning forward in concern and passing him my brandy. “Here, drink this.”
Brownlow nodded, grabbed gratefully at the glass and choked it down in one long gulp. I could see his hand was trembling as he placed the glass on the side table beside his chair.
“Now, tell me what has perturbed you so.”
Brownlow took a deep breath. “I barely know how to give voice to it, John. I’m sure you’ll think me quite insane.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that,” I said, chuckling. “I’ve grown quite used to seeing the impossible rendered mundane, and to madmen proved sane. Speak what’s on your mind.”
Brownlow smiled, but there was no humour in it. “I have seen the most terrible thing, John. A creature... a beast...” He held his hand to his mouth for a moment, unsure how to go on.
I frowned. “A beast?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s the only word for it. A beast of the most diabolical appearance, as if it had dragged itself from the very depths of Hades itself.” He turned, staring into the grate at the glowing embers of the fire, but I could tell that he was seeing something else.
“Go on,” I prompted.
He closed his eyes, as if trying to blink away the after-image of whatever it was he was attempting to describe. “It had a fat, bulbous body, about the size of a hackney cab, and it pulled itself along on eight thick, tentacle-like limbs that wriggled beneath it like those of an octopus. The sound of its passing was like the screeching of a thousand tormented souls. It was devilish, John. The most horrendous thing I have ever seen.”
“And where was this, man? Where did you see this beast?” I watched Brownlow shudder at the very thought of this terrible sight to which he claimed to have borne witness. My first thought was that he must have been drunk or otherwise inebriated, but Brownlow had never been much of a drinker, and he was clearly terrified. Whatever the truth of the matter—and I was sure it could not be that he had genuinely encountered such a bizarre specimen—Brownlow believed what he was saying.
“Cheyne Walk,” he said, “about an hour ago. The darn thing pulled itself out of the Thames right before me and slithered off down the street.”
Well, I admit at this point I was close to rolling my eyes in disbelief, but Brownlow had such a desperate air about him, and I was sure there must have been more to his story.
“I came directly here. It was the closest place to hand. I couldn’t think what else to do. And then I saw you sitting here and knew you’d know what to do.”
In truth, I had no real notion of what to do with such a remarkable tale. Surely the police would have only sniggered at Brownlow’s story and sent him on his way, putting it down to nothing but an hallucination or the fabrication of an unhinged mind. But Holmes aside, Brownlow was one of the most rational men I knew, and there was no reason he should lie.
“Well, first of all, I think you need another stiff drink for your nerves. I’ll fetch you another brandy.” He nodded enthusiastically at this. “Beyond that, I want you to set it out for me again, this time recalling as much of the detail as you can muster.” I’d seen Holmes extract information from enough of his potential clients to know that this was the best way to begin unpicking Brownlow’s story. Perhaps he might give something away, some little detail he had missed the first time around that might help to shed light on what had truly occurred. I admit, my interest had been piqued, and I felt pity for the chap, who had clearly had the wits scared out of him.
So it was that Brownlow downed another large brandy and set about relating his tale once again, this time in exquisite detail. I must admit the credibility of his words grew somewhat in the retelling, but there was nothing in it that could help me to discern what might truly have occurred. I had seen some things in my time, particularly since returning from Afghanistan and falling in with Holmes, but this tall tale seemed to test the bounds of even my well-trod credulity.
It was with a heavy heart that I sent Brownlow home to his bachelor’s apartment that night, unable to offer him any real comfort, other than a prescription for a mild sedative should he find it necessary in order to sleep. I promised the man I would consider his story, and that I would contact him directly should I happen upon any possible hint of an explanation. There was little else to be done, and so I made haste to my bed, my mind restless with concern.
* * *
The next morning I approached breakfast with a mind to refer Brownlow to a nerve specialist I’d worked with on occasion. Having slept on the matter I was now convinced that his ungodly vision could have only been the result of an hallucination, and decided that, if it hadn’t been brought about by drink or other mind-altering substances, it was most likely an expression of nervous exhaustion. Brownlow had always had a tendency to throw himself into his work, body and soul. Aside from his private, paying customers, I’d known him to spend hours in aid of the poor, administering free treatment to those wretches who lined the alleyways of the slums, or huddled in their masses beneath the bridges that crisscrossed the banks of the Thames. Perhaps he’d been overdoing it, and he simply needed some rest. Or perhaps he’d succumbed to a mild fever.
My theories were soon dispelled, however, as I set about hungrily tucking into my bacon and eggs. It is my habit to take the morning papers with my breakfast, and upon folding back the covers of The Times, I fixed upon a small report on the bottom of the second page. The headline read: EYEWITNESSES REPORT SIGHTINGS OF STRANGE BEAST.
My first thought was that Brownlow had gone to the papers with his story, but I quickly dismissed the notion. The previous night he’d been in no fit state to talk to anyone, and I’d seen him into the back of a cab myself.
I scanned the article quickly, and was surprised to see that there were, in fact, a number of reports that seemed not only to corroborate Brownlow’s story, but also to expand somewhat upon it. It appeared the previous evening had been the third in a row during which sightings of this bizarre creature had been reported. Furthermore, one of the reports stated that the woman in question —a Mrs Coulthard of Brixton—had seen the beast give chase to a group of young vagabonds who had been generally up to no good, throwing rocks at nearby boats and jeering at passers-by. Many of the reports claimed, just as Brownlow had, that the creature had dragged itself out of the Thames, and what’s more, that it had been seen returning to the water upon completion of its nightly sojourn.
I leaned back in my chair, sipping at my coffee and staring at the remnants of my breakfast in astonishment. So Brownlow had been telling the truth. He had seen something down by the river. And if the veracity of his story was no longer in question, then the beast was something truly diabolical. Could it have been some sort of throwback to the prehistoric past? Or some previously undocumented variety of gargantuan squid?
I resolved to visit Holmes directly. There was a mystery here, and people were potentially in grave danger. If only I could persuade him to apply his attention to the matter, there was hope that we could uncover precisely what was going on.
The drive to Baker Street passed in a blur. All the while, as the cab bounced and rattled over the cobbled roads, I couldn’t help imagining the scene that must have confronted Brownlow and those others, the sight of that hulking beast dragging itself out of the inky black water. It would surely have been terrifying to behold.
I resolved then and there that I would find a way to look upon this creature with my own eyes. Only then could I be utterly sure of its existence and the nature of any threat it represented.
Upon my arrival at Baker Street I found Holmes in one of his peculiar, erratic moods. He was pacing back and forth before the fireplace, somewhat manically, pulling at his violin strings as if trying to wring some meaning out of the random, screeching sounds the instrument was making. It was icy cold in there, yet the fireplace remained untended to, heaped with ash and charred logs. If Holmes felt the chill he did not show it.
He had his back to me. I coughed politely from the doorway, noting with alarm that my breath actually fogged in the air before my face.
“Yes, yes, Watson. Do come in and stop loitering in the hallway. And since you’re here, see about building up this fire, will you? It’s perishing in here.”
Shaking my head in dismay, but deciding it would do neither of us any good to take umbrage, I set about clearing the grate.
“I expect you’re here about those wild reports in the newspapers this morning,” he said, strolling over to the window and peering out at the busy street below. He gave a sharp twang on another violin string, and I winced at the sound.
“I won’t bother to ask how you managed to discern that, Holmes,” I said, sighing as a plume of soot settled on my shirt cuff and then smeared as I attempted to brush it away. “Can’t Mrs Hudson do this?” I said, grumpily.
“Mrs Hudson has gone out to the market,” he replied, turning back from the window to look at me.
“She was here a moment ago,” I said, triumphantly. “She opened the door and let me in.”
Holmes held up a single index finger to indicate the need for silence. I watched him for a moment, counting beneath my breath as I begged the gods to grant me patience. Downstairs, I heard the exterior door slam shut with a bang. “There!” he exclaimed with a beaming smile. “Off to the market.”
I sighed and continued piling logs onto the fire. “Well, of course you’re right.”
“About Mrs Hudson?”
“About the reason I’m here. This supposed beast. I had the unhappy task of comforting a friend last night who claimed to have seen it. The poor man was terrified.”
“Hmmm,” said Holmes, resuming his pacing.
I waited for his response until it was evident that I’d already had the entirety of it. “Well?”
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something, Watson?” he said, a little unkindly.
I glowered at him. “Really, Holmes! I thought you would be glad of the case. I mean, you’ve been holed up in here for weeks with nothing to occupy your mind. And poor Brownlow—”
“There’s nothing in it, Watson. Some idle hoaxer looking to sell his story. Nothing more. I have no interest in such coarse, ridiculous matters.” He plucked violently at three strings in succession. “Besides,” he continued, his tone softening, “I find myself in the midst of a rather sensitive affair. Mycroft has gone and lost his favourite spy, a government scientist by the name of Mr Xavier Gray. He’s quite frantic about the whole matter, and he’s prevailing on me to assist him in the search for the missing man.”
“Well, what are you doing here?” I asked. Sometimes I found it very difficult to fathom the motives of my dear friend.
“Thinking,” he replied, as if that explained everything. He reached for the bow that he’d balanced precariously on the arm of a chair and began chopping furiously at the violin, emitting a long, cacophonous screech. I rose from where I’d been crouching by the fire and dusted off my hands. Clearly, I was unlikely to gain anything further from Holmes. As I crossed the room, heading towards the door, the violin stopped abruptly behind me and I turned to see Holmes regarding me, a curious expression on his face. “Send your friend to see a man named Maurice Newbury, of 10 Cleveland Avenue, Chelsea. I understand he’s an ‘expert’ in matters such as these.” He spoke the man’s name with such disdain that he clearly thought him to be no such thing.
“Very well,” I said, curtly. “I hope you find your missing spy.” But Holmes had already started up again with his violin.
* * *
As I clambered into a hansom outside number 221b, frustrated by Holmes’ dismissive attitude, I made the sudden, snap decision to pay a visit to this Newbury character myself. I am not typically given to such rash acts, but I remained intent on discovering the truth about the infernal beast that had so terrified my friend. Brownlow, meek as he was, would never call on Newbury of his own account, no matter how I pressed him. I was sure that even now he would be reconciling himself to what had occurred, finding a way to accommodate the bizarre encounter into his own, conservative view of the world. He would rationalise it and carry on, returning to the distractions of his patients and his busy life. My interest, however, had been piqued and I was not prepared to allow the matter to rest without explanation.
I must admit that I was also keen to prove Holmes wrong. I realise now how ridiculous that sounds, how petty, but his attitude had galled me and I was anxious to prove to my friend that the matter was not beneath his attention. As things were to transpire, I would be more successful on that count than I could have possibly imagined.
The drive to Chelsea was brisk, and I passed it by staring out of the window, watching the streets flicker by in rapid, stuttering succession. Almost before I knew it we had arrived at Cleveland Avenue. I paid the driver and watched as the cab clattered away down the street, the horse’s breaths leaving steaming clouds in the frigid air.
Number 10 was an unassuming terraced house, fronted by a small rose garden that in turn was flanked by a black iron railing. A short path terminated in three large stone steps and a door painted in a bright, pillar-box red. I approached with some hesitation, feeling a little awkward now after my somewhat hasty retreat from Baker Street. What would I say to this Newbury fellow? I was there on behalf of a friend who claimed to have seen a monster? Perhaps Holmes had been right. Perhaps it was ridiculous. But there I was, on the doorstep, and I’d never been a man to shy away from a challenge. I rapped firmly with the doorknocker.
A few moments later I heard footsteps rapping on floorboards from within, and then the door swung open and a pale, handsome face peered out at me. The man was dressed in a smart black suit and had an expectant look on his face. “May I help you?” he said, in warm, velvet tones.
“Mr Maurice Newbury?” I replied. “I was told I might find him at this address?”
The man gave a disapproving frown. “Sir Maurice is not receiving visitors at present, I’m afraid.”
Holmes! He might have saved me that embarrassment if he’d wanted to. “Indeed,” I replied, as graciously as I could muster. “I wonder if I might leave a card. My name is John Watson and I’m here on a rather urgent matter. I would speak with him as soon as convenient. He comes very highly recommended.”
The man—whom I now realised was most likely Newbury’s valet—raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Dr John Watson? The writer?”
I smiled at this unexpected recognition. “Quite so.”
The valet grinned. I had to admit, I was warming to the fellow. “Well, Dr Watson, I think you’d better come in. I’m sure Sir Maurice will be anxious to meet you when he discovers the nature of his caller.” He coughed nervously as he closed the door behind me and took my hat and coat. “If you’d like to follow me?”
He led me along the hallway until we reached a panelled door. I could hear voices from inside, two of them, belonging to a man and a woman and talking in the most animated of tones. The valet rapped loudly on the door and stepped inside. I waited in the hallway until I knew I would be welcome.
“You have a visitor, Sir.”
When it came the man’s reply was firm, but not unkind. “I thought I’d explained, Scarbright, that I wished to receive no callers today? I have an urgent matter I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied the valet, a little sheepishly. “Only, it’s Dr John Watson, Sir.”
“Dr Watson?” said Newbury, as if attempting to recall the significance of my name. “Ah, yes, the writer chap. You’re a follower of his work, aren’t you, Scarbright?”
“Indeed, Sir,” said the valet, and I couldn’t suppress a little smile as I heard the crack of embarrassment in his voice. “He claims to have a rather urgent matter to discuss with you, Sir.”
Newbury gave a sigh of resignation. “Very well, Scarbright. You’d better send him in.”
The valet stepped back and held the door open to allow me to pass. I offered him a brief smile of gratitude as I passed over the threshold into what I took to be the drawing room. In fact, it was much like the room in Baker Street from which I’d recently departed, only decorated with a more esoteric flair. Where Holmes might have had a stack of letters on the mantelpiece, speared by a knife, Newbury had the bleached skull of a cat. Listing stacks of leather-bound books formed irregular sentries around the edges of the room, and two high-backed Chesterfields had been placed before a raging fire. Both were occupied, the one on the left by the man I took to be Sir Maurice Newbury, and the other by a beautiful young woman who smiled warmly at me as I met her gaze.
Newbury was up and out of his seat before I’d crossed the threshold, welcoming me with a firm handshake and beckoning me to take a seat on the low-backed sofa that filled much of the centre of the room. He was a wiry-looking fellow of about forty, and was dressed in an ill-fitting black suit that appeared to have been tailored for a slightly larger man. Either that, or he had recently lost weight. He was ruggedly handsome, with fierce, olive-green eyes and raven-black hair swept back from his forehead. He had dark rings around his eyes and a sallow complexion, and I saw in him immediately the hallmarks of an opium eater: perhaps not the most auspicious of beginnings for our acquaintance. Nevertheless, I’d made it that far and I was determined to see it out.
“You are very welcome, Dr Watson,” said Newbury, genially. “I, as you might have gathered, am Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my associate Miss Veronica Hobbes.”
I took the young woman’s hand and kissed it briefly, before accepting Newbury’s offer of a seat. Miss Hobbes was stunningly beautiful, with dark brown hair tied up in a neat chignon. She was wearing dark grey culottes and a matching jacket—the picture of modern womanhood.
“Would you care for a drink, Doctor?” said Newbury, indicating the well-stocked sideboard with a wave of his hand. “A brandy, perhaps?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. Most kind, but I’ll abstain.”
Newbury returned to his seat by the fire, angling his body towards me. “So, how may I be of assistance, Dr Watson? I presume it’s not related to one of your journalistic endeavours?”
“Indeed not,” I replied, gravely, “I’m here on behalf of an associate of mine, a man named Brownlow. It’s connected with that business about the supposed beast that’s been seen crawling out of the river. Last night Brownlow had an encounter with the thing, and it rather left him terrified out of his wits. It was... suggested to me that you might be able to help shed some light?”
The corner of Newbury’s mouth twitched with the stirrings of a wry smile. “And this was not a matter that Mr Holmes was able to assist you with?”
“Holmes is busy,” I said, a little defensively. “And besides, it was Holmes who recommended I call. He said you were considered rather an expert in matters such as these.”
“I’m sure he did,” said Newbury, knowingly.
“Tell us, Dr Watson—” Miss Hobbes interjected, offering Newbury a mildly disapproving look “—did Mr Brownlow give you any indication as to when and where this sighting occurred?” In truth, I couldn’t blame the man for enjoying the moment. It was fair to imagine that Holmes himself would have done precisely the same. In fact, knowing him as I did, I’m convinced he would have taken the time to truly relish the irony of the situation.
I smiled at Miss Hobbes in gratitude for the timeliness of her interruption. “Cheyne Walk,” I replied. “Close to eleven o’clock yesterday evening. Following the incident he came directly to my club, where he is also a member, and sought me out for my assistance.”
Newbury looked thoughtful. “And did he offer a description of the beast?”
I hesitated for a moment as I considered the sheer ludicrousness of what I was about to relate. I felt ridiculous now for coming here and adding weight and validity to this story. How could it be real? Had I simply overreacted to Holmes’ rebuttal?
Well, whatever the case, it was too late to back out. “Brownlow described it as having a large, bulbous body about the size of a hansom cab, and eight thick limbs like tentacles upon which it slithered in the manner of an octopus. Now, I’m a little unsure as to the veracity of my friend’s description, but given the accounts in the newspapers this morning... well, you understand, I had to come. The poor man thinks he’s going insane. He might yet be right.”
Newbury glanced at Miss Hobbes. “Oh, I assure you, Dr Watson, that your friend is quite sane. His report is the same in every respect as the others. This ‘beast’, whatever it is, is quite real.”
“Sir Maurice’s clerk, Mrs Coulthard, was another of the witnesses,” continued Miss Hobbes, smiling reassuringly. “You find us in the midst of a discussion over how best to approach the situation.”
“Have you any thought yet as to what it might be? Some sort of primordial beast, woken after years of hibernation? The result of an experiment? A previously undiscovered species brought back from the colonies?” I sighed. “The mind boggles...”
I realise now that these suggestions may appear somewhat ignorant to a reader aware of the facts, but at the time I could think of no other reasonable explanation for what this beast might have been. As Holmes was fond of saying, “Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” If that axiom was indeed correct—and Newbury, also, was right in his assertion that the beast was real—then I could see no other credible explanation.
“I think it would be wrong for us to jump to any conclusions at this stage, Doctor. At least before we’ve had chance to lay eyes upon the beast ourselves.” Newbury glanced at his companion before continuing. “Miss Hobbes and I had only just resolved to take a stroll along Cheyne Walk this very evening. I’m of a mind to catch a glimpse of this creature myself. You’d be more than welcome to accompany us, if you so wished?”
“Well, it certainly makes sense to pool our resources,” I said. “And I also tend to favour the evidence of my own eyes. I’d be delighted to join you, Sir Maurice.” I admit to feeling a certain sense of relief at this rather unexpected development. I couldn’t help but wonder what Holmes would make of it all.
“In that case, Doctor, I shall encourage you to make haste to your home and prepare for a cold evening by the river. Warm clothes, stout boots and a firearm would be advisable. We can meet here for an early dinner at, say, six o’clock, and then be on our way.” Newbury smiled, and stood to accompany me to the door.
“Thank you, Sir Maurice,” I said, taking him by the hand. “And good afternoon, Miss Hobbes.”
“Until this evening, Dr Watson,” she replied brightly.
It wasn’t until I’d already left the house on Cleveland Avenue that it occurred to me that baiting monsters by the river might have been a rather unsuitable pursuit for a lady. Nevertheless, as I was soon to discover, Miss Veronica Hobbes was most definitely a woman who knew how to look after herself.
* * *
So it was that, a few hours later, my belly full of the most excellent beef Wellington, I found myself on the banks of the Thames, shivering beneath my heavy woollen overcoat as Newbury, Miss Hobbes and I took up our positions along Cheyne Walk.
I’d found myself warming to Newbury as we’d talked over dinner, discussing the nature of his work—or rather, as much of it as he was able to discuss, given the secrecy of his role. It transpired he worked in some obscure capacity for the Crown, on one hand aiding Scotland Yard in their ever-constant battle against the criminal elements of the capital, and on the other taking direction from Buckingham Palace itself, performing the role of a state spy and expert in the occult.
That was about as much as I could glean about the man himself, but he talked openly about his catalogue of bizarre experiences, including his encounters with plague-ridden Revenants in the slums; his investigation into the wreckage of The Lady Armitage—a terrible airship crash from the previous summer that I remembered well; his run-in with the Chinese crime lord Meng Li and other, increasingly surprising stories. He was a master at weaving a good yarn, and he held my attention throughout the three delicious courses of our meal. Miss Hobbes, herself a player in many of these exceptional tales, watched Newbury as he related these accounts of their adventures with no small measure of affection.
I came away from that dinner sure that, should Holmes ever decide to hang up his hat, I should readily have another subject upon which to focus my literary endeavours. Moreover, I decided that, despite Holmes’ obvious disdain for the man’s reputation, if the two of them were to actually meet they would surely find each other’s company most invigorating.
I reflected on this as I stood in the shadow of Thomas Carlyle—or rather his memorial statue—at one end of the street, looking out over the Chelsea Embankment. We’d spread out along this stretch of the river, about a hundred yards apart. Miss Hobbes—wrapped in a dark, grey overcoat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat—was between Newbury and I, who, from this distance, I could just make out in the misty evening as a dark silhouette.
This, I understood from Newbury, was the location cited in the majority of the reports, including those of Brownlow and Newbury’s clerk, Mrs Coulthard. Most claimed to have seen the creature scale the wall of the embankment and drag itself over the stone lip, pulling itself onto land and slithering off into the alleyways between the serried rows of terraced houses. One report, however, was of the creature also returning to the river by the same means, in or about the same spot. It seemed logical then that we should make our observation from this point, and we’d come prepared for a long wait.
Even so, my limbs were beginning to grow weary with the cold. It was a damp, miserable night, and the thick autumnal mist dulled even the glow of the street lamps. It seemed to wreath everything in its embrace, clinging to the trees and the buildings, curling its tendrils across the choppy surface of the Thames. There were but a few people abroad that night, passing along the embankment with their heads stooped low against the inclement weather. They appeared to me like ghostly shapes emerging from the mist, passing from one realm into another as they drifted along beside the river.
We must have waited there for hours without passing a word between us. I checked my timepiece at around eleven o’clock, stamping my feet in an attempt to warm my weary, frozen limbs. I was just about to hail Newbury in order to call it a night when I received my first indication that something was afoot.
I became aware of a low, mechanical sound coming from the river, not unlike the clanking of heavy iron chains being dragged through a winching mechanism. At first I imagined it to be a ship drawing anchor, but I could see no masts on the water. I glanced at Newbury and Miss Hobbes, who had evidentially both heard the same noise and had abandoned their posts to approach the embankment. I started after them, wondering if at last we were about to reap some reward from our long vigil.
My hopes were confirmed a moment later when I saw Miss Hobbes start and fall back to the cover of the trees. I ran to her side in time to see two thick probosces, each about the girth of a man’s torso and covered in scores of tiny suckers like those of an octopus, come probing over the stone lip of the embankment. They squirmed and shifted as if feeling for the best possible hold, and then appeared to latch on to the uneven surface, providing purchase for the beast to haul itself out of the water.
It was difficult to ascertain much in the way of detail, due to the gloom and the pervasive mist, but I had already seen enough to set a cold lump of dread in the pit of my stomach. The sheer size of the thing to which such tentacles belonged... I could only stand there beside Miss Hobbes, looking on in abject fear as the beast slowly dragged itself onto land before us.
Newbury had continued to approach the water’s edge but was now keeping himself at a safe distance, obviously keen not to find himself caught by one of the thrashing tendrils as the creature heaved itself further and further out of the Thames. The screeching noise continued, and I now realised that what I’d at first considered to be a mechanical noise must in fact have been the sound of the creature itself. I shuddered at the thought of such an infernal beast.
Another tentacle whipped over the side of the embankment, followed closely by a fourth. I had a sense, then, of the immensity of the thing, and as its body finally hove into view I had to fight the urge to run. Brownlow had been correct in his description of the creature and at that point I understood what had so disturbed him about his encounter with the creature the previous night. It was a thing to inspire madness. Simply to look upon it was to question one’s own sanity.
As I watched, the monster slipped its bulk over the top of the embankment wall and raised itself up to its full height—at least twenty feet tall—twisting and turning as if trying to decide which direction it should now take. I could see very little of it, other than the silhouette of its mass and the gleam of its wet carapace, catching and reflecting what thin shafts of moonlight fell on it from above.
It appeared to settle on a course a moment later, shuffling off in the direction of the nearest side street. It had a curious ambulatory technique, part way between a crawl and a slither, and I couldn’t help thinking, despite everything, that the beast was far more suited to water than to land. Nevertheless, it moved with a not inconsiderable momentum, dragging itself along with all the noise of Hades, screeching and grinding as its multiple limbs struck again and again upon the flagstones.
“After it!” bellowed Newbury, his words rousing me from my temporary stupor. I did as he said, charging after it as fast as my numb, tired legs would carry me.
The beast had dragged itself into a narrow opening between two rows of houses, leading to a dark, cobbled alleyway beyond. Now its limbs were splayed around it, grasping at the sides of the buildings, pulling chunks out of the brickwork as it swiftly propelled itself along.
“Stand aside!” called Newbury, coming up behind me at a run. I dived quickly to one side as Miss Hobbes ducked to the other, and Newbury lurched to a stop, hurling something high into the air in the direction of the creature.
There was a sudden explosion of bright, white light as the flare—for that was what Newbury had thrown—hissed to life, rendering the entire scene in a series of brilliant, stuttering flashes as it spun wildly through the air.
I fell back, awestruck, as I caught my first proper glimpse of the creature, and realised with shock that it wasn’t in fact a creature at all. What had at first appeared as some kind of gargantuan, primitive animal was, in the harsh brilliance of the flare, shown to be nothing more than a huge mechanical construct. Its metallic limbs, now clearly a series of cleverly segmented iron coils, glinted with reflected light as they writhed and twisted, scrabbling at the walls. Its carapace was dull and black, still dripping with river water, and to my surprise I saw the startled face of a man inside, peering out through the thick glass of a riveted porthole. I realised it was some sort of amphibious vehicle, and that the man inside was most likely the pilot. Judging by the appearance of it, I guessed it was a submersible—but a remarkable submersible of the like I had never seen, with the ability to clamber out of the water and scale sheer walls. I wondered at who might have even conceived of such a thing.
The flare struck the back of the machine’s carapace and rebounded, tumbling over and over until it struck the cobbles a few feet away and continued to fizz and sputter in the gutter.
I was still standing in awe of the machine when one of the tentacles whipped out and struck Newbury full in the chest, lifting him clean off his feet and sending him sprawling to the ground with a dull thud. It occurred to me later that the pilot had probably assumed he was under attack, and that the flare had been some sort of weapon or explosive device. At the time, however, I was quite unprepared for what happened next.
Miss Hobbes emitted a shrill cry of alarm, but rather than rush to Newbury’s aid, she grabbed for a large stone from a nearby rockery and pitched it straight at the strange vehicle. It boomed as it struck the metal hull, causing the pilot’s pod to rock back and forth upon the writhing cradle of its legs. In response, the machine reared up, twisting around and releasing its hold on the two buildings. One of its tentacles flicked out and caught Miss Hobbes around the waist, snaking around her and hoisting her high into the air. She looked like a fragile doll in its grip as it swung her around and thrust her, hard, against the nearest wall. She howled pain and frustration, clutching furiously at the iron tentacle in an attempt to prise herself free.
Incensed, I reached for my service revolver, which I’d secreted in the pocket of my overcoat before setting out from home. It felt cold but reassuring in my fist as I raised my arms, searching for a clear shot in the mist-ridden gloom.
Miss Hobbes gave a sharp cry of pain as she was slammed once more against the wall, lolling in the machine’s terrible iron grip. Behind me, Newbury was silent and still where he lay on the pavement, unconscious or dead.
I cocked the hammer and took my aim, hoping beyond hope that my bullet would not ricochet and further injure Miss Hobbes. I could think of no other course of action, however; to get entangled in the machine’s writhing limbs would mean certain death for us all. I was doubtful my bullets would puncture the vehicle’s thick armour plating, but if I could create a distraction I thought I might be able to lure it away from Miss Hobbes.
By this time I was convinced that the people in the neighbouring houses must have raised the alarm, and I expected the police to appear on the scene at any moment. I hoped for it, concerned that what little I might be able to do would still not be enough.
I squeezed the trigger and braced myself as the weapon discharged. The report was like a thunderclap that echoed off the nearby buildings. I heard the bullet ping as it struck the belly of the mechanical beast, and I ducked involuntarily in case it rebounded in my direction.
Just as I’d hoped, the shot seemed to startle the pilot enough to draw his attention. I squeezed off another bullet, then a third in quick succession. I was pleased to hear the satisfying splinter of glass, suggesting I’d managed to unwittingly strike one of the portholes.
The machine twisted around, releasing its stranglehold on Miss Hobbes and allowing her to slump heavily to the ground. With a terrible scraping of metal against stone, the vehicle lurched out of the mouth of the alleyway towards me. I stumbled back, trying desperately to keep myself out of reach of the probing limbs that thrashed across the cobbles before it. I stumbled then, catching my heel on a loose paving stone and tumbling backwards, jarring my elbow and sending my revolver skittering across the street.
Panicked, I tried to roll out of the way of the oncoming machine, but in my heart I knew it was over. The mechanical beast would crush me utterly beneath its massive bulk.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and felt a moment of strange, lucid calm as I waited for it to strike. At least I’d managed to save Miss Hobbes.
But the blow never came. To my amazement the vehicle veered away at the last moment, lurching back the way it had come, towards the river. I leapt to my feet, reclaiming my revolver and staggering after it, but within moments it had slithered over the edge of the embankment, dropping into the water with an almighty splash. I ran to the edge but could see nothing but a frothy ring of bubbles upon the surface.
I rushed back to where Miss Hobbes was struggling to pull herself upright in the mouth of the alley. “Are you hurt?” I asked, skipping the pleasantries.
She shook her head, gasping for breath. “No, not seriously. Please... Maurice.” She pointed to the prone form of Newbury. He hadn’t moved since he’d been thrown across the street by the beast. I went to his side.
He was still breathing. I checked him hurriedly for broken limbs. Miraculously, he appeared to be mostly unhurt. He’d have a few aches and bruises when he came round, perhaps even a mild concussion, but he’d sustained no serious injuries.
I realised Miss Hobbes was standing beside me and stood back to allow her room. She knelt on the ground beside him and cupped his face in her hands. “Maurice?” And then more firmly, “Maurice?”
Newbury stirred, groaning. His eyes flickered open, and he looked up at us, confused. “Has it gone?”
“Yes, it’s gone,” I said, with a heavy sigh. “Although we’re lucky to be alive. I fear it was a rather abortive encounter.”
Newbury grinned as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, dusting himself down. “On the contrary, Dr Watson. Now we know what it is. Tomorrow we’ll be able to catch it.”
I frowned. “Forgive me, Sir Maurice, but how exactly do you propose to capture a mechanical beast of that size?”
Newbury laughed and took Miss Hobbes’s proffered hand in order to pull himself to his feet. “With an equally big net,” he replied, clapping me boldly on the shoulder. He glanced at Miss Hobbes. “You look shaken, Miss Hobbes. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she replied, dabbing with a handkerchief at a minor cut on her temple. Her hair had shaken loose and she was flushed. I recall thinking at the time, however, that it was not so much the encounter with the submersible that had shaken her, but her fear for Newbury. “Yes, I’m quite well.”
Newbury nodded, but it was clear he was not entirely satisfied with her answer. “Now, I’m sure we could all do with a stiff brandy. Let’s repair to Cleveland Avenue where we can rest, tend our wounds, and discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”
I found myself nodding and falling into step. I was keen to put some distance between our little band and the scene of the disturbance, and to find somewhere warm to rest my weary bones. I also must admit that, despite the danger, I had found myself quite swept up in the adventure and mystery of it all. There were questions to be answered. Who had that man been inside the strange submersible, staring out at me with such a pale, haunted expression? What was the purpose of the vehicle, and why had the pilot spared my life at the last moment?
I knew I’d be unable to rest until I had the answers to those questions. And besides, I was anxious to know more of these remarkable people with whom I had found myself working. Both Newbury and Miss Hobbes had shown remarkable courage in the face of terrible danger. Not only that, but they had remained entirely unperturbed by the appearance of the bizarre machine, as if they’d seen its like a hundred times before. I was intrigued to know how they planned to tackle the machine the following day, and I knew that whatever scheme was outlined to me that night, I would be unable to resist playing a role.
* * *
The following day I woke to a spasming muscle in my left calf. I felt tired and drained, and my body ached as it hadn’t done for years. Nevertheless, I also felt somewhat invigorated by the recollection of my adventure the prior evening. It seemed to me as if I’d stumbled upon something momentous, and I was anxious to get to the bottom of the matter.
I washed and dressed and worked the muscle in my leg until the cramping eased. I was badly bruised from where I’d fallen, and my elbow was painful to move. I knew it wouldn’t stop me, however. I might have been an old soldier, but I was a soldier still, and I knew how to pick myself up and carry on.
I took a stout breakfast of porridge and fruit, and then set out to call on Brownlow. A short trip on the Underground took me across town, and the brisk walk at the other end did much to clear my head. It was a cold, damp day, and the sky above was an oppressive canopy of grey, brooding and pregnant.
Upon my arrival, Brownlow’s wife—a willowy woman in her late thirties, who wore a permanently startled expression—informed me that her husband was out, and so I trudged the quarter mile to his surgery, where I found him enjoying a momentary respite from his patients. He ushered me into his office and asked the clerk to organise a pot of tea.
It was clear almost immediately that I’d been correct in my assumption that Brownlow would have thrown himself into his work in an effort to dispel his anxiety over the events of two nights previous. He acted as if the encounter had never even occurred, and when I raised the subject he waved me down with a severe frown, indicating that he no longer wished to discuss it. Still, I persisted, and when I began to relate the story of my own encounter with the mechanical beast, he listened quietly, absorbing every detail.
“So I am not, after all, bound for Bedlam,” he said when I’d finished. He did so with a jovial smile, but the relief was plain to see on his face. “Thank you, John.”
“You were never bound for Bedlam, Peter. But I do believe you are guilty of overworking yourself. You should consider allowing yourself a holiday with that pretty wife of yours.”
He smiled at this and poured the tea. “I think, my dear friend, that I should find such a holiday even more stress-inducing than a late-night encounter with a mechanical beast. I cannot abandon my patients.”
I sighed and reached for my teacup.
* * *
It was approaching midday when I left Brownlow to his patients, feeling as if, for once, I’d been able to lift a weight from his shoulders. Newbury had said he’d need time to prepare for the evening’s activities—that he needed to speak with a man named Aldous Renwick—and so, left to my own devices, I decided to head to Baker Street in order to take luncheon with Holmes. I was still rankled with him for his dismissive attitude the previous day, but felt it would not do to let things fester between us. He had, after all, no other friends upon which to prevail if he found himself in need. He was not a man that responded well to prolonged solitude; despite his protestations to the opposite, Holmes needed an audience.
I found him hunched over a leather-bound tome, poring over page after page of arcane diagrams, each of which appeared to depict complex chemical formulas. He was still wearing his ratty old dressing gown and his unlit pipe was clenched between his teeth. Dark rings had developed beneath his hooded eyes, and he appeared gaunt. I guessed he had not been to bed since I had last seen him, let alone the thought that he might have taken a bath or gone for a stroll.
He didn’t look up when Mrs Hudson showed me into the room, but waved for me to take a seat. I shifted a heap of newspapers to the floor in order to do so.
“Well, Holmes!” I said, clutching the arms of the chair and leaning forward, hoping to draw his attention from the manual upon his lap. “Last night’s activities by the river were quite invigorating.”
“Hmmm,” issued Holmes dismissively, still steadfastly refusing to look up from his book.
“I saw it for myself,” I continued, determined that he’d hear me out. “The beast, that is. Turns out it’s a ruddy great machine of some sort, a submersible with legs, containing a pilot. Things looked a bit hairy for a while, on account of the aforementioned pilot attacking Sir Maurice, his associate Miss Hobbes, and me. Had to chase him off with my revolver in the end. You should have seen it, Holmes. Quite remarkable.”
At this, Holmes suddenly slammed his book shut and looked up, turning his familiar hawk-like gaze upon me. “What was that, Watson? I fear I didn’t quite catch what you said.”
I issued a long, familiar sigh. “Nothing, Holmes,” I said, deflated. “It wasn’t important.”
Holmes raised a single eyebrow, and then tossed the book he’d been reading onto the floor. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet by my feet. He turned, stretching out upon the divan like a luxuriating cat, resting his slippered feet upon the arm.
I shook my head in resigned dismay. “How is your investigation going?” I asked. “It looks as if you’ve barely left the drawing room these past two days. Your search for Mr Xavier Gray is not, I presume, proving easy.”
Holmes glanced at me, a thin smile forming upon his lips. “Oh, I’d say the investigation is proceeding quite as planned, Watson. The matter has my full attention.”
I shrugged my shoulders in disbelief. Despite living with Holmes for many long years and chronicling all of his most notable investigations, his methods could still seem opaque to me.
“What time is lunch?” I asked, leaning back in my chair. “I’m famished and in need of one of Mrs Hudson’s hearty broths.” I knew it was a liberty, but I felt I’d earned it after the events of the following evening, and besides, it looked as if Holmes could do with a square meal. Perhaps if I stayed to accompany him, he might actually eat.
“You shall not be disappointed, Watson, if you have it in you to bide your time in that chair for another twenty-six minutes. Beef stew, I believe, with dumplings.”
“Ah, my favourite! Let me guess,” I said, grinning. “You heard Mrs Hudson place the pot upon the stove, and, over recent months— if not years—you’ve worked to memorised her routine from the very sounds she makes as she toils. Now, you’re able to fathom her every movement from the noises issuing from the basement, and predict the dish and the exact moment upon which she will serve luncheon?”
Holmes gave a cheerful guffaw. “Close, Watson. Very close. She came to inform me just a few moments before you arrived—four minutes, in fact—that she would be serving beef stew, with dumplings, in half an hour’s time.”
I could not suppress a chuckle. “Well, I’d better pop down and ask if she wouldn’t mind setting another place,” I said, moving to rise from my chair.
“No need,” said Holmes, waving his pipe, “I attended to that yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” I asked, incredulous. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that I asked Mrs Hudson to make a special effort to prepare a hearty lunch—your favourite stew, in fact—given that you’d be stopping by after what undoubtedly would have proved to have been a harrowing night on Cheyne Walk, grappling with monsters and such like.” He struck a match with a flourish and lit his pipe.
“You astound me, Holmes,” was about as much as I could muster.
He was still laughing when Mrs Hudson called us to the dining room for lunch.
* * *
Following my visit to Baker Street, still a little baffled by Holmes’ unflappable mood and his apparent lack of progress in his case, I dropped in at my club to pass a few hours of quiet reflection. Duly restored, I called home to collect my revolver—carefully cleaned that morning—before setting out to meet Newbury and the others at Cheyne Walk. It was dark by then and the streets already had an abandoned, desolate air; a thick, syrupy fog had descended along with the darkness to smother everything in its damp embrace, sending the pedestrian population scuttling to the warmth of their homes.
We’d agreed to meet at the very same spot at which we’d encountered the strange machine the previous evening. Logic dictated that this was the most likely place for us to lay our trap. We had, while sat around the fire drinking brandy in Newbury’s drawing room, discussed the possibility that the pilot might select a different stretch of the embankment to make his ascent that night, following his surprise confrontation with our little band. Miss Hobbes had argued, however, that there must have been some reason why he should so far have chosen to scale the walls at that particular point. All of the witness reports confirmed such was his habit. We’d decided between us that it would therefore make sense for us to stage our trap in the vicinity.
I was, as yet, unaware of the nature of this trap, and it wasn’t until I rounded the corner of Cheyne Walk and saw the spectacle of it laid out before me that I began to get some sense of what Newbury had planned.
A large, box-shaped construct, about the height of a man and twice as wide again, sat squat at the far end of the street. Black smoke curled from the top of it, forming a dark, oily smudge, and even from ten feet away I could feel the heat of its furnace and smell the acrid stench of burning coal. The noise, too, was horrendous: a whirring, clacking cacophony, the sound of spinning turbines, powered by steam. Thick bunches of copper cable coiled from the belly of the portable generator, and a man with tufts of wild white hair was stretching them out upon the pavement, hands sheathed in thick rubber gloves. The cables sparked and popped with the violent electricity that coursed through them. Newbury stood over his shoulder, overseeing proceedings, and Miss Hobbes stood off to one side, watching the river for any signs of movement.
I coughed politely to announce my presence.
“Dr Watson!” Newbury called cheerfully, looking up for a moment from what the other man was doing. I was startled to see his expression alter suddenly from apparent pleasure to immediate concern. “Now, don’t move an inch!”
I glanced down to see that, in my haste to join the others, I had strayed dangerously close to one of the live cables. My left boot was only a fraction of an inch from brushing against it, and the slightest adjustment in my posture would have seen thousands of volts hungrily discharge into my body
Cautiously, I edged away from the live wire until I was comfortable enough to breathe a sigh of relief. I moved over to join Newbury and the man I took to be Aldous Renwick. “So you’re planning to electrocute it?” I asked, impressed by the machinery they’d been able to erect in just a few hours.
“Quite so, Dr Watson. When that mechanical beast finds itself entangled in these electrified cables, the resulting surge of power should render it temporarily immovable,” replied Newbury.
“Yes, and temporarily deadly to the touch, too,” said the other man, gruffly. He straightened his back, laying the last of the cables into position and turning to face me. “When that happens, the last thing you should do is consider touching the machine itself. If you do, you’ll be blown clear into the river by the resulting shock. They’ll be fishing you out with a net.”
Newbury laughed. “Dr Watson, meet my good friend, Aldous Renwick.”
“A pleasure,” I said, taking his hand.
In truth, I find it difficult to select words with which to adequately describe the appearance of such a unique and eccentric individual. Aldous Renwick defied easy interpretation. As I have already described, his hair was a wild, wispy mess upon his head, and he was unshaven, his lower face covered in wiry grey bristles. His teeth were yellowed from tobacco smoke and his complexion was that of a fifty-year-old, although I placed him closer to forty. He was dressed in an ill-fitting shirt, open at the collar, over which he wore a thick leather smock, such as one a butcher might don while carving meat. Most disturbing of all, however, was the appearance of his left eye, or rather the object embedded in the socket where his left eye should have been.
At first I had assumed that Renwick was wearing a jeweller’s magnifying glass, using it to examine the electrical cables with which he had been busying himself, but upon closer inspection I saw that the lens was, in fact, an integral part of the man’s face. The device had been inserted into the vacant socket where his eyeball had once been: an artificial replacement, much like a glass eye, but significantly more practical. I soon realised that, although it might have appeared a little ungainly to some, the false eye actually enabled Renwick to see.
I studied the device for a moment as it whirred and clicked, turning as if by its own volition. Deep inside, behind the curved glass lens, a tiny pinprick of fierce red light burned inside his skull. I wondered who had constructed and installed such a thing. It was at once remarkable and utterly disconcerting.
Renwick grinned, his face creasing with a thousand lines. “It’s impressive, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“It most certainly is, Mr Renwick. Quite remarkable. Tell me, does it offer the same clarity of vision as the original eye?”
Renwick shrugged. “It suits my needs,” he said, glancing over at Newbury. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.”
Newbury grinned. “Now to wait for the beast.”
We fell back from the edge of the embankment, Miss Hobbes and I posted at opposite ends of the street to ensure that no innocent civilians inadvertently strayed into our trap, just as I had almost done a few moments earlier. The temperature had dropped dramatically, but I’d come prepared for a long wait, and had even thought to bring along a hip flask filled with brandy. I was careful to take only the shortest of warming nips, however, as I did not wish to face the infernal machine again while inebriated.
Hours passed. I began to grow weary. I could see the others growing impatient, also, stamping their feet and pacing up and down, anxious for something to occur. At one point Newbury abandoned his post to join me for a moment. I offered him my hip flask, which he received gratefully, taking a long draw. “Perhaps we scared him off,” he said, studying the oily river, which stretched away into the night like a black ribbon. “Perhaps he isn’t coming back tonight?”
“Perhaps,” I replied, noncommittally.
“Another hour,” he said, quietly. “We’ll give it another hour.” He trudged off to join Aldous Renwick beneath the cover of the trees.
In the event, it was closer to two before we heard the approach of the bestial machine. Just as the previous night, the first warning was a sound like chains being ratcheted through metal eyelets. I watched, wide-eyed, as the first of the tentacular limbs snaked over the top of the embankment wall. This was swiftly followed by another, and then another, and then finally the hulking body of the submersible, water streaming down its sides as it hauled itself from the river.
“Stay back!” called Newbury, and I admit that I had no desire to disobey his order. I could feel the trepidation like a dead weight in my belly. What if the trap didn’t work? What if the machine proved impervious to the electrical storm, or the pilot chose to take an alternative route entirely? It would all have been for nothing. Worse, we might all have found ourselves once more in terrible danger.
Newbury, of course, was not leaving anything to chance. I watched, surprised, as he suddenly produced a hurricane lantern from somewhere beside him, raising the shutters so that bright, yellow light spilled out, encapsulating him in a glowing orb.
He marched forward, towards the electrical cables, waving the lantern above his head as if he were a matador taunting a bull.
“Maurice, be careful,” I heard Miss Hobbes call out in the gloom, and I noted the edge of warning in her tone.
The machine started forward, and then stopped, as if the pilot was uneasy about this unexpected development.
“Over here!” shouted Newbury, waving the lantern back and forth. “Over here!”
The pilot seemed to make up his mind then and the submersible swept forward, its tentacles grinding across the pavement as it charged at Newbury.
With a triumphant cry, Newbury skipped backwards, leading the mechanical beast on.
The sound when the first of the tentacles struck the copper cables was like a thunderclap, a deafening blow that left me reeling with shock. The accompanying flash of sudden, sparking light was almost too much to bear, and I squeezed my eyes shut as it seared my retinas. For a moment everything seemed to take on a dream-like quality as, struck suddenly deaf and blind, I tried to regain my senses.
When I opened my eyes again a few moments later, the sight was utterly breathtaking.
Unable to halt its momentum, the submersible had slid fully onto the copper cables and was now caught in the full brunt of the electrical discharge. Blue lightning flickered over every surface, crawling like snakes across the carapace. The tentacles leapt and danced, thrashing about uncontrollably at the mercy of the current. The entirety of Cheyne Walk was lit up by the deadly—but irrefutably beautiful—storm.
“Halt the current!” I heard Newbury bellow, and Renwick rushed to the generator, forcing the lever into the “off” position. A few moments later, the submersible stuttered, gave a last, violent shudder, and then collapsed in a heap upon the ground.
I withdrew my revolver from my pocket and rushed over to where the others were gathering around the downed machine. Miss Hobbes was first to the site, and seemed about to clamber up onto the body of the machine itself in search of the hatch.
“Stand back, Miss Hobbes,” called Renwick, running over in order to keep her from getting too close to the machine. “There may be some residual charge. Here, allow me.” Renwick approached it gingerly, testing the surface with his gloved hands. He circled the vehicle once before turning to Newbury, a gleam in his single remaining eye. “It’s quite something, isn’t it? Just as you said.”
“Indeed it is,” said Newbury, although it was clear there was something else on his mind. “Aldous, the pilot...?”
Renwick frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question.
“Will he be dead?” I asked, quietly.
Renwick shrugged. “It depends what protection he had inside.” He glanced at each of us in turn. “Only one way to find out,” he said. He reached up and took hold of a small metal wheel that jutted from the lower side of the hull and began twisting it, releasing the seal of the pilot’s hatch. It loosened off a few seconds later with a pneumatic hiss, and the hatch hinged open with a metallic clang. We all waited with bated breath.
There was a low groan from inside the machine, followed by the sound of a man spluttering and coughing. I glanced at Newbury, who raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I suppose we’d better get him out of there, then?”
Together we worked to turn the hull of the vehicle until Newbury was able to reach inside and drag the pilot out onto the street. He was a sorry mess, shaking and spluttering as he propped himself up on one arm, staring up at us with a blank, pale expression. He was wearing a set of dark blue overalls that were covered in a week’s worth of oil and grime, and blood was running freely from one nostril. He wiped at it ineffectually with his sleeve.
I stood over him with my revolver, although in truth it was an unnecessary gesture; there was no fight left in the man, and if he’d tried anything we should easily have been able to restrain him.
“Who are you?” asked Miss Hobbes, her voice more commanding than I’d come to expect from her. She was, if nothing else, a woman of many surprises.
The man gazed up at her, a haunted look in his eyes. “My name is Xavier Gray,” he said.
I almost choked in surprise as I tried to assimilate this unexpected information. “Xavier Gray!” I exclaimed loudly.
“You know this man?” said Newbury.
I shook my head. “Indeed not. But I know a man who wants very much to find him. Mr Gray here is the quarry of none other than Sherlock Holmes.”
Newbury emitted a rumbling guffaw. “Is that so, Dr Watson? How very surprising.”
Gray looked as surprised as any of us. “Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, but it was clearly a rhetorical question.
“Tell us, Mr Gray,” prompted Miss Hobbes, “what is the purpose of this machine, and for what reason have you been making these late-night excursions?”
“For them,” replied Gray, trembling as he fought back tears. “It was all for them.”
“This man is clearly disturbed,” said Renwick, redundantly. It was plain for us all to see that Gray was suffering from severe shock.
“Speaking as a medical practitioner, it’s clear this man needs rest and a chance to recover from the shock of this evening’s events,” I said, lowering my weapon. “I imagine we’ll be better served by saving our questions until the morning.”
“Very well,” said Newbury. “May I suggest, Doctor, that you take this man into your temporary custody? I don’t believe he represents any real danger, now that his machine has been rendered immobile. I have every faith that you’ll be able to tend to his immediate medical needs, and I’m sure Mr Holmes would be only too delighted to hear that we’ve saved him a job.” He delivered this with a wry smile on his lips, and I couldn’t help sharing for a moment in his glee. After the manner in which Holmes had dismissed the whole episode it would give me no small measure of satisfaction to deliver Xavier Gray to his doorstep. I could imagine the look on his face.
“Very well,” I said. “I shall escort Mr Gray to Baker Street immediately.” I glanced at the wreckage of the submersible. “But what of this?”
“Oh, don’t worry yourself with that, Dr Watson. I’ll send for Sir Charles Bainbridge of Scotland Yard. His men will know what to do with the remains of this most remarkable contraption.”
“Bainbridge?” I said, with a smile. “Then we have a mutual acquaintance.” I’d worked with Bainbridge almost fifteen years earlier, during the Hans Gerber affair, and again on a number of other occasions during the intervening years. He was a good man, and an even better police inspector.
Newbury laughed again. “I’ll be sure to give him your regards,” he said. “Now, Doctor. Let us find you a cab. It’s late, and we still have much to do. Our answers can wait until tomorrow.”
“Very well,” I said, helping Xavier Gray to his feet. “If you’ll come quietly?”
The man nodded, hanging his head. “I will,” he said, morosely. I decided to take him at his word, although I kept my revolver close at hand, just to be sure.
* * *
It was late when we arrived at Baker Street, gone midnight, but I was resolved to rouse Holmes from his bed. We’d passed the journey across town in silence, with just the creak of the carriage wheels and the clatter of horse’s hooves to punctuate our journey.
Xavier Gray had remained slumped in the opposite corner of the hansom throughout, as if the life had simply gone out of him. I couldn’t help feeling pity for the man, despite the events of the previous evening. I did not then know the nature of the horror that plagued him, but all the same I had some sense that he was carrying an enormous burden upon his shoulders. I decided not to press the matter, and respected his need for silence. Tomorrow, I would push for answers. Tonight I was close to exhaustion, and couldn’t bring myself to coerce such a clearly disturbed man.
It was a bleary-eyed Mrs Hudson who came to the door of 221b, wrapped in a black shawl and wearing an exasperated expression. “Oh, Dr Watson. It’s you.”
“Indeed it is, Mrs Hudson. Please, forgive me for disturbing you at this unsociable hour.”
Mrs Hudson gave me a resigned look. “And you think I’m not used to such shenanigans, Doctor? You did, after all, live with Mr Holmes for a number of years.”
I grinned. “Is he home?”
“God knows,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “But I suppose you’d better come in. Your guest looks as if he’s about to catch his death.”
I decided not to disabuse Mrs Hudson of the notion that Gray was my guest. It wouldn’t do to concern her with the truth that I was leading a wanted man — and a criminal, at that — into her home.
It soon became clear that Holmes was not, after all, at home. Nevertheless, there was little I could do but wait. I ushered Gray into the drawing room and convinced Mrs Hudson to return to her bed. I poured myself a whisky, deciding it would steady my nerves, and built up the fire in order to banish the chill.
All the while I kept my revolver close at hand, but Gray remained largely silent and subdued.
We’d been there for less than half an hour when I heard a key scrape in the lock downstairs. Footsteps followed on the creaking treads, accompanied by a gaily sung melody, “Tra, la, la, la, la.” The footsteps halted outside the door. “Hello, Watson!” said Holmes, breezily, before the door had even been opened.
Of course, this was not a difficult deduction. Holmes knew Mrs Hudson’s habits well, and that she would already be in bed. She would not have allowed anyone other than I to wait here for Holmes, and since it was evident that someone inhabited the drawing room—probably from the spill of light beneath the door —it had to be me.
The door swung open and Holmes’ beaming face appeared in the opening. He was wrapped in a dark brown cape and was wearing a top hat. “Ah, I see you have a visitor?” he said, removing his hat and strolling boldly into the room.
I stood. “Indeed I do.” I indicated the sorry specimen crumpled in the chair opposite. “This, Holmes, is Mr Xavier Gray.”
Holmes looked from one of us to the other with a wide-eyed expression. “I... well... is it really, Watson?”
Xavier Gray glanced up at Holmes. “Dr Watson is correct, Mr Holmes. I am indeed Mr Xavier Gray,” he said, his voice low and moribund.
“How extraordinary,” said Holmes, “How very extraordinary.” He seemed genuinely surprised by this development. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “This business with the unusual beast?” he asked, after a short moment of reflection.
“Quite so,” I said, proudly. “You were wrong to dismiss it, Holmes. It’s proved to be the most remarkable of cases. The beast was in fact a bizarre, amphibious submersible being piloted by Mr Gray.”
“Indeed?” said Holmes, without even a flicker of irony. “Well, perhaps I was wrong to be so dismissive, Watson. If it wasn’t for your tenacity...”
“Don’t mention it, Holmes,” I said, with a smile. “So what now? I’m afraid we haven’t questioned him yet regarding his motives. I fear he’s rather in the grip of a severe case of shock.”
Holmes nodded. “Very good, Watson. If I could prevail on for you for a short while longer, I’ll send for Mycroft immediately. Of course, you’re welcome to the spare room this evening, if you should wish it?”
The thought of my old bed reminded me of just how tired I was. By this time it was almost two o’clock in the morning. “Thank you, Holmes,” I said, nodding in gratitude. “The spare room will be most appreciated.”
I waited with Gray while Holmes bustled off to make the necessary arrangements. He returned a few minutes later, looking rather pleased with himself. “Mycroft will be here shortly. Now, Watson, if you’d be kind enough to pour Mr Gray a brandy?”
“What was that?” I said, somewhat startled. I’d been dangerously close to drifting off before the fire.
“A drink for Mr Gray, Watson. Make it a substantial one.”
With a sigh, I pushed myself out of my chair and crossed to the sideboard. When I turned back a moment later, glass in hand, I was annoyed to see Holmes had helped himself to my seat, opposite our visitor.
“Mr Gray, I should like to talk with you,” said Holmes, his voice low and even.
Gray seemed not to hear his words, or otherwise chose not to engage with them.
Holmes leaned forward in his — or rather, in my — chair. “I know what became of your family, Mr Gray.”
At this the other man’s demeanour seemed to alter entirely. He stiffened, lifting his head to stare directly at Holmes, who smiled calmly and waved at me to deliver the brandy. I placed it on the side table close to where Gray was sitting and retreated, moving round to stand behind Holmes.
“I didn’t kill them,” Gray said, gritting his teeth, and I was startled to see tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he spoke. His fists were bunched so hard by his sides that his nails were digging into the flesh of his palms, drawing little beads of blood. “Despite what they might say I only wanted to protect them.”
“I believe you,” said Holmes, levelly “It was immediately clear to me upon examining their remains that you were not to blame. Rather, it was the work of a criminal organisation, a network of thieves and robbers known as the Order of the Red Hand. All of their typical hallmarks were in evidence.” He paused, as if weighing up his own words. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Xavier Gray reached shakily for the tumbler of brandy I had provided for him and drained it thirstily, shuddering as the alcohol did its work. He returned the empty glass to the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I tried to save them,” he said, and his eyes implored us to believe him. “I tried to help. But I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t stop them. They held me back while they did it. They made me watch.” He began to weep openly then, tears trickling down his pale cheeks. “And all for what? For a few measly pounds. I only wish they’d killed me, too. Then I wouldn’t have to live with the memory.”
Unsure of what else I could do, I collected his glass and poured him another generous measure. The story unfolding before me was not at all what I had expected.
“And so you decided to take matters into your own hands?” prompted Holmes, leaning back in his chair and making a steeple with his fingers.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” said Gray between sobs. “It was all I could think of. All of those machines, those weapons, just hidden there in storage, covered in dusty tarpaulin. No one would know. Those ruffians needed to pay for what they’d done.”
Confused, I glanced at Holmes, who shook his head minutely to indicate that I should refrain from interjecting with any questions.
“So you took the submersible and set about searching for the perpetrators of the crime?”
Gray nodded. “Yes. I knew they wouldn’t lie low for long. People like that never do. And so I made my nightly excursions in the stolen submersible, hoping to find them.”
“In the very same location where your own family perished at their hands?”
Gray nodded. “Cheyne Walk. That’s where they set upon us. I pleaded with them to stop. I tried to reason with them. I promised to give them everything if only they would spare the lives of my wife and children. But it was as if they were punishing me for only having a few pounds in my wallet. They wanted to make me pay, one way or another. And so I wanted to make them pay in return.”
“It would never have been enough,” said Holmes. “You would never have been able to live with yourself.”
“You think I can live with myself now?” said Gray, burying his face in his hands. “I have nothing left to live for.”
I hardly knew what to say or do. I’d seen men like this before, broken because of a grave loss. It was clear that Gray had been driven to do what he had because of grief, and that temporary, blinding madness it inspires.
I was still somewhat unsure of the full picture, but in listening to the conversation I had managed to piece together something of the story It seemed to me that Xavier Gray had been the victim of a terrible, random crime, and that a gang of thieves had set upon him and his family in the street. His family had been brutally murdered before his very eyes, and as a consequence his mind had snapped. He had stolen the experimental submersible from — I assumed — the government facility where he worked, and had set out to seek revenge. It was a shocking tale, and I felt no small measure of pity for the wretch. I cannot say I wouldn’t have done the same in his circumstance.
I jumped at the sound of a cane rapping against the front door, down in the street below.
“Mycroft,” said Holmes, leaping out of his seat and disappearing to welcome his brother.
We remained silent for a moment. I heard Mycroft bustling into the hallway downstairs. “I’m sorry,” I said to Gray, watching as he downed the remains of his second brandy.
“So am I,” he replied, and I knew the words were not really intended for me.
Mycroft entered the room then, ahead of Holmes, and I once again found myself taken aback by the sheer presence of the man. He was heavyset, with an ample waist and a broad, barrel-like chest, and taller even than his brother. He looked decidedly put out at finding himself there at Baker Street at nearly three o’clock in the morning, and his forehead was furrowed in a deep frown.
“Watson,” he said, levelly, by way of greeting. “I understand my thanks are in order?” His tone was business-like and clipped.
I smiled and gave the briefest of shrugs. “You’re welcome,” I said. “I did only what I felt was necessary”
“You did me a great service,” said Mycroft, quickly, before turning to Gray, who was still sitting in the armchair opposite, clutching an empty glass. “Come along, Gray. It’s over now.”
Xavier Gray looked up to meet Mycroft’s intense gaze. “Is it?” he asked, softly, before placing his glass on the side table and getting to his feet. “I don’t think it shall ever be over.”
Mycroft didn’t respond, other than to place a firm hand on Gray’s shoulder and to steer him swiftly towards the door. “Good night, Dr Watson,” he said, without glancing back. “Until next time.”
Holmes saw his brother and his charge into their waiting carriage, before returning to the drawing room, a sullen expression on his face. “A dark business, Watson,” he said, quietly “A dark business indeed.”
“I’m just pleased that it’s over,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Oh, I think for Mr Xavier Gray, Watson, the pain is only just beginning.”
On that note, I repaired to my old room with a heavy heart, intent on a long and restful sleep.
* * *
The next morning I arose late to find Holmes had been up and about for hours. Indeed, I had my suspicions that, as I knew he was wont to do, he had not visited his bed at all.
“Ah, Watson!” he said jovially as I poked my head around the drawing room door. He was sitting with the morning newspapers, snipping away with a pair of silver scissors, taking cuttings for his scrapbooks.
“Morning, Holmes,” I said, somewhat taken aback by his jollity
“Come and sit down, Watson! We’ll have Mrs Hudson rustle you up a late breakfast.” The thought was most appealing.
“Tell me, Holmes, have you had word from Mycroft?”
Holmes nodded. “Indeed I have, Watson.” He returned to his clippings.
“And?” I prompted, exasperated.
He glanced up from The Times with a mildly confused expression.
“Xavier Gray?” I said. “There are those of us still anxious to understand his story,” I said, taking a seat opposite him. “As well as your role in the matter,” I added, for in truth that was my real motivation.
Holmes set down his scissors. “Ah, yes. Of course. Xavier Gray, Watson, was a government scientist and spy. He was working on a number of highly sensitive projects in the area of mechanised warfare, when, a week ago, he suddenly disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” I echoed.
“Quite so,” replied Holmes. “His superiors were, of course, concerned for the man, and even more for the sensitive information he was party to. Had he defected? Had he been captured and taken prisoner? The usual means of investigation turned up nothing. His home had simply been abandoned, and his family were gone, too.”
“And now we know why,” I said, gravely.
“Indeed. But at the time, the men responsible for tracing him had been unable to turn up any evidence of where he might have gone. Mycroft feared he might have fled somewhere untraceable in order to sell his secrets to a foreign agency, taking his family with him. In desperation, he called on me to investigate.”
“And?”
“I soon discovered what the others had, of course, missed. Gray’s family—his wife and two young boys—had been horrifically murdered just days prior to his disappearance. It appeared to be the work of the criminal gang I spoke of, The Order of the Red Hand, a network of robbers and thieves who had set upon them in the street and cleared out their pockets before disappearing. The bodies were still lying unidentified in the morgue.”
“But why did Gray believe he was under suspicion? Last night he was most anxious to clear his name when you raised the matter.”
“Once I had discovered the truth about his family, the imbeciles at the Yard were quick to proclaim his guilt, despite my evidence to the contrary. They simply could not fathom why a man might flee in the aftermath of such harrowing events, unless he was himself the killer or somehow connected with the perpetrators.”
“That’s preposterous!” I said.
Holmes laughed. “An all-too-familiar story, I fear, Watson.”
“One can hardly blame him for taking matters into his own hands when faced with that as an alternative. I should imagine any man in his position might have chosen to do the same.”
“Grief drives people to do terrible things, Watson, as you well know.”
“Indeed,” I said, quietly. “What will happen to Gray now?”
“Most likely an institution, I’d wager. At least until he’s had time to recover from the shock and torment that drove him to such extreme ends.”
“Extreme ends indeed. I can only imagine that, when he attacked Sir Maurice, Miss Hobbes and I, he’d mistaken us for the very same criminals who had attacked and killed his family. Particularly when Newbury tossed a flare in his direction.”
“I believe you’d be safe in that assumption,” said Holmes. “I imagine he saw only what his shattered mind had conjured.”
“And what of the Order of the Red Hand?”
“Ah,” said Holmes, brightly. “Their story is far from over. We shall face the Order of the Red Hand again. I am sure of it.”
“I have no doubt you’re right,” I said, knowingly. “Well, that’s an end to a remarkable sequence of events, Holmes,” I continued, with a sigh. “And a most satisfactory resolution. For both of us.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, rising from his seat and crossing to the fireplace to search for his pipe and Persian slipper. “I believe the old adage, Watson, is ‘to kill two birds with one stone.’”
“Quite so,” I agreed. “It is almost as if...” I paused, hesitating to give voice to a nagging doubt that had been plaguing me since I’d woken that morning. “It is almost as if someone masterminded the entire thing.”
“Really, Watson?” said Holmes, laughing. “You do have a tendency towards the fanciful.”
“Hmm,” I replied. “So where were you last night while all of the excitement was going on?”
Holmes smiled, returning to his seat and beginning to meticulously stuff the bowl of his pipe with shag. “A violin concerto. German. It was quite exquisite, Watson. The company was only in London for one night. It was truly not to be missed. Not under any circumstances.”
“A violin concerto!” I exclaimed, astounded. “Really, Holmes!”
Holmes laughed. “Now, Watson. Breakfast!” he said, lighting his pipe and ringing the bell for Mrs Hudson. “There’s a little matter I wish to discuss with you, regarding a missing jewel...”
* * *
The story of the Higham Ruby is a tale for another time, of course, and following the peculiar events of which I have just given account would seem entirely prosaic.
I sent word to Newbury that the matter had been successfully concluded and took pains to outline the story recited by Holmes, regarding Xavier Gray’s unfortunate circumstances and the true nature of the mechanical beast we had fought. I received a brief note of thanks from Miss Hobbes, who explained that Newbury had been detained with other matters but wished to extend his thanks for the part I had played in proceedings, and to reassure me that the submersible stolen by Gray had been given over to the appropriate authorities.
It would be nearly two years until I once again encountered Sir Maurice Newbury and Miss Veronica Hobbes, in connection with the incidents I have previously set out in “The Case of the Five Bowler Hats”. Events at that point would take a decidedly more sinister turn, and perhaps if I’d had the foresight I might not have wished so readily to find myself engaged in another mystery with that ineffable duo.
As it was, I’d found myself most invigorated by my association with Newbury and Miss Hobbes and knew that, should the circumstances again present themselves, I would most definitely enjoy the prospect of joining forces with them once again to investigate a mystery of the improbable.
Moreover, as I tucked into Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfast, I was content to know that for once in the long history of our friendship, I had been able to successfully surprise Mr Sherlock Holmes.