Eighteen

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The room fell completely silent as we each considered Zenith’s request. For myself, I knew that Holmes would never agree to work for the Albino.

I was not wrong.

‘That is unfortunate,’ said Holmes, finally. ‘I am not in the habit of working for criminals, no matter how charming they may be. Besides, it would be folly on my part to give anyone access to an object about which I know so little.’

Zenith took Holmes’s rejection calmly enough. ‘That is your final word, Mr Holmes?’ he asked.

Holmes nodded.

‘We are at an impasse then. I am unable to discover England’s Treasure without your help, and if you will not help then you are of no use to me, and potentially could identify me to the police. I fear that your removal will be the only option left open to me if I cannot persuade you to co-operate.’

‘I assure you that there is nothing you can say or do which would make me help you,’ said Holmes.

Zenith’s response was as short and direct as it was repulsive. ‘What if I were to threaten to kill Miss Rhodes?’

‘How dare you suggest—’ I ignored both Miss Rhodes’s gentle tug on my arm, and Holmes’s more robust attempts to quieten me, as I leapt to my feet. ‘Is this the way a prince of royal blood behaves? Like a coward who would threaten a lady!’

I pride myself that I am not a slave to my emotions, whatever Holmes may occasionally claim, but Zenith’s words had sickened me to the core. I took a step forward, reaching into my coat pocket as I did so. But my fingers had no more than brushed the metal of my revolver, when Zenith brought me up short.

‘Please do not do anything unfortunate, Dr Watson. I hope to form a temporary alliance with Mr Holmes, and your death at my hand would render that prospect remote.’

From nowhere he had conjured a small but deadly-looking pistol, which he held pointed directly at my heart. The languidly complacent drug fiend of a moment before had been replaced with an active intellect and a steady hand, and I was in no doubt that he would kill me if he had to.

As I stood there indecisively, Holmes’s voice cut in from behind me. ‘Sit down, Watson, there’s a good chap,’ he said. ‘Zenith will do nothing to harm Miss Rhodes.’

Major Conway chose that moment to re-enter the room, bearing a tray that he laid down beside us. Holmes grimaced at the interruption, but waited with reasonably good grace while drinks were poured by Zenith and handed round by his lieutenant. If anyone else was conscious of the incongruity of such civilised activities in so tense a situation, they did not mention it.

Zenith broke the silence after a minute or so. ‘Mr Holmes is correct. Of course I would never harm the lady. But I might well hurt you a good deal if needs be, Dr Watson.’

Now it was Holmes’s turn to leap to remonstrate with our captor. ‘Enough of this, Zenith. I do not believe a civilised man such as you claim to be would ever resort to torture.’

Zenith looked at each of us, then gave a nod to Conway, who came round behind me and, slipping his hand into my pocket, extracted my revolver. ‘Sit down, please,’ he said.

I sat, but Holmes remained standing. ‘Sit down, Mr Holmes,’ Zenith repeated, but more forcefully, with none of the languid air, which I suspected he exaggerated for effect. Holmes did not move, but continued to stare down at him.

‘Very well,’ Zenith said, shaking his head as though disappointed in Holmes’s reaction. ‘Major Conway, please be so good as to shoot Dr Watson through one kneecap.’

I had no time to react. Conway quickly grabbed the back of my head and pushed me forward so that I stumbled and fell to my knees. I had just enough time to look up and see Zenith covering Holmes and Miss Rhodes with his pistol before I felt the hard metal of my own confiscated revolver pressed down against the back of my left knee. In the instant before Conway pulled the trigger I tensed my muscles and resolved not to give Zenith the satisfaction of crying out.

‘Stop!’ Holmes’s shout echoed off the walls of the library. ‘Let me see the letter from Horace Hamblin and it may be that I can point you in the direction of the Treasure.’

I felt rather than saw Conway look up at Zenith, then heard the soft click as he eased the hammer back on the revolver and replaced it in his pocket.

‘Nothing personal, Doctor,’ he said, as he helped me to my feet. I sat down heavily, doing my level best to control a slight tremor in my hands. I have faced battle before, but the speed of execution and the business-like manner of Conway’s actions had left me quite shaken. Miss Rhodes again took my hand. It was enough that she did so. I sat up straighter and glanced up at Holmes, who remained standing before us.

Zenith, meanwhile, was also staring at Holmes. ‘Letter?’ he asked. ‘What makes you think that the information I have was received in the form of a letter?’

Holmes’s impatience was palpable. ‘While we have been speaking, you have three times moved your hand towards your pocket as though to retrieve some item, then stopped. A letter is the most likely such item.

‘Additionally, how else would you know of the Treasure at all? A “rumour” that has survived the centuries intact, and which details six specific paintings that might lead to great wealth, but no other criminal has heard of or thought to come after in all that time? Do not insult my intelligence, Zenith.

‘There is obviously a letter, from Hamblin himself, I’d wager, which has remained hidden these many years, until you laid your hands on it. It provides a starting point for any search for England’s Treasure, at least, and possibly more. If you allow me to examine it, I will share any deductions I make. In return, and before I do anything, you will set Dr Watson and Miss Rhodes at liberty.’

Part of Holmes’s genius, as I have remarked elsewhere, lay in his ability to act a part with utter conviction. Where I could see the concern in his eyes and the fear in the way his shoulders sagged as he awaited Zenith’s reply, to the rest of the room he gave every sign of barely repressed annoyance, as of a man holding a winning hand at cards baulked in his desire to lay them down.

He did not have long to wait. ‘Miss Rhodes certainly may go, for she is of no use to me as leverage for your continued co-operation. Dr Watson must stay, however.’

Holmes nodded once, briskly. ‘That will have to do, I suppose,’ he said, in as offhand a tone as he could manage.

Miss Rhodes made some sounds of disagreement, but I took her two hands and reminded her quietly that Holmes and I could not act with full freedom while she was present and in danger. She swallowed hard, and seemed on the verge of tears, but eventually assented, if unhappily, to be escorted to the village by two of Zenith’s men. Such was the degree of sudden emotion in the air that even Holmes was affected and briefly allowed Miss Rhodes to kiss him on the cheek as she departed.

As soon as she was safely on her way, Zenith reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope from which he extracted a sheet of folded foolscap, offering it silently to Holmes.

‘This is obviously not the original,’ Holmes said as he unfolded the paper. ‘Both paper and ink are new. But the scrawled handwriting indicates that your agent copied directly from the original, and without removing it from its location.’ He looked up quickly. ‘There are Chinese characters in the margins. Have they been accurately copied?’

Zenith slowly crossed his legs before he replied. ‘Major Conway was impressed to find you had already concluded that the Oriental savage had been searching for England’s Treasure. For myself, I was slightly disappointed that it took you so long.’

‘Had I known that England’s Treasure had a political element, I would have deduced the Lord of Strange Deaths involvement much earlier,’ Holmes responded, obviously stung by the criticism. ‘As it was, I ruled him out on the basis that mere financial gain would not interest him. Another mistake, but an understandable one, I think.’

He resumed his perusal until, eager to know the letter’s contents, I asked him to read it aloud.

‘My apologies, Watson,’ he replied, ‘I should have thought to do so already. The letter is from Horace Hamblin to one Simon Jarvis.’

He held the paper out in front of him and read from it slowly and clearly.

Worthy Simon,

I hope this letter finds you in a better state than that of its sorry author, one who finds himself trapped within his own halls, counting the hours until the forces of the Devil on Earth should arrive at his doors, bearing his death along with them.

He whom I shall not name but who brings this letter to you may be trusted completely. His loyalty is perfect, as I have seen on more occasions than one over the past twelvemonth, and his words have been a constant comfort. Help him as you can to escape what was once an island of saints, my friend, for all that was once the glory of England. And remember, if it were a simple thing to love one’s ruler then there would be no virtue in so doing.

I am afraid that we shall not meet again on this Earth, but will be reunited only at the feet of Our Lord, for this is a time of endings, of Revelation, and this is the final letter of the book of my life. England’s Treasure is gone and lies hidden for the moment, but that you will already have guessed.

You will be pleased to know that I have kept myself busy to the last. I have improved the painting of the King which you admired, and added touches to five more, not of my hand. After everything is over perhaps it will please you to come to the Hall and examine them in fine? I am particularly content with the flourishes I have added to the portraits of Sir James Hamilton, Queen Anne and my own grandfather, though less so with the sketch of the wise men and the miniature depicting the twin sons of Isaac, but you will be the best judge of my success, or otherwise.

Now I must go, dear Simon. A rider is in the courtyard with news, and I have some final preparations to make.

Your friend,
Horace Hamblin

Holmes slowly re-folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, which he placed carefully on the table. He walked to the window and stood with his back to us, hands clutching the sill, one long finger tapping against the wood. One minute passed, then a second, and still he did not move.

Nor did Zenith, I noticed. He held himself erect in his chair, sweet-smelling smoke curling from his mouth as he finished another of his drugged cigarettes. Major Conway, completing our quartet, gave every sign that he was incapable of boredom and leant against the back wall of the library, staring at Holmes’s back.

At least five minutes passed in this manner then, just as Zenith began to show signs of impatience, Holmes finally spoke a single word.

‘Genius!’ he said.

Zenith sat forward, the cigarette dangling, forgotten, from his fingers. ‘You have solved it?’ he asked eagerly.

Whatever Holmes intended to say would remain a mystery however. As he turned from the window, a single shot rang out and Major Conway spun round with a cry. The smallest dark mark on his shirt leached steadily across his front in a splash of red. His eyes glazed over even as he slid down the wall until he sat, straight-backed but dead, on the carpeted floor. Even after the manhandling he had meted out to me earlier, I was sorry to see him in such a condition.

Conway had been caught by surprise and consequently had not had time to reach for his gun, but Zenith had been forewarned by his companion’s death and had drawn and fired his pistol before the Major reached the ground. Cursing my confiscated revolver, I twisted in my seat to see what was happening, just in time to see a small Oriental man fire a metal crossbow bolt directly into Zenith’s shoulder, and another rush forward and crash the butt of his rifle into the Albino’s face. He crumpled to the floor, definitely unconscious and possibly dead.

As I have noticed occasionally happens after a flurry of violent action, the next few moments were completely silent and still. Holmes had not moved from his position by the window, and I was frozen in my seat. One Chinaman lay dead from Zenith’s shot, while the other two stood on either side of the doorway.

Then, like actors suddenly exposed by the raising of the curtain, everything came to life once more.

I shook my head to clear it and hurried over to aid Zenith. Criminal or not, he needed medical help, and I was obliged by my oath to provide it. The shoulder wound was not as serious as it might have been: the bolt was long and wickedly sharp but unbarbed. It could not safely be removed in the library, but in a hospital it would present little problem. More worryingly, the blow to his face had cracked his cheekbone and probably concussed him. I whispered a quick hope that his skull had not been fractured and arranged him more comfortably where he lay.

Holmes, meanwhile, took two steps across to the fireplace and dropped the letter he held into the flames then stood, arms crossed, as if waiting for something.

The wait was momentary.

Exactly as he had in Limehouse, the Lord of Strange Deaths shuffled into the room, flanked by his giant guards. Behind him scurried a young boy holding a small, padded stool. The Lord stopped in front of Zenith and clapped his hands, prompting the stool to be placed behind him. With a groan, and the assistance of the boy, he lowered himself down to a seated position.

‘Have you an answer for me, Sherlock Holmes?’

The unexpectedness of the old man’s voice made it stranger than it might otherwise have been, but in any circumstances the high-pitched, scratchy sound would have excited comments. His English was, however, unaccented, if a little old-fashioned.

Holmes turned to face our latest captor. ‘I do. I have unravelled the riddle of England’s Treasure,’ he said, but there was no triumph in his voice. Generally when Holmes had the solution to a case at his fingertips, he was a man transformed. On this occasion, however, there was no such change. If anything his back was more stooped than before, his voice more weary. ‘I thought I had been so clever,’ he continued, ‘but I have not been a tenth as clever as Horace Hamblin. Oh, to have met the man and spoken a while! What a detective he might have made – or a criminal, for that matter!’

He suddenly stopped and looked about himself, like a man seeking direction. Not for the first time that day I was conscious of a peculiar feeling of time slowing down, creating a pocket of calm in which only we existed.

The Lord held up a skeletal hand and murmured, ‘I must insist on knowing the answer, Sherlock Holmes. When last we met I told you that England’s Treasure should not fall into the hands of a dishonourable man. That remains the case. This abomination—’ he pointed a skeletal finger at the unconscious form of Zenith, ‘—will not live to see another dawn, in any case. I, however, intend to use the Treasure for a very honourable purpose indeed.’

The Lord shifted on his stool slightly, wincing as he did so. ‘Since the Treaty of Nanking,’ he continued, ‘China has been no better than a whipped cur cowering before the boot of its master. No, do not deny it! Britain took Hong Kong from us, Sherlock Holmes, and filled the bodies of our commoners with opium. They humiliated the Emperor and burned the Summer Palaces, stole our people to build America’s railways and forced their religion upon us. But no more! No more!’

A harsh, barking cough shook the old man’s body as he raged. The boy at his side quickly pulled a stoppered cloth pouch from inside his jacket and handed it to his master, who sipped from it slowly until his coughing fit subsided enough for him to continue in a calmer tone.

‘I do not know what England’s Treasure might be, but it has been whispered in dark places that it is a priceless gift for one who wishes to see the English brought low. I am such a one, Sherlock Holmes. China will be avenged. Now, I ask you again, have you an answer for me?’

‘Miss Rhodes should now be safely on a train back to London,’ Holmes replied incongruously. ‘I have instructed her to order the train stopped at the next available station – some eleven minutes from Hamblin by my measure – and once there to send an urgent telegram to Scotland Yard, informing Lestrade that if he has not left for Hamblin Hall already then he should do so with all possible haste. Fortunately, Mr Zenith was not aware that we travelled down on a Special, booked for our use alone, or that it was waiting to take us back to London again.’

He smiled coldly. The smile, I noticed, did not trouble any part of his face but his lips.

‘By my reckoning you have less than an hour to vacate this place before Lestrade and his men are at the door.’

The Lord was not so easily cowed, however. ‘Time enough for my purposes,’ he said, returning Holmes’s smile. ‘More than enough, in fact. Do you disagree?’

Holmes stepped to one side and pointed down at the remains of the letter he had disposed of moments before. Already it was merely a sheet of ash in the shape of a letter and as Holmes jabbed it firmly with a poker, it collapsed in on itself and was indistinguishable from the surrounding hot ashes.

‘Generally speaking I would agree with you, but on this occasion I am afraid that all the time in the world will be of no benefit to you. You see the paper burning so merrily in the fireplace? That was the map which I discovered and which Mr Zenith was about to take from me. It depicted some area of England – I did not recognise it – and contained a tiny black cross under which, I presume, the Treasure is buried. How unfortunate that I did not have chance to do more than glance at it before it was destroyed. Now nobody will ever know what England’s Treasure was.’

The effect on the Lord was startling. With a strangled cry he screeched something in his native tongue to one of the bodyguards, who ran over to the fireplace, then plunged his hands into the very flames. I could smell the burning of his flesh as he attempted, with no chance of success, to scoop up what was left of the letter, but it was ash and flame alone and could not be salvaged. Perhaps most disturbingly, the man made no sound as the fire cooked his arms, and continued to attempt his impossible task until his master called him back. To nobody’s surprise the giant took two steps, then tumbled forward onto his face, his entire body in shock. He lay there, twitching but still silent, while the Lord continued to rant in what I assumed was Mandarin.

Though it took several minutes, he finally calmed down enough to speak English again. ‘You think you have defeated me, Sherlock Holmes?’ he asked. ‘Know that you have not. I have sought England’s Treasure ever since one of my people purchased a book from the owner of this house and found an ancient letter inside. And yet I have never discovered what the Treasure is, nor where it can be found. If nobody may have it, then I am no worse off than I was before I heard its name, and though I may not use it to China’s benefit, no other nation may use it to force England into an unfortunate alliance.’

This long speech appeared to have exhausted the old man, for he held out a hand for balance, which the boy at his side provided. He sat like that until he regained his breath, then barked a command at the two men guarding the doorway. Whatever he said, the effect was troubling.

Each man reached behind his back and pulled forward a lethal-looking crossbow, which they loaded with a bolt apiece. The Lord was helped back to his feet and the boy retrieved the padded stool, while the bowmen ensured Holmes and I made no surprising moves.

I looked over at Holmes as the Lord shuffled his way back to the door. He gave a tiny shrug in response. Were we to be allowed to leave?

At the last moment, the Lord of Strange Deaths paused then issued a final guttural command.

This time there was no doubting his intentions, for the two bowmen stepped smartly forward and prepared to fire at Holmes and me. I had a moment in which to wonder why they did not also kill Zenith, and another to realise that they would do so as soon as they had disposed of the only conscious enemies in the room, before the room exploded in a frenzy of movement.

At my side, Zenith suddenly sat upright and shot his right arm forward until it was completely straight. By means of some mechanical marvel concealed within his sleeve, a tiny Derringer pistol shot into his palm and, without a pause, he fired its single shot into the chest of the first bowman prior to lapsing into unconsciousness once more. The Chinaman staggered back on legs that suddenly would not obey him, then crumpled like a discarded linen sheet to the floor.

On the other side of the room Holmes had taken advantage of the distraction to chop the second bowman across the throat, and followed this with an uppercut as accurate as any in the boxing ring.

If Holmes had expected his opponent to drop, however, he was to be sorely disappointed.

Instead, the man took a step backwards and launched a flying kick at Holmes’s head. The height reached was as astonishing as it was unexpected and Holmes only just managed to duck to one side, otherwise the fight would have been over before it properly began.

I would have watched the contest with interest, had I the time to spare, but I realised at about that time that I had been left, unarmed, to face the remaining enormous bodyguard, who pulled a wickedly sharp sword from the belt at his waist and walked slowly towards me.

I quickly knelt and snatched the crossbow from the hand of the dead bowman, but the bolt had dislodged when he fell and was nowhere to be seen. The delay was almost fatal. I barely managed to get back to my feet before a mighty blow from the bodyguard’s fist sent me spinning across the room and into a set of mahogany bookcases, which shuddered with the impact as my back and head painfully connected.

I lay stunned on the floor and watched a giant set of feet walk towards me, dimly aware of the sound of Holmes still fighting as consciousness slid away from me. I feebly swung an arm in a lamentable attempt to trip my assailant but he stood just outside my reach and laughed down at me. Still, I had no intention of giving up, and swung at him again, with as much success – but the tips of my fingers as they traversed their arc brushed against something sharp and metallic.

The crossbow bolt had rolled beneath the bottom shelf and wedged itself between the base of the bookcase and the floor. If I moved another six inches closer I might extract it and I would at least have a weapon, but it might as well have been back in Baker Street for all the use it was likely to be, with the giant raising his sword high above his head, ready for the killing blow.

In retrospect, I should have wondered about Frogmorton before he saved my life by running into the room and shooting the bodyguard in the neck. Even that might not have been enough to kill a man of such prodigious size, but as he wobbled I rolled backwards, grasped the crossbow bolt in my right hand then, spinning back round and terrified I would pass out before I completed my task, stabbed the point into the giant’s thigh.

The bright geyser of blood from the wound confirmed that I had hit the femoral artery. Within seconds the bodyguard had swayed backwards and within a minute he was sprawled unmoving across a table. The last thing I saw before blackness engulfed me was Holmes kneeling at my side…