FROM THE DREAM JOURNAL OF DR. JOHN WATSON
THE SHOP IS DANK AND UNFINISHED. NO TILES UPON THE floor, no carpet, only worn planks of untreated wood. There is only one window, through which London’s dirty afternoon light is cast upon the rows of shelves and—though I have not seen it—the dream comes with a knowledge of how this shop advertises itself to the world. A simple sign above the door with a single word carved into it: TOYS.
And there are toys. Tops and velveteen plushes and wooden blocks, piled with no particular care upon dusty shelves. But then, as one steps further in… clockwork figures. Magnificent automatons, crafted with exquisite care—their gleaming metal gears cut by hand to precisely the proper shapes. Here is a bear that will beg for food, when his key is wound. Here is a shining metal queen who dances with a grinning goblin. And then, a strange rush of familiarity! Here is my circus tableau! The one Holmes and I took from the rooms of Percy Trevelyan on our second adventure together. I had often wound its spring and admired the mastery of its workings. Now, I behold its maker.
At the back of the shop is a worktable, lit by three lamps—a circle of light in the gloomy confines of the shop. At the table is a man. He is old, but not so old as he seems. His work has aged him. Countless hours of bending over that table have left him stooped. He has the papery white skin of a man who rarely sees the sun. On his head is an apparatus of brass arms and lenses that can be pulled down before his eyes. Through two of them, he is peering with masterly interest as he squeezes a few final gears into the back of a tin soldier. With a final “Ha!” he places the soldier on the table, winds it and lets it go.
It marches across the surface. Properly marches! There is no wheel around which two pinned legs pivot, like pedals on a tricycle. Only legs. The little soldier balances on two feet, just as I do. Five steps into his march, his little booted toe makes contact with a wooden block that the old toymaker has placed in his path. The soldier teeters. The boot bumps again. And slowly, experimentally, it starts to raise.
In the dream, I am naught but a disembodied observer. I have no mouth. If I had, I’m sure it would be hanging open in gobstruck wonder. That little toy is going to step over the block! Does that mean it could feel it? Is it figuring out how to defeat the obstacle? Has the strange old man behind this dusty bench managed to make a collection of gears and springs capable of reason? Is that toy… learning?
If it is, it’s not learning fast enough to please the old man. “Ach! Nein!” he mutters, then picks the tin wonder up, pries the hatch off its back and digs in with his tweezers, to pull out some offending gear.
There is a gentle tinkling from behind me. The little silver bell over the door. The old man sighs and complains, “Irene! So late! Why do you make your grandfather worry?”
But it isn’t Irene.
It’s a corpse.
I mean… it is walking. Moving of its own accord. And yet, to my doctor’s eye, there is no way that it can be a living creature. Once it was a man, but it is impossibly aged. On its back is a tremendous iron boiler. From this emanate four long brass and steel appendages, like the legs of a spider. On these, much more than its two wasted human legs, the corpse man walks slowly towards the toymaker’s worktable. He holds an elegant, silver-topped cane in one hand. He’s wearing a sensible black frock coat, a top hat and a smile of absolute mastery. Leather bellows on the top of his boiler pump air through the corpse’s chest and in hollow, somewhat mechanical tones, it says, “Guten Abend, Herr Adler.”
The toymaker gapes for a moment, then draws a breath and croaks, “Sir… Sir, are you… a toy?”
The corpse pauses, rocks back on its spidery mechanical legs. Suddenly the bellows on its back pump with unexpected vigor. The dead man throws back his head, opens his cadaverous mouth, and laughs. The whole apparatus shakes so horribly that, if he isn’t dead already, I fear this overexertion will finish him off. Finally, and with great effort, he controls himself, draws a breath and says, “Ah! Forgive me. I have been called many things but nobody—nobody—has ever thought of me as that. No, no, Herr Adler, my name is Professor James Moriarty. I’ve brought a challenge for you.”
The spider legs grind forward, propelling the visitor towards the place where—it seems to me—I am standing. Yet, he passes right through me, goes to the table and reaches inside his coat. From one of the pockets within, he draws forth a curious wooden cylinder and places it gingerly on the worktable.
“Something precious lies within,” Moriarty says. “Can you open it?”
The toymaker leans in, scrutinizes the thing first with his naked eye, then with a few of his lenses. He purses his lips and mutters. “Not so easy. This catch is false, you see. Look inside. It is meant to look like a pin for a hollow key, but it isn’t. Almost like… a needle?”
“Indeed. The box is trapped,” Moriarty confirms.
“And there is a second trap, too,” the old man says, with a nod. “Here and here… See? If you thought you were clever to avoid the catch, it seems you could twist the ends and this might release the lid. But… something comes out through the cracks.”
“Little poisoned blades. It’s killed three this week.”
The toymaker looks up at his guest in disbelief. “Your toy is very dangerous.”
The corpse gives a little smile. “Most of my toys are, Herr Adler.”
Which, of course, would be the absolute, final warning for a reasonable man. What sane individual would dare to touch this corpse-man’s deadly toy? But that’s just it: Herr Adler is not a reasonable man. He is a genius. Self-preservation and societal expectation are not nearly so important to him as his art. And this is a rare moment—he is being asked to examine a device whose craftsman’s skills are equal to his own. Could you imagine bringing Mozart the composition of a worthy rival, and expecting him not to play it?
The two men stare at each other for a moment. Something plays across the toymaker’s face. “Please… My granddaughter will be home any moment.”
“Then I suggest you hurry, Herr Adler.”
The toymaker sighs. “Well, it has a weakness. There is a hinge. We go in the back way, ja?” He takes a punch so fine it might almost be wire in one hand, a miniscule hammer in the other. With careful taps, he drives the punch against one side of the hinge-pin until it protrudes from the other side. Then, with fine pliers, he draws the pin clear. “There are no further traps?”
His visitor shrugs. “Nobody has made it this far.”
The toymaker nods. Best not to use his bare hands. He picks up a pair of pin awls and works them gently into the cracks by the side of the hinge, then pries. There is a gentle pop as the cylinder lid separates from the base and sides. Still… caution… He works the awls forwards along the curved sides, separating and lifting the lid. Finally, he slides it forward and free of the false catch on the front. He gives a sigh of relief. Within is a worn slip of paper, covered in some strange writing.
James Moriarty leans in with a satisfied nod. He lifts the delicate paper from the cylinder, slides it into a prepared case and says, “You are as good as your reputation, Herr Adler. I am going to keep you.”
“Eh?”
“You were recommended to me by one of those foolish tinkers I mentioned, who fell for the trick of the blades. Trevors was his name. Always a bit of a disappointment, to tell the truth. No, I think you will do better. Gather your tools and say goodbye to your little home. We shan’t be needing it more.”
“But… No! This is my shop. It is my life.”
Moriarty’s tone is suddenly cold. “Then you have built yourself a very grubby little life, haven’t you, Herr Adler? All this talent and no customers? What good is skill if it goes to waste in a dusty corner? Admit it: you love the work but only tolerate the customers—when you get them, that is.”
“I was toymaker to the Emperor of Austria!”
“And now look at you. You can hardly care for yourself and you certainly cannot care for that granddaughter of yours.”
“I will!” the old man cries. “I am all she has!”
“No longer.”
“When my son left for America, I had nobody. And now he is gone… But at least I have her! We are together!”
“Together? Then where is she?”
The old man’s eyes flick to the clock. He blinks.
“That’s right; it’s after four already,” Moriarty confirms. “Where is she?”
Moriarty concurs with a groan. “She certainly is. She ran six of my men halfway around this city. I’ll swear she lured two of them right into a pack of constables on purpose. Now I find myself two men down. Who knows how many bribes I’ll have to pay to hush this all up? And what do I have to show for it?”
The toymaker stares at his guest. His mouth is open, but he’s silent. I can see the fear growing in him.
“Don’t you see?” Moriarty asks.
The toymaker is silent.
“You. The answer is: you.”
“You cannot do this.”
“I have to,” says Moriarty, with a cadaverous shrug. “Don’t you see, Herr Adler? I cannot risk my person, exploring devices like this. The pursuit of immortality is not well served by such hazards. Happily, I have been directed to you. It is clear you have little care for money, but you do care for your granddaughter and your work—so I am assuming control of both.”
“You are a fiend!”
“Many people feel so, but you have no reason to. Come now, what would have become of your granddaughter without my aid? When this shop finally failed? When you could no longer shield her from the fate London affords to its female poor? But if you are loyal to me, Herr Adler, Irene shall flourish. Under the tutelage I can afford her, who knows how far she can go? And you will get to see. I will make sure you see, so that you continue to work for me with zeal. So hard to force true talent, you know. Easier to inspire it.”
The toymaker stares up with an expression of horror.
Moriarty grunts his frustration. “Don’t you understand what I am giving you, old man? This is your life’s dream! Every day, I will show you wonders! And every day, you will show me how they work.”
