RSS

Monthly Archives: August 2018

The Night Comes Down…


Diary of Mary Watson (Mrs)

On discovering Johnny had deserted us to accompany that reprobate Holmes on a mission of discovery, Doctor Hirsch and I took it upon ourselves to follow the rascally pair to wherever they were headed.

We’d learned of the deception via the maid who, on delivering a second round of teacakes and scones to our room, happened to mention she’d seen that ‘handsome Mister Holmes’ hurrying across the street with ‘that funny little Doctor bloke’.

Judith let out a low growl. “I knew it,” she muttered. “The stupid man doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’ll get the pair of them killed. Or worse.”

“We have to go after them,” I said, checking through my husband’s spare trousers.

“What’re you looking for?” asked Judith.

“His gun,” I said, holding up the actual weapon. “Wonderful – they don’t even have the means to protect themselves. Bloody men.”

Out in the street, we halted for a moment as a young lad emerged from the baker’s shop opposite. As there was little else in the thoroughfare to look at, we watched this lanky and apparently stupefied individual as he stood scratching his head and uttering obscenities. Hastening to where he stood, I looked at the boy and I noted two things: his trousers were tucked into his rough woollen socks and the laces of his boots had been double knotted as though to keep them from dangling. I then inspected the area immediately outside the baker’s shop that seemed to have caught the lad’s attention. The familiar imprint of a slim tyre had left a faint impression across the pavement in a diagonal line, presumably after being wheeled from the road to lean against a display board while its owner delivered his wares. I noted the specifics of the tread and calculated the likely distance between the two wheels. Then, clicking my fingers in a school ma’am sort of way, I addressed the lad directly.

“You’ve lost something? A method of transportation, perhaps?”

The dull-faced young man waved a hand as if attempting to grasp some unseen object. “Sum-uns nicked me fookin bike, missus.”

“A Velocipede twin-cogged machine with sprung rear forks, I believe.”

The lad’s mouth dropped open like a trapdoor. “Ow d’yer know that, luv?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “It’s called paying attention,” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Judith stepped forward. “Quickly now – how long ago did this happen?”

The lad gazed at her, at me, and back again. “Couple o’ minutes, I reckon. Can’t ha’ been more. I were only in t’shop long enough ter count out five loaves and a dozen stottie cakes.”

Judith turned to me. “We’ll never catch them without a horse and trap.” We moved away and began to discuss the matter in low tones, when the delivery boy interrupted.

“Where is it yer’s are going?”

“Not that it makes any difference, but we must get to the Slaughtered Lamb as soon as is humanly possible.”

“Oh,” he said, with a dopey grin. “Yer’s are wanting a drink, eh?”

I sighed and was about to resume the discussion with Judith when the lad uttered the solution to our problem.

“So why don’t yer’s just do a slider?”

“A what?” said I.

“A slider,” said the lad again. “Get a couple of bits of cardboard and yous can slide down the hill all the way to the Lamb.”

“Down the hill?” said Judith. “But the Slaughtered Lamb is up on the moors.”

The lanky youth nodded. “Oh, aye, it is. If ye go by road. But if’n yous run over to the timber yard yonder, there’s a track that takes ye right down to the back of the inn. It’s where they used to haul up the stones from the quarry.” He shrugged. “I can show yer if yer like?”

I glanced at Judith. “In for a penny…”

And so it was that two minutes later, after hurrying along several lanes and narrow alleys, we arrived at the old timber yard. The delivery boy led us through to a gap in the fence at the far side of the yard and pointed.

“There. That’s the track. Just need ter sit on a bit o’ cardboard and yous can slide right down to the back door.” Crossing to one side, he rummaged in a pile of rubbish and pulled out two battered cardboard boxes. Flattening them out, he gave us one each. “Mind though,” he said, with what I took to be his ‘serious’ face, “don’t yous be stayin out after dark – it be a full moon tonight and yous don’t want ter be meetin with a werewolf.”

Adopting somewhat indelicate seating positions, Judith and I readied ourselves and on a count of three, pushed off from the top of the slope. In a matter of seconds, we were hurtling along at an alarming rate, our respective lady parts bouncing up and down like balls in a juggling contest. Risking a quick glance at Judith, I attempted to conceal my terror, but felt gratified to see that she too was absolutely petrified.

Moments later the slope had levelled out and I could see in the distance a gathering of stone buildings. The nearest of these seemed to be the target of our route and seconds later we glided to a bumpy but largely pain-free stop at the door to what I presumed was the ‘outhouse’ behind the Slaughtered Lamb.

Clambering to my feet, I helped my companion up and we rubbed each other’s bottoms to relieve the throbbing sensation that still reverberated throughout our feminine physiques.

“Come on,” I urged, grasping Judith’s hand. “There’s the back door to the inn.” Within seconds we had negotiated the trail of empty beer barrels that littered the inn yard and pushed through the door that led to the rear part of the public house. As the door swished to behind us, the sound of a heated conversation came to my ears.

“What the fu–”

I stared at Judith. “That was Johnny’s voice,” I hissed.

“Shh!” Doctor Hirsch put a finger to my lips and motioned to a wooden hatch in the wall. Giving the hatch a gentle push, we raised our heads to peer through the aperture into the main room.

As we looked, a strange and unnerving sensation swept over us, as if some kind of dark fog had dropped upon us, changing the scene before our very eyes. And as I watched the crowd of people in front of us, a crowd that included Holmes and my darling Johnny, I saw what Holmes had seen – that an eerie darkness had fallen over the inn and its surroundings.

“Oh my God…” I gasped.

Judith shushed me to be quiet.

Focusing on the scene before us, I shook my head to clear the mugginess in my brain. Then a voice broke through to my consciousness.

“You can’t let ‘em go.”

“They’re being forced back outside,” whispered Judith. “Quickly, we have to reach them before the–” She stopped and stared at me. “Quickly.” Taking my hand, she pulled me backwards and we ran to the door and out into the inn yard. Veering left, we hurried around the corner of the building, heading for the front door. I was all too aware that the night had properly fallen and we were now engulfed in an almost complete darkness. Only the meagre illuminations from the windows of the inn served to light our way.

Rounding the corner, I slid to a halt. In front of us stood my husband, Sherlock Holmes and an approaching stranger.

“Oh shit,” muttered Judith. “It’s him.”

“Who?” I whimpered, not really wanting to know the answer.

But it was Holmes who replied. “Caddy? Inspector Caddy, are you alright, man?”

The other man raised his head and stared at him. “Beware the moon…”

As if on cue, a low howl echoed from somewhere distant.

“Oh, crap,” said Holmes. “It’s coming back!”

 
1 Comment

Posted by on August 13, 2018 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , ,

Prelude to a Kill…


Diary of Doctor J. Watson

Closing the inn door behind me I discerned a sudden lull in the conversation. To be more precise, a silence had fallen over the pub’s clientele as suddenly as if it had been dropped from a great height onto a hard and unyielding surface.

“Ah, good afternoon,” said Holmes in his usual jaunty manner. Shuffling out of his overcoat, he flung the garment carelessly over a nearby barstool and approached the innkeeper. “Fine weather we’re having, ay?”

Every eye in the place had turned towards us, and I was all too aware that the low hum of conversation had not returned. The only sound was the crack and hiss of wet logs burning in the fireplace.

Holmes gave me a signal which I took to mean ‘Be Merry’, so I hastened to his side and plunged in: “Two pints of Old Irregular, please, landlord.” I fixed my gaze on the fellow behind the bar and raised an eyebrow in a manner I hoped would intimate that I was not to be kept waiting.

The man sniffed and rubbed a hand across his hairy chin, rummaging in his beard as if searching for a lost item of food. Casting a meaningful glance at his regulars, he gave two short nods and turned his attention to the beer kegs behind him. Miraculously, the two dozen or so men presently inhabiting the Lounge Bar, resumed their various conversations, though there was a definite lessening of enthusiasm, as if the entire brigade had heeded some unseen warning. (That is, some unseen warning other than that of the two short nods given by the landlord).

“Tourists, eh?” said the barman, pushing two pint glasses across the counter.

“Something like that,” said Holmes. He took a large gulp of beer and licked his lips enthusiastically in an exaggerated show of satisfaction that fooled no-one. “Bit off the beaten track out here, aren’t you?” His keen eyes darted round, missing nothing.

“As are you two,” noted the landlord, with a smirk.

“Yes,” said Holmes, leaning his back against the bar. “But off the beaten track is where one is most likely to encounter items of interest. Rare breeds, unusual wildlife, that sort of thing.”

The barman grunted, and his eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

A hush had once again fallen over the room and I coughed loudly, hoping my companion would adopt a less threatening line of enquiry.

Holmes shrugged. “Arctic foxes, perhaps?”

“In Yorkshire?” The barman laughed and the whole room erupted in a gale of guffaws and derision. A moment later, the silence had restored itself, and all eyes were on Holmes.

My companion now had his back to the barman and, keeping his eyes on me, he turned his head towards the hearth, where the fire blazed merrily. Above the Inglenook, a curious shape had been painted on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but now it caught my attention like a slap in the face. Though it appeared to have been painted over at some point, the original design was still clear.

“A pentagram,” I said, thinking Holmes might not be alert to such pagan symbols. “Commonly used in ancient Greece and Babylonia, also in the Christian faith representing the five wounds of Christ.”

Holmes gave me a withering look. “Well done, Watson. You have once again confirmed my belief that you see but you do not observe.” He pointed a bony finger at the wall. “It’s a reverse pentagram – see where the two points are uppermost? This is not a symbol of good, old friend, but of evil.”

“Oh, bugger.”

A chair scraped across the floor and a thick-set chap strode across the room. Positioning himself rather too close to my hindquarters for comfort, he muttered, “Oi think you gen’lemen ‘ave outlived your welcome.”

“Come, come,” said Holmes, “we haven’t even paid for our drinks.”

“On the ‘ouse,” said the landlord, firmly.

“Ah, well in that case perhaps we’d better…” I had turned to go but Holmes grabbed my sleeve.

“Hold, Watson.” Moving closer, his mouth almost touching my ear, he whispered, “Look out of the window.”

As I turned my head in the direction of the door, I had the curious sensation that everything had slowed down. My whole body seemed to be moving like some badly-oiled machine, barely able to move more than an inch or two at a time. When I was finally able to fix my eyes on the window, the anticipated view of moorland fells and cloudy skies had gone, being replaced by an all-encompassing darkness.

“What the fu–” I started.

“We must go,” said Holmes pushing me towards the door.

“Yes,” bellowed the thick-set man. “Go now.”

Reaching out for the door handle, I stepped forward, then a shriek came from behind me.

“No-o-o-o…”

Spinning round, I saw the figure of a woman behind the bar, an open door beyond suggesting she had entered the room only seconds earlier.

“You can’t let ‘em go,” she yelled, addressing the room as a whole.

“Shut yer gob, wife,” countered the landlord. “We can and we will.”

The newcomer emerged from behind the bar and hurried to where we stood. “Don’t ye be goin’ over the moors, it ain’t safe.” The urgency in her voice convinced me, but Holmes was pulling open the door and pushing me out into the darkness.

“No,” yelled the woman, striving to drag us back inside.

Something thudded into my shoulder and a young lad gripped my arm. “Yous got ter go, but take heed – keep to the road. Don’t go across the moors.” His face was ghastly white and once again I needed no further convincing, but a second later we were shoved across the threshold and the door slammed like a bolt behind us.

The sudden silence engulfed me and I grasped my companion’s hand. “We’re going to die, Holmes, we’re going to die.”

“Don’t be such a Nancy-boy, Watson, the pony and trap is over yonder. We’ll be back in town in a jiffy.”

“But what about the werewolf?” I whined.

“Yes, well I always said it was a load of tosh, now…” His voice tailed off and I saw he was staring at something over my shoulder. “It appears we have company, Watson.”

Swivelling round, I peered into the darkness. A figure was walking, or rather stumbling towards us. At first, I could barely make out his features, but as he drew near, it was the blood oozing from his neck that focused my attention.

“My God,” muttered Holmes dashing forward. Catching the fellow before he fell, Holmes urged me to help. Grasping the man under the arms, we struggled to keep him upright. Thankfully, my medical training leapt to the fore and whipping off my scarf, I fashioned a bandage of sorts and pressed my hand against the worst part of the wound.

“I say, Holmes, this chap looks awfully familiar.”

My companion nodded stiffly. “Of course he is Watson – he’s been tailing us for the last two days.” Then grabbing the man’s face, Holmes gave him a shake. “Caddy? Inspector Caddy, are you alright, man?”

The policeman raised his head and stared at me. “Beware the moon…”

As if on cue, a low howl echoed from somewhere distant.

“Oh, crap,” said Holmes. “It’s coming back!”

 
7 Comments

Posted by on August 7, 2018 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: