Author Archives: colingarrow

Diary of Mary Watson (Mrs)

Hearing the door of the cell next to mine creak open, I listened keenly as Moran’s voice echoed from the passageway outside. I heard Sherlock reply but couldn’t make out the words. A rattle of keys in my own door prompted me to step backwards. As the door swung open, one of the thugs stepped inside and grabbed my wrist.

‘Come on, you,’ he said, dragging me into the corridor.

Holmes, Lestrade and my own dear husband were waiting there, guarded by another thug with a gun. Johnny tried to embrace me, but Moran held him back. ‘You’ll get your chance to say goodbye, Doctor, but not just yet.’

Pushing us into a line, we were herded along the passage, up two flights of stairs and into what appeared to be a workshop. So far, I’d seen no windows and had no idea of our location. The room we now found ourselves in had stone walls like the cells, and a set of high wooden doors at one end, wide enough to admit a horse and trap. The edges of the doors didn’t quite meet in the middle, allowing a shaft of daylight to flicker across the floor. Workbenches were fixed around the remaining walls, but our attention centred on a shape in the middle of the room. Covered with a grubby white sheet, I estimated it to be about the size of a large dining table.

‘Now,’ said Moran, ‘I think as Mrs Watson has already injured two of my associates, I shall give her the pleasure of being the first to try out my latest device.’

Johnny glanced at me. ‘Injured two of them? Good for you, old girl.’

I gave him my best winning smile, but already my hands trembled in uneasy anticipation.

One of the thugs drew back the sheet covering the table, revealing a wide metal bench with a slightly raised section in the middle and several leather straps hanging from the sides. At first sight, there seemed to be nothing particularly threatening about it, then Moran walked to a set of wheels and levers attached to the wall and I saw they were linked to a contraption higher up by a series of belts and ropes. As Moran twisted the wheels and operated each of the levers in order, a grinding noise began to vibrate all through the room, causing my stomach to jiggle and my legs to shake, so much so that I thought I might wet myself. Looking up, I observed a complicated contrivance juddering down from the rafters. As it came into view, it reminded me of an iron-maiden—one of those horrendous coffin-shaped devices embellished with short spikes. The only difference with this one lay in the central spike, which stuck out at an acute angle in what I estimated to be the location of the victim’s private parts.

As the contraception came to a halt a few feet above the table, Moran moved to another lever.

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you can see the possibilities of this machine. The smaller spikes, of course, are intended to pierce the victim’s skin as the top of the machine descends upon them, however, my particular delight with this one is the central spike, which as you will see…’

He pushed the lever, and the central spike began to extend downwards at an angle.

‘The victim is strapped into place, face down, with the hindquarters uppermost over the raised area of the table, and with legs apart. Thus, allowing the Buggering Tool, as I like to call it, to do its job. Though of course the smaller spikes will cause some damage, it is the Buggering Tool that will force its way into the victim’s body and continue up through the bowels, slicing through various internal organs until the victim is no longer alive.’  He scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Of course, I haven’t seen it at work on an actual victim, yet, so can’t comment on exactly how long the process will take, but I should imagine it will be exceptionally painful. As our old friend Moriarty would say—Mwah, hah, hah.’

At this, my legs gave way. Falling to the ground, something in my churning stomach began to work its way up to my throat, emerging as an animalistic howl.

‘Come, come, Mrs Watson,’ said Moran, waving a hand at his henchmen. ‘A little more decorum, if you please.’

Two of the thugs helped me to my feet, but Johnny pushed them aside. To their credit, they let him support me and I clung to him, hiding my face from Moran.

‘My darling,’ murmured Johnny. ‘My poor, poor darling.’

Though my churning guts were real enough, I had no intention of having my bottom pierced. Looking up into my husband’s eyes, I whispered, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.’

He smiled at me in a rather pitying way, as if nothing I could do would make the slightest difference to our fates.

I stepped forwards. ‘Come on, then. Do your worst.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Moran. ‘So, if you’d like to strip naked, please.’

Clutching the silver teaspoon in one hand, I took off my jacket and began to undo the buttons on my blouse. Holmes, Lestrade and Johnny stood by, their eyes firmly fixed on the floor. As I slid the blouse off my shoulders revealing my pert breasts, Holmes looked up.

‘You can stop now, Mary. I think this has gone far enough.’

I hesitated and looked at him, as did everyone else in the room.

‘Oh, Holmesy,’ said Moran. ‘Don’t be a spoilsport, we’re just getting to the interesting part.’

‘Indeed,’ said Holmes, ‘but first of all, I should be obliged if you would remove that silly beard.’

Moran gave him an odd look. ‘Granted, this may not be the most stylish set of whiskers, but I can assure you, it is real.’

Holmes laughed sardonically. ‘Yes, about as real as those ridiculous stories of derring-do and swordsmanship we’ve been hearing about for the last fifteen years.’

Moran’s grin had disappeared and for the first time he seemed unsure of himself. ‘Those stories are all true. In fact,’ he pointed to Johnny, ‘your own bloody biographer wrote about them.’

Holmes nodded to Johnny. ‘He did. However, Watson does have a habit of exaggerating certain aspects of his tales—a remnant from his soldiering days in Afghanistan, you know.’

‘You cannot put me off, Holmes. I mean to kill you all and I want it to really hurt!’

Holmes waved a hand around the room, indicating Moran’s men. ‘They know, do they? Who you really are?’

‘Don’t play games, Holmes, or you shall go first.’

‘I must say I’d never have twigged if it hadn’t been for your manicured fingernails and that Wedgewood tea set. It’s obvious you created the character of Sebastian Moran to infiltrate Moriarty’s gang, which I have to say you did exceedingly well. So well, in fact that I suspect you allowed your double identities to go on for several more years than you had originally intended. But that tea set especially let you down. A man like Moran, as you created him, would never use such fine china. If he really had been educated at Eton and Oxford as you would have us believe, he would naturally have the social graces to go with that education. But you made the mistake of forgetting that Moran is supposed to be a solider, used to rough soldierly ways and manners. Watson here was a soldier too, but he is also a doctor, and even he prefers drinking from a mug rather than a fine bone china teacup. When you created Moran, you mixed up his background with your own and a love of the finer things in life.’ He glanced at the thugs, who had suddenly become interested in what he had to say.

‘This is rubbish,’ Moran blustered, waving his hands. ‘You two, take off Mrs Watson’s clothes and strap her onto the machine.’

But the thugs didn’t move.

‘I suspect they are as interested as we are to see what is underneath that disguise of yours. Now, take off the beard, Lord Henry Blackwood.’

The Journal of Sherlock Holmes Esq.

Though I do not usually succumb to Watson’s habit of recording my reflections on our adventures, the probability of our imminent demise encouraged me to put down on paper what may well be the last words I ever write. Borrowing a few pages from Watson’s diary, I collected my thoughts.

With Mary now in the clutches of Maudie Ratched, the time had come to make a move. But before I could proceed, Watson leaned forwards.

‘A teaspoon, Holmes?’

I shrugged. ‘Had Moran’s men issued us with a paring knife, I would of course have urged Mary to secrete it about her person.’

‘Maybe she could sharpen it on a brick,’ said Lestrade. ‘That’s what the blokes do in Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘Of course,’ muttered Watson with more than a smidgen of sarcasm. ‘And perhaps she could stab Ratched and Moran and all the other villains, allowing us to make our escape.’

I waved a hand at him. ‘Keep your voice down, John. Walls have ears.’ I glanced at the two thugs by the door, but they were engaged in a game of cards and took no notice.

‘I suppose you’ve got a better plan, eh?’ said Watson, giving me a hard stare.

Picking up my cup, I shook out the tealeaves and examined its base. ‘Not a plan as such, John, but a possibility.’

‘I see,’ said my effervescent companion. ‘We’ll bash their heads in with bone china.’

I allowed myself a sardonic smile. ‘You’ve written a good deal about Colonel Moran, haven’t you, Watson?’

He sniffed. ‘Suppose I have.’

‘Would you say he were the sort of chap to use fine china?’

He frowned. ‘Actually, no. Not at all. If anything, I’d expect him to drink from a workman’s mug, the sort of thing labourers might use.’

‘Precisely,’ said I, examining the saucer. ‘So, why are we drinking from Wedgewood teacups?’

Watson picked up his own cup and looked at it. ‘Wedgewood. Well, I never.’

We sat for a moment, each of us staring at the teacups, when Lestrade chipped in.

‘Posh stuff, ain’t it? More the sort of fing a lord would use, eh?’

‘For once, Lestrade, you’re absolutely right.’ I grinned and waited for the proverbial coin to hit the floor.

‘Oh, fuck,’ said Watson. ‘They’re not Moran’s—they’re Blackwood’s.’

‘Which means what?’

‘That he is in league with Blackwood after all.’

‘Possibly,’ said I, ‘though there may be another explanation. Also, Mary’s observations are suggestive.’

 ‘Of what?’ said Watson. ‘You don’t think…’

At this point, whatever toxic substance Moran had put in our drinks began to take effect. Watson nodded off in mid-sentence. While trying to wake him, Lestrade slid to the floor, eyes flickering and tongue lolling like a dog on a hot day. Making myself comfortable, I waited for sleep or death, whichever option our enemy had chosen for us.

Some hours later, I awoke to find I had been laid on a rough wooden bench in a room without windows. Testing the air, I inhaled deeply, finding a distinct aroma of damp, decay and an oddly familiar fragrance. Peering through the gloom, I made out a hunched figure against the far wall. Struggling to my feet, I stumbled across the stone floor and grasped Lestrade’s hand, shaking it.

‘Wha…’ he murmured. ‘Wha’s goin on?’ Sitting up, he blinked and stared at me. ‘Shirl? That you?’

‘It is. Where’s Watson?’

Lestrade stood up, holding on to me for support. ‘There’s somethin in the corner.’

We stumbled across the room to what appeared to be a pile of mouldy blankets next to a heavy door with iron hinges and found John Watson hunched beside it, breathing heavily.

I gave him a nudge. ‘Watson? Come along, old chap. Wake up.’

He blinked several times and after a moment or two came to his senses. ‘Where are we?’

‘Some sort of cellar,’ said Lestrade.

‘Dungeon, more like,’ said I. ‘Clearly our captors have moved us to another location, though if they still intend to kill us, it would hardly seem worth the effort.’

Struggling to his feet, Watson examined the rest of our prison. ‘Where’s Mary? She’s not here, Holmes.’

‘No, but a certain aroma suggests she may be nearby.’

‘Aroma?’

‘Yes, Watson.’ I waited while he sniffed the air.

‘What is it,’ he muttered, still sniffing.

‘As always, John, you inhale but you do not evaluate. I suggest a combination of Bulgarian rose, musk, ambergris and bergamot, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Of course—Fleurs de Bulgarie. Mary’s favourite scent.’

‘What de what?’ said Lestrade.

I resisted rolling my eyes. ‘A perfume presented to the old queen in the mid-eighteen-forties. It has become quite popular with ladies of Mary’s class.’

Watson took out a box of Swan Vestas and lit a match. Holding it up, all three of us searched the upper walls of our cell until we spotted a barred window near the ceiling.

Taking Lestrade’s arm, I pulled him to a spot beneath the aperture. ‘Be a good fellow and make a step.’

Cupping his hands, Lestrade leaned against the wall while I planted one foot in his grip and hauled myself upwards, almost level with the window. ‘Mary?’ I whispered. ‘Are you in there?’

I perceived a scuffling noise from the cell next door. ‘Sherlock? Is that you?’

‘It is,’ I said. ‘I’m in here with John and Lestrade. Are you hurt?’

She gave a short laugh. ‘No, but Maudie Rached won’t be sticking her fingers into anyone for a while.’

‘Are you in a position to escape?’ I listened hard, eager for some morsel of hope.

‘No. There’s only the cell door and this tiny window.’

I dropped to the floor and crossed to our own door, running my hands up and down its frame, examining the hinges and lock.

‘What d’you think, Holmes?’ said Watson.

‘I think we’re in a tight spot. As is your wife.’

We stood and looked at each other in the gloom, each of us no doubt wondering how much longer we might have left to live.

At that precise moment, a key rattled in the lock and the door opened. Colonel Moran stood there, a pistol in one hand and two of his henchmen on either side.

‘Ah, Holmes,’ he said, caressing his beard. ‘Glad to see you and your friends are awake at last. I expect you’re wondering how much longer you have to live, eh?’

‘Actually,’ I quipped, ‘we were speculating how much longer you have left to live.’

Moran forced a smile. ‘Very funny, Holmes. Now, if you’d all like to come with us, I shall introduce you to the machinery which will bring about your deaths.’

I glanced at my companions and let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘My apologies, friends. I should never have dragged you into this mess.’

Watson laid a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry, Holmes. We’ll come through this, one way or another.’

I opened my mouth to reply but no sound came out. Fearing my emotions might for once get the better of me, I simply coughed, held up my head and walked through the door. Whatever fate awaited us, it seemed the world’s greatest detective had met his match.

Diary of Doctor J. Watson

True to his word, Moran sent in one his henchmen with bowls of chicken broth, bread, and a pot of tea. I noticed the patterned milk jug matched the cups and saucers, which, along with a single silver teaspoon, added a nice touch—not the sort of thing you’d expect from a master criminal and crack-shot assassin. When the thug had gone, Mary played mother and we sat for a few minutes concentrating on filling our stomachs. Lestrade’s slurping would normally have irritated me, but the knowledge the inspector would be dead in less than a day, pushed such self-interested thoughts from my mind.

Collecting the empty bowls, Mary piled them up on the tray and poured herself another cup of tea. “By the way,” she said. “I noticed Moran’s fingers.”

“Oh, yes? What about them?”

“Manicured. Seemed a bit odd considering his background. You don’t think he prefers men, do you?”

Holmes laughed. “Not if the stories about him and Lady Windermere’s fanny are true.”

“Just a thought.” She sipped her tea for a moment, then, “So, d’you have any ideas? Some clever scheme to get us out of this mess?”

“Several, my dear,” said the big-nosed detective. “But none that would bear fruit in our current situation.” He eyed the two thugs still guarding the door to the basement. “Left to our own devices we might have a chance but with our two friends here, I doubt we’d make it out of this room alive.”

“D’you still think Blackwood is involved in this?” I said.

Holmes shrugged. “It seems unlikely, given their previous relationship. However, I can’t imagine he’d allow Moran to take over Londen’s criminal empire without a fight.” He took out his meerschaum and began stuffing it with tobacco. “Besides, Blackwood still has that damned book of Ravensburg’s. Christ knows what he might achieve with that.”

Lestrade took a slurp of tea and swallowed noisily. “What exactly is this book he’s got, then?”

“Magic and witchcraft,” I said.

“Oh. Gonna murder us wiv magic?”

“I doubt it,” said Holmes. “Blackwood is far too clever to believe in such nonsense.”

“But you told me he brought himself back from the dead,” put in Mary.

Holmes let out a sigh. “Mary, Mary, Mary. The book may be stuffed with ancient spells and incantations, but we all know magic doesn’t exist. Whatever Blackwood did to apparently come to life again, will have a perfectly simple explanation. That book will prove effective for him only if he can make others believe he possesses supernatural powers.”

Lestrade grunted. “He’s done that, afore, an’all.”

Mary tapped his knee. “What did he do, exactly?”

Lestrade straightened up in his chair. “He made out he were able ter cast a spell over all the politicians an that in the ‘ouses of Parliament. Course, what he really done was try to gas them with cyanide, after givin his own men the antidote.” He winked at Holmes. “Would’ve got away wiv it, too, if it weren’t for Sherl.”

“Yes,” said Holmes, a smile creasing his face. “We chased him across tower bridge, which at the time was still under construction. Silly sod fell off and hanged himself from a loose chain.”

I nodded. “Still bloody survived, though didn’t he?”

“Perhaps, Doctor,” said Holmes, banging a fist on the arm of his chair, “we may be getting away from the point.”

“Which is?”

“Which is, that by this time tomorrow we shall all be as dead as dumplings unless we come up with an escape plan.”

One of the thugs looked over. “Don’t mind us. We won’t say nufink, will we, Bert?” He guffawed loudly and after a moment, his mate joined in.

“And we shall have to do it,” added Holmes, “quietly.”

The door to the other room opened and one of the other thugs came in, picked up the tray with the soup bowls and went out, leaving the door open. For a moment, I wondered if it might be worth having a look inside, but just then Maudie Ratched appeared. She crooked a finger at Mary.

“Come along, girlie. Me an you are going to have some fun.”

I saw Mary press herself into her chair, gripping the arms with white knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere with you, bitch.”

Maudie produced a dagger and waved it around. “We can do it the easy way or the fuckin painful way. You choose—I don’t care.”

Holmes had his back to the door. He raised an eyebrow at Mary and, opening his hand, showed the silver teaspoon he’d been hiding. Mary gave a quick nod.

“Very well,” she said, standing. Crossing to me, she crouched and kissed my cheek. She did the same with Lestrade (which must have made his day) then, passing Sherlock, bent down to kiss him and slid the teaspoon up the sleeve of her dress.

“Bye boys,” she said, turning at the door. “If you hear screaming, it won’t be me.”