Tag Archives: Lord Blackwood

Diary of Doctor J. Watson

Lestrade glanced at me then took a quick look through the nearest window. My own gaze moved to Blackwood, who, with his face daubed in some red substance, raised his hands.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Lestrade.

As I continued to watch, the hooded figures halted their chanting and gazed at their beloved leader. Blackwood clutched something in his right hand. Making a series of gestures as if performing some weird magical act, he spoke words that could only have come from the demonic book he had so lately acquired. With a sudden flourish, he threw his hands up, casting a reddish powder into the air. With a flash of light, the powder ignited, causing the minions to gasp in awe.

Holmes gave me a nudge and signalled we should break the door down immediately. I couldn’t see any point faffing around with Lestrade’s jemmy, so I lifted my revolver and blew the lock off. (Admittedly, this action removed any element of surprise we may have had, but I reckoned the noise would at least ensure we had the attention of everyone in the room.)

Bursting through the shattered doors, we took up defensive positions, with Holmes and I covering Blackwood and the altar, while Lestrade and Mary kept their guns trained on the hoodies at either side.

‘Ah,’ said Blackwood. ‘You’re still alive, then?’

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ said Holmes, ‘but you’re all under arrest.’

Lord Henry Blackwood laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Shirley.’ He leaned to one side and picked up a large dagger. Holding it in both hands above his head, he began to chant strange words again. I could see he intended to carry out the ritual killing of Professor Klopp.

‘We have to do something, Holmes,’ I said.

‘I’m aware of that, Watson.’ To Blackwood, he shouted, ‘Drop the dagger or I will shoot.’

Blackwood paused, inclined his head, and looked at one of his minions. ‘You know what to do.’

Every single one of the hooded blokes swivelled towards us, their faces dull and lifeless. I guessed they must’ve been drugged, probably with a similar concoction to the one he’d used on us. But as they raised their right hands, I saw each man held a massive knife, much like the one Blackwood wielded.

‘You may have the firepower to kill some of us,’ said the villainous lord, ‘but you will be sliced up like mangoes before you can say tropical sunrise.’ He laughed.

‘Then we have an impasse,’ said Holmes.

Blackwood smirked. ‘Don’t think so, Holmesy. But I’ll tell you what, if you let me finish this little routine, we’ll call it quits.’

Holmes shook his head. ‘Frau Klopp may be a criminal, but she does not deserve to die like this.’

‘Doesn’t she? Well, I think she does. You see, like our friend Miss Ratched, her allegiance was to Moran, who of course, doesn’t exist. And since she also allowed Mrs Watson to escape her punishment, I’m somewhat disappointed in her. And you know how much I despise those who disappoint me, don’t you?’

At this, he raised his dagger again and muttered something indistinct.

‘Then I shall have to shoot you,’ said Holmes, pointing his gun directly at Blackwood’s head.

Blackwood sighed and lowered the knife. ‘You’re no fun, Holmes. I’m definitely going to have to kill you very soon. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure your replacement makes good use of 221B Baker Street and that whoring housekeeper of yours.’

‘You fiend,’ said Holmes. ‘If you—’

‘Oh, shut up, can’t you?’ He sniffed and lifted the dagger again. ‘Now, can we please get on?’

Holmes still had the gun aimed at the villain’s head. ‘I’m warning you, Blackwood. I will shoot.’

‘You know, if you spent a little time perusing the reports of your adventures related by Doctor Sidekick there, you’d realise Sherlock Holmes never shoots anyone, no matter how evil they are.’

I glanced at my companion and couldn’t help noticing how his hand trembled. Blackwood had got it spot on—Holmes would never kill anyone if it could be avoided. Apart from anything else, he prided himself on his ability to rise above actions which he considered to be the coward’s way out.

‘I’ll shoot him,’ said Mary. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’

Holmes smiled at her. ‘That’s very noble of you, my dear, but I wouldn’t wish to tarnish your reputation.’ He let his gun arm drop to his side. ‘You’re quite right, of course, Lord Henry. But while I may be unwilling to kill you, I have no qualms about shooting your balls off.’

In a flash, he raised the gun, took aim, and fired.

It took a few seconds for the reverberations of the shot to die away. But as soon as it did, Lord Henry Blackwood began to scream.

‘Arrrgghhh! You shot my fucking balls off, you fucking…’ Clutching at the space where his gonads used to be, Blackwood sank to the floor, the dagger falling uselessly at his side.

For a moment, the hooded minions stood and stared. Then one of them stepped forwards.

‘Lord Blackwood, rise up and be reborn with gonads anew. Rejuvenate yourself as you have instructed us to do. Become the Evil One. Become—’

‘Oh, shut up, you dick,’ I said, giving the man a sharp left hook. Like Blackwood, he crumpled to the floor.

At the sight of their wounded leader, the hooded minions seemed to rouse themselves. Looking around, they blinked, rubbed their eyes, and dropped their weapons. Some started to cry.

Holmes let out a long sigh. ‘This is going to be a nightmare to sort out. Blackwood will no doubt convince the public, or at least the politicians in his pocket, of his innocence. He’ll probably claim we tortured him. Even if he goes to jail, he’ll escape, and we’ll be left to pick up the pieces. Again.’ He shook his head.

Lestrade sniffed. ‘You’re right, ‘Olmes. He’ll be runnin Londen’s criminal networks before we can say Jack bloody Robinson.’

‘Ours not to reason why,’ muttered Holmes, resting a hand on the inspector’s shoulder.

Lestrade nodded solemnly. ‘Course, there’s one way of makin sure that don’t ‘appen…’

Before anyone could stop him, he raised his gun and blew Blackwood’s brains out.

Blood splattered the floor in a wide arc, some of it landing on the faces of the minions. The evil genius sat quite still for a second, eyes wide and staring, then he fell forwards, still clutching at his ruined gonads.

My mouth dropped open. ‘Jesus wept…’

Holmes sniffed. ‘Yes, Inspector. That certainly is one way…’

Lestrade gazed up at Holmes. ‘You ain’t gonna say anythin, are yer?’

‘You did what I could not do, Inspector. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.’

One by one, the hooded men came to their senses and removed their cloaks, revealing that many were politicians, lords, earls and even one or two members of the royal family.

‘What’s happening?’ said the Earl of Rochester. His face suggested a mix of emotions, including confusion, embarrassment, and horror.

I took the man’s head in my hands and examined his face. ‘Some sort of all-encompassing sedative, I should think. Something to make you pliable and easily influenced.’

Holmes nodded. ‘The doctor’s right. By the time you all came to your senses, you’d be implicated in murder, treason and probably a few sexual shenanigans to keep you under his power for as long as he needed you.’

As the others began to come out of their trance-like states, it took several hours to convince them of what had happened, before we were able to arrange for them to be taken to the police station at Isleworth.

In the aftermath that followed, Holmes and I were kept busy rounding up Blackwood’s thugs, the four fakes, and rescuing Mrs Hudson from the demands of her most recent lodger.

‘He weren’t no bovver, really,’ said she, watching Lestrade handcuff the fake Holmes. ‘Course I knew it weren’t you as soon as he told me he didn’t like muffins. So, I just kept me distance until yer turned up.’ She gave us both a big sloppy kiss, pressing her bosoms into my chest.

Although several politicians and more than forty police officers had died, the situation turned out not to be as bad as we’d anticipated. It seemed some of the dead, including the Commissioner of Police, had been on Blackwood’s payroll for years. Having outlived their usefulness to him, they’d been lumped together for death via the bombs at the Diogenes Club and Scotland Yard.

Professor Klopp turned Queen’s evidence and spilled her guts in the way only the worst villains can do. Maudie Ratched, meanwhile, managed to evade her captors outside the Diogenes Club and was last seen boarding a slow boat for China. 

By the time things had begun to get back to normal, Lestrade had been promoted to Chief Inspector, Mrs Hudson had married the pizza chef from the shop downstairs, and Holmes and I decided that putting ourselves in the path of danger had begun to lose its appeal.

While I won’t say we’ll never get together for another adventure, I doubt if I’ll ever feel the need to leap up at the drop of a deerstalker and run to Baker Street to answer the call of the world’s only consulting detective.

But then again, I might.

THE END

Diary of Doctor J. Watson

As the carriage reached the end of the street, we were hindered by crowds of onlookers, some of them jumping up, trying to see our faces. Just as the vehicle lurched forwards again, the door flew open and Lestrade clambered inside.

From his face, I could tell things were not good. After a pause to get his breath back, he gave us a short account of his partially-successful mission.

‘At least the place weren’t chocka wiv coppers,’ he said. ‘I reckon the blokes what ate the soup will be goners for sure, and the powers that be will ‘ave ter think about finding a new HQ.’ He paused. ‘That’s supposin there are any powers that be after all this palaver.’

We continued our westward journey in silence for a while. With Holmes up top acting as driver, I had no clue as to his plan. Or if he even had one.

After about half an hour, the carriage pulled to one side, and we all climbed out. The night had a cold nip to the air and the lack of streetlamps made it difficult to gauge our location.

‘Watson,’ called Holmes, still sitting up top. ‘Climb up here.’

I did so, and as I moved into position next to him, he pointed across the darkened fields to a shadowy shape silhouetted against the sky. As I watched, the moon slid out from behind a cloud, illuminating the vast mansion.

‘Tossingly Park.’

‘How are we to do this?’ I said, gazing at our objective.

‘If I remember rightly, there’s a long driveway leading up to the house. We’ll be shaded by trees until the last hundred yards or so.’

‘Then we leave the carriage out of sight and approach on foot, eh?’

‘That’s the game.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘My only concern is our lack of weapons.’

Holmes had stopped rubbing his chin, so I rubbed mine. But it didn’t help. ‘Blackwood’s family have lived there for years, haven’t they?’

‘I believe so,’ said Holmes turning his beady eyes on me.

‘Huntin, shootin and fishin, etc?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then there must be a gun cabinet.’

Holmes blinked, then clapping a hand on my shoulder, muttered, ‘Watson, I think you’ve got it.’ He rubbed his chin again. ‘Trouble is, it’ll waste valuable time looking for it.’

‘I’d rather waste time than try to arrest Blackwood with only our fingers.’

Holmes laughed, despite himself. ‘You’re right, of course. In which case, I suggest we approach via the front—he won’t expect that. Blackwood’s a stickler for doing things properly so the gun cabinet will be somewhere away from general view, perhaps near the servants’ quarters, which I suspect will be on the left of the entrance hall.’

‘What are you two gassing about?’ said Mary.

Holmes explained the plan to her and Lestrade, then we resumed our journey. Ten minutes later, we pulled up again a short distance beyond what I supposed must be the gardener’s residence.

Walking through the main gates, we could now see the house in all its glory—an impressive neo-classical mansion probably dating from Tudor times. Boasting four storeys, I couldn’t help admiring the five ornate columns supporting the elaborate front portico.

As we hurried up the steps between the columns, I saw the actual entrance to the house had been set further back. If anyone occupied the rooms on either side, they’d spot us for sure.

Now in semi-darkness again, we came to a halt at the huge double doors. Holmes tried the handle.

‘Locked.’

Lestrade pushed him out of the way. ‘Let me ‘ave a go.’ Producing a crowbar, he set about forcing the lock.

‘Always carry burglar tools, do you, Lestrade?’ said Holmes, with a smile.

‘Course not, but I ‘appened to pick this up off a pal of mine on the way back to you lot.’

With a sharp crack, the wood splintered, and the door opened.

Lestrade slid the jemmy down his trousers and waved us inside.

There were doors to our left and right—the one on the left, if Holmes proved correct, would lead to the servants’ quarters. Ahead of us, a set of double doors almost certainly went through to the courtyard and then to the great hall.

Holmes signalled that we should go left.

Thankfully, this door did not require Lestrade’s expertise, but opened easily. Inside, a short hallway led to two more doors. A quick peek inside one revealed a passageway with rows of pegs for outdoor clothing, most of which were of poor quality and therefore clearly belonged to staff. Backtracking, we entered the second room and found two cabinets, each bolted to the wall and fastened with solid padlocks.

Holmes nodded to Lestrade and the inspector made short work of the padlocks, flipping them open as easily as oyster shells.

The first cabinet contained an array of bottles and potions, many filthy with age and built-up grime—no doubt Blackwood’s personal collection of ‘magical’ mixtures. I noticed three empty spaces and dusty marks, suggesting bottles had been removed—bottles Blackwood might be using at this very moment.

The second cabinet revealed what we were looking for. Several rifles, pistols and other armaments were held in elaborately carved racks. On quick inspection, we found all the guns were loaded, as if their owner had prepared for trouble. Noticing the pepper-box revolver I had lately encountered, I resisted the urge to take it and instead grabbed a Colt Peacemaker, its long barrel giving the weapon a satisfyingly weighty feel.

‘Arm yourselves, comrades,’ whispered Holmes, helping himself to a Howdah pistol. Mary opted for a Derringer while Lestrade chose an army revolver. Thus, suitably equipped, we set off back to the entrance.

The door to the courtyard filled me with trepidation— according to Holmes, the courtyard would be overlooked by all the rooms on either side and above it, as well as the windows in the great hall, which we guessed would be straight ahead. Taking hold of the brass handle, I gave it a twist. The door opened and a moment later all four of us were standing in the courtyard. The layout appeared to be exactly as Holmes had said, with windows on three sides, though most lay in darkness. However, we did have one thing in our favour—the great hall had been lit with hundreds of candles and even from this distance, we could make out dozens of dark figures moving around.

Holmes motioned for us to approach the doors by keeping to the left-hand side. As we reached the first of the hall’s windows, I sneaked a look inside. There were, indeed, several dozen individuals dressed up in hooded garments, moving around in a circular fashion and intoning the words of some no-doubt demonic chant.

But it wasn’t the hooded people, or even the red-cloaked figure of Blackwood himself that made me gasp. In the centre of the circle stood an altar, very much like the one I’d seen at Roderick Usher’s house only a few weeks earlier. Stretched across it, stark naked and bound with a series of straps, lay Professor Helga Klopp.

Diary of Mary Watson (Mrs)

A collective gasp went around the room and the man with the face fungus took several steps backwards.

For a moment, I thought he’d continue to deny everything, but then he took a long breath and exhaled slowly, as if allowing his real self to emerge. Straightening up, his entire torso seemed to fill out. With one hand, he took hold of his whiskers and peeled them off, revealing the smooth and manly chin of Lord Henry Blackwood.

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped almost an octave, but its rich deep timbre had a far more menacing tone to it than Moran’s ever had.

‘Moriarty told me not to underestimate you, Holmes. Seems he was right.’ Blackwood rubbed the remaining bits of makeup from his face, took off the brown wig and pushed his fingers through his long black hair.

‘Right, matey,’ said Lestrade, striding forwards. ‘I’m arrestin you in the name of the law.’

Blackwood laughed. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it, Inspector.’ With a quick movement, he whipped out a pistol and aimed it at Sherlock’s heart. ‘Surprised you took so long to work it out, Holmesy. Just goes to show the deductive powers ain’t what they used to be. Never mind, I’ve other plans for your demise that’ll work just as well.’ Turning the gun on me, he smiled. ‘Would’ve been nice to see you skewered, Mary.’ Then with a wink, added, ‘Nice tits, though.’

‘You won’t get away with this,’ said Holmes.

The villain rolled his eyes at me, as if we shared a private joke. ‘Don’t think too badly of me, Mary—I’m a sucker for a stupid doctor and a wonky-eyed woman.’ Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. ‘The best is yet to come. I’ll see the Holmes later.’

Moving around the other side of the table, he nodded to his henchmen. ‘You chaps may have once been Moriarty’s men, but now you have the opportunity to join me in creating the largest criminal empire in England. Are you with me?’

The thugs nodded like the imbecilic morons they were. Opening the double doors, they followed Blackwood outside. The moment the doors clanged shut we heard bolts slammed into place on the other side.

Holmes sprang into action. ‘Get dressed, Mary. Watson, Lestrade—go after him.’

Lestrade reached the doors first. ‘No use, Holmes—we’ll never get through here. See if there’s an axe or a crowbar.’

At the other side of the workshop, Holmes searched for something to use but all the tools had been locked away. Spying a length of timber, he picked it up. ‘Stand aside, chaps.’

With a short burst of speed, he ran towards the doors and crashed into them, bouncing back into the room.

‘Humph,’ he said. ‘Stronger than they look.’

Johnny and Lestrade joined him with the makeshift battering ram and took another run at the doors. On their third try, the bolts gave way.

Outside, we found ourselves in a wide courtyard. The building we’d vacated turned out to be part of a country house. At the far side of the courtyard, a high wall ran down to the gates, opposite a stable block. Directly in front of us stood the main building—a country house of some considerable size.

Lestrade let out a yell and pointed to one of the ground floor windows of the house. ‘He’s in there.’

We ran across to the ornate front doors and Holmes gave the knocker a series of sharp raps.

After a moment, we heard footsteps and the door opened. A bald man in what I took to be a servant’s outfit gave us a bow.

‘Good day, sirs, madam. What can I do for you?’

‘Where’s Lord Blackwood?’ demanded Holmes.

‘Blackwood, sir? There’s no Lord Blackwood here.’

‘Then who was that lookin out of the window just now?’ said Lestrade.

‘Oh, that were just me, sir. Heard a commotion.’

‘Now look here my good man,’ said Holmes, adopting an authoritative tone. ‘Who lives in this house?’

The old man shrugged. ‘No-one, sir. Dene House Manor is owned by the National Trust. We’re open to visitors from August to December, but the place is empty just now. I’m the caretaker, see.’

Holmes frowned. ‘So, you don’t know Lord Blackwood?’

‘Never heard of him, sir.’

‘Then who’s been using the workshop over there?’

The man leaned forwards and muttered in a conspiratorial manner, ‘That be part of a secret Government project, sir. I ain’t supposed to say.’

Holmes clenched his jaw. I hoped he wasn’t about to get physical with the caretaker. ‘Look. If you don’t tell me who has been working in there, I shall—’

‘No, no, you’re alright. I ain’t no hero, sir. It’s just that it’s meant to be top secret, that’s all.’

‘Yes, yes, I understand that,’ said Holmes, his voice rising with each syllable. ‘Just tell me his name.’

The man leaned closer. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’

The big-nosed detective went a shade of purple, but his anger dissipated instantly, and he let out a gentle laugh. ‘Of course, of course, who else could it have been?’ He patted the old man on the shoulder. ‘Obliged for your assistance, sir. Now, where’s the nearest town or village?’

‘That’d be Richmond Hill. Follow the road for half a mile and it’ll take you down to the river. You’ll be able to get transport there, I expect.’

‘He must have had an escape plan,’ said Holmes, as we retreated across the courtyard. ‘Better check the stables.’

We hurried off towards the stable block, where a wide door had been left open. Inside, we found six box stalls but no horses. Holmes dropped to the ground and began crawling around on hands and knees.

‘What’s he doin?’ said Lestrade.

‘Looking for clues,’ I said.

‘Here we are,’ said Holmes. ‘Four horses, two carriages…no—make that one carriage and a Brougham. But they must have been brought outside some time earlier, otherwise we’d have heard them leaving.’ Getting to his feet, he brushed himself down. ‘Suppose we’d better start walking.’

‘Look on the bright side,’ said Johnny. ‘At least we’re still alive.’

The consulting detective dropped his chin to his chest. ‘Yes, yes, I suppose that is something.’

‘It certainly is,’ I said. ‘I’m much happier not having a steel phallus shoved up my—’

‘Thank you, Mary,’ said Holmes. ‘Though as my deductive powers were on top form, I don’t think you were ever in any real danger.’ He gave me a sardonic smile.

‘Oh, you don’t, do you?’ Curling my fingers into a fist, I made ready to smack him in the mouth.

‘Later, dear,’ said Johnny, holding me back. ‘I rather think we ought to save our energy for finding Blackwood, eh?’

We stood for a minute, looking at each other. Then I remembered something. ‘Holmes, what did he mean by seeing you later?’

Holmes scratched his chin. ‘I’m sorry to say I have no idea, Mary. After his criminal activities first came to light, he was banned from entering any public meeting place in Londen.’

He started to walk down the driveway to the gates, but I caught hold of his arm. ‘Wait. Blackwood isn’t known for his conversation. I got the feeling that when he says something, he says it for a reason. Could it be some sort of clue?’

He stopped and looked at me. ‘Blackwood was talking to you, at the time.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘If he meant it as a clue, why not say it directly to me?’

‘Because he was looking at my tits. Anyway, he said he’d see the Holmes later.’

‘D’yer fink he’s expectin ter see yer somewhere specific?’ said Lestrade. ‘Somewhere you’d know about.’

‘Oh, hell,’ I muttered. ‘What if he didn’t mean Holmes, but Holmes’s, as in both of you—Sherlock and Mycroft?’

Holmes swallowed hard. ‘The Diogenes Club.’ He slapped a hand against his forehead. ‘Of course. I’ve been so blind. Mycroft has been sending me dinner invitations for weeks. Something is going to happen at the Club and Blackwood’s expecting both of us to be there.’

Johnny butted in. ‘But if it’s just dinner…’

‘No, no, no,’ said Holmes. ‘It’s never just dinner with Mycroft—he’ll have some ulterior motive. Something he needs me to do, some vital mission for the Government—saving the world or something like that.’

‘Did Mycroft mention a date?’

‘He did, Mary, but as I only read the first part of the invitation, I took no notice of the details.’

‘We need to get a newspaper,’ said Johnny. ‘If something important is due to happen at the Club, it could be what Blackwood’s been waiting for.’

With that, we set off at a pace for Richmond Hill. As we hurried along, I couldn’t help wondering why Blackwood had walked away from his plan to kill us. Could it be that the whole thing had been a diversion to distract us from his real target? Whatever the reason, I knew he wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of creating stand-ins for the four of us if he meant to keep us alive.

Journal of Inspector G. Lestrade

Leaving 221B Baker Street, the three of us took a Hackney and set off for Soho Square. We’d only gone a few yards when I heard a piercing scream and the cab skidded to a halt.

Holmes leaped out of the vehicle to see what the matter might be, but immediately climbed back in.

“What is it, Mr ‘Olmes,” said I. “Been an accident?”

The big-nosed detective gave his companion a sidelong look and muttered, “Nothing so trivial. No, I believe another party wishes to join us.”

At this, Mrs Mary Watson clambered into the cab and squeezed herself between me and her husband.

“Hello, darling. Mr Holmes. Inspector. I thought I’d save you the trouble of picking me up on the way.”

“Look, Mary…” said Doctor Watson, “we would’ve—”

“No, you wouldn’t. But I’m here, now, so you can lump it or like it.”

“I think the phrase is like is—”

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock, before I punch your face in.”

“I was merely about to point out, Mary,” he continued, “that this case is a particularly dangerous one. I had privately advised John to leave you out of things.” He took Mary’s hand in his and I observed a very serious look come over his features. “I have placed you in danger too many times, Mary, and I simply could not bear for anything to happen to you. I know Johnny would be utterly distraught without you.”

Mrs Watson blushed slightly. “I see. That’s unusually thoughtful of you, Sherl, but if I am to die a horrible death, I should rather it occurred while in the service of my country and with my darling Johnny at my side.”

Holmes sniffed and let go her hand. “Fine. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The rest of the journey passed in total silence, and I will admit to feeling a bit of gooseberry sitting there with a very definite atmosphere between Mary and Mr Big Nose. However, I took the opportunity to go over what I knew about the case in my head, so as not to look a complete fool when we arrived at the scene.

The house in Soho Square remained as I had left it, with two constables standing guard outside.

As we alighted from the Hackney, Holmes took me aside.

“The dead man at St Giles, Lestrade…”

“What about ‘im?”

“You are aware of his identity?”

“Course I am— Rev G Burnsbean.”

“Ah. Then you didn’t recognise him?”

“I ain’t never seen ‘im before.”

“Rev G Burnsbean is an anagram, Lestrade. An anagram of Ben Ravenscroft.”

“What? The museum bloke? But—”

“But me no buts, Inspector, I shall fill you in on the details later. For now, I should like to know exactly how he died.”

Feeling a bit miffed at this new information, I took a moment to compose myself. “Right. Well, I didn’t let the papers know cos of the brutal nature of the slayin. See, the poor feller were nailed to the floor of the church. Ye know? Like a sort of crucifixion.”

“Christ.”

“Exactly. And the killer also cut off his whasname.”

“Yes, so I heard. I suspect one of your subordinates has been leaking information to the Tittle Tattle Weekly.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Can’t trust nobody these days.”

We followed the Watsons up the steps to the front door, both of us deep in thought, though I admit my thoughts were more about how I might redeem myself in the eyes of the Great Detective, rather than the case itself.

Upstairs, I waved the other constables aside and waited at the bedroom door with the Watsons while Holmes examined the room.

The dead man had been laid out on the floor with his arms outstretched as if he too had been crucified, though without the addition of six-inch nails through his hands and feet and only a knotted rope around his neck.

Holmes crawled across the floor, avoiding the occasional spatters of white paint that specked the bare floorboards. Approaching the corpse, he slid one hand up the dead man’s trouser leg, withdrew it and smelled whatever substance his fingers had encountered. Then, jumping up, he strode back to the doorway.

“As I suspected, Lestrade, this is not Lord Blackwood.”

“What d’yer mean, it ain’t Lord Blackwood? I examined the body myself. It’s definitely ‘im.”

Holmes laid a calming hand on my shoulder and gave me what I suppose was a pitying look. “It may well have been Blackwood when you examined him, but at that time he wasn’t dead.”

“Yer mean he were alive?”

“Not only alive, but no doubt experiencing an inner thrill at your inability to recognise that fact.”

I blinked several times and waved a hand at the corpse. “But he’s right there—dead as a dodo.”

“No, Lestrade.” He turned and indicated the several white spots on the floor. “Not paint, as you probably assumed, but Plaster of Paris. What we have here is the perfect likeness of Blackwood dressed in his own clothes, painted up and placed in the same position on the floor immediately after your departure. But don’t take my word for it.” He turned to Doctor Watson. “Would you do the honours, John?”

Watson crossed to the body and carried out a quick examination. When he came back, he too gave me a pitying look. “Sorry, Lestrade. He’s right.”

At this point, Mary Watson broke into the discussion. “Is it just me, or does this not make any sense?”

Holmes nodded. “On the surface, Mary, no, no sense at all, but be assured Blackwood did not do this for no reason. It is unfortunate that at the moment we are unable to see that reason.”

Doctor Watson poked his companion’s chest with a finger. “Hang on Holmes, how could Blackwood have swapped himself for a Plaster of Paris dummy with all these police officers standing around?”

Holmes smiled and looked at the floor. A moment later he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a revolver. “Because, Watson, these are not police officers.”

With a sudden flurry of activity, the three cops standing by turned and fled down the stairs. Holmes rushed after them, firing warning shots over their heads, but a second later we heard the front door slam shut.

Hurrying downstairs, Mary, Lestrade and I found Holmes banging on the door.

“They’ve locked it. Damn it all, Watson, it was there right in front of me, and I didn’t see it.”

“To be fair, Holmes,” said Watson, “I didn’t see it either.”

“Thank you, old friend, but that is little comfort. Be a good fellow and break a window and fetch someone to open this bloody door.”

Watson scampered off and a moment later we heard the tinkle of broken glass and his voice calling to someone in the Square.

“I still don’t understand,” said Mary. “Why on earth would Blackwood leave a dummy lying on the floor?”

Holmes shrugged and shook his head. Then, with a low groan he muttered, “unless it isn’t just a dummy.” Grabbing mine and Mary’s hands he dragged us into the nearest room just as an explosion rocked through the building.