RSS

Tag Archives: Sherlock Holmes

The Last Laugh

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

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on July 20, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , ,

Gunning for Blackwood

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.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on July 10, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , ,

Big Bangs at the Club

Statement of Robert Clackett

(Former employee of the Diogenes Club)

I make this statement at the request of Sherlock Holmes and his associate Doctor John Watson in connection with an incident at the Diogenes Club on Monday last.

Having met Messrs Holmes and Watson and two other individuals as they entered the Club, I continued with my usual duties for about another half hour. At that point, I became aware of two gentlemen approaching me. As they were not familiar, I stepped forwards to prevent entry until I’d had the opportunity to examine their credentials. However, before I could do so, one of the gentlemen hit me over the head with what I suspect to be a wooden mallet.

The next thing I recall is waking up on the ground with a large cut to the back of my head and a headache like I’ve never before experienced.

Getting to my feet, I heard a knocking sound coming from inside the Club and realised someone must be banging on the doors. That’s when I noticed several planks of wood had been nailed across the double doors and a heavy chain looped around the handles.

When the knocking stopped, I heard a voice.

‘Clackett? Are you there?’

I recognised the voice immediately as Mr Sherlock Holmes, the aforementioned famous detective.

‘Yes, sir,’ said I. ‘How can I help you this evening?’ (I realise now this was a particularly stupid response, but I did have a very sore head at the time.)

‘Clackett,’ continued Mr Holmes. ‘I am placing a large explosive device at the door. I suggest you withdraw to the pavement and prevent anyone else from approaching.’

I called out my agreement and hurried down the steps to the road. A few moments later, I found myself sailing through the air as if a terrific wind had erupted from nowhere.

When the dust cleared, I perceived that the doors to the Club had gone, replaced by a hole several times larger than the space formerly occupied by the said doors.

A man I now know as Inspector Lestrade, hurried out into the street and helped me up.

‘Can you stand, Clackett?’ he said.

‘I can, sir.’

‘Then I want yer to come wiv me ter Scotland Yard.’

‘But inspector, I can’t leave my post—non-members might gain entry to the Club.’

The inspector placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘This may come as a shock to you, but in a few minutes the Diogenes Club will be blown ter fuck. Now. Are you wiv me?’

I nodded and we pushed through the gathering crowds along Pall Mall and found a cab. Racing across The Mall, the Hackney veered left into Horse Guards Parade, under the arch, and out onto Whitehall where we careened left again followed by a sharp right into Whitehall Place.

Lestrade shouted at me to pay the cabbie while he ran up the steps.

A minute later, I found him shouting at two constables in the lobby. The pair looked a little suspicious until the detective flashed his warrant card.

‘I ain’t gonner tell yous again, lads—we ‘ave ter evacuate the building right now, cos there’s a fuckin bomb an it’s gonner blow this place sky bloody high.’

‘But there ain’t no-one ‘ere, Inspector,’ said one, waving his arms as if to demonstrate the lack of police officers.

‘What d’yer mean, there ain’t no-one ‘ere?’

‘It’s a bank ‘oliday, sir. There’s only a skeleton crew here tonight. An anyway, we got an offer of soup and stovies from that wee Scots lassie that runs the soup kitchen round the corner. Since Commissioner Gordon sent round that notice sayin we weren’t ter consume food on the premises, the lads that were on duty ‘ave gone round there.’

The inspector let out a long sigh and I saw the tension of the situation drop from his face like suet pudding hitting the floor.

‘Right,’ said he. ‘You two go outside and make sure no-one gets back in here.’

‘Oughtn’t we ter try an find this ‘ere bomb, Inspector?’

‘No time. Outside, now.’

No sooner had we crossed the threshold than that (by now familiar) terrific wind erupted again and all four of us flew up into the air. We landed in a heap of arms and legs back in the Hackney cab we’d just got out of.

After we’d picked ourselves up and examined our various injuries, the inspector sent the two coppers off to check on their colleagues and warned them to arrest whoever had made the soup. Just as they ran off, he called them back.

‘Just so yer know, yer colleagues might be dead. If they are, well…just do what yer can.’

The pair hurried away. Then the inspector told me to go home and come back in a few days to make a statement.

‘Where will I come back to, sir?’ I said, gazing at the ruins of the police headquarters.

He rubbed his chin. ‘Good point. Leave me your address and I’ll come to you.’

As I walked away, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by it all, I saw the inspector gazing up at the great mounds of rubble that a few seconds earlier had been Scotland Yard.

I’d only got as far as Trafalgar Square when an almighty explosion shook the very street I walked upon.

That’d be the Diogenes Club, then, I thought to myself.

Bugger.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on June 7, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , ,

Bombs in the Bathroom

Diary of Doctor J. Watson

No amount of pulling and twisting did any good—the ropes were too tight and our balancing act on top of the bomb too precarious. Anything other than small movements might trigger the mechanism and blow us to smithereens.

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I said. ‘Holmes will find us.’

‘Before or after the bomb goes off?’

I told myself to stay positive and tried a different tack. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have one of those clever little devices about your person?’

‘Which clever little devices?’

‘You know—like your wind-up lamp, or that vibrating thing you had on the SS Mangochutney.’

‘Even if I did have that ‘vibrating thing’, I’d have to remove my French knickers to get at it.’

‘Oh. Of course.’

We fell silent for a moment. Then, realising the end must be near, and with a trembling lip, I murmured, ‘Mary, I want you to know that you have been the best part of my life. You’ve brought me companionship, unexpected joy, thrilling escapades, and laughter. Not to mention undreamed of carnal adventures of such intensity—’

‘Will you shut up a minute?’

‘What?’

‘Quiet. There’s someone outside.’

I listened. Something squeaked. For a moment I thought it must be the toilet seat, then I recalled a similar sound when I’d pushed open the bathroom door only a few short minutes earlier.

‘Who’s there?’

‘For God’s sake, Watson. You’ve not got the squirts again, have you?’

‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘We’re in here but don’t open the door. There’s a bomb.’

I heard muttering, a few thumps and a minute later Sherlock’s head appeared over the top of the cubicle.

‘One thing we can say for the Watsons—they never do anything by halves.’ His beady eyes took in our situation, and he barked instructions to Lestrade.

‘D’you know about the bombs in the dining room?’ said Mary.

‘I do,’ said Holmes.

‘I expect Mycroft’s panicking, is he?’

Holmes coughed. ‘He would be if he could talk.’ In typical Holmesian pragmatism, he outlined the events of the last few minutes. As he finished, Lestrade returned.

‘I got scissors, a knife and a tin-opener.’

I heard Holmes clamber down from on top of the toilet and a moment later the big-nosed detective’s face appeared under our cubicle door. Twisting himself round, he managed to get one arm under the door and stretched upwards until able to position the scissors next to the wire.

‘You do know that cutting it might trigger the bomb, Holmes?’ I said.

‘I do, Johnny. So, let’s hope it doesn’t.’

I closed my eyes and heard a metallic snip. Holding my breath, I opened my eyes and looked down. The wire had been cut and we were still alive.

Using various other kitchen utensils, Holmes and Lestrade cut through the ropes holding Mary and I together, then lifted us bodily, one by one, away from the bomb and into the relative safety of the washroom.

‘How long have we got left?’ said Mary.

‘Not long enough,’ said Holmes. ‘The external doors and windows are locked and shuttered. I suggest we use this explosive device to fashion an exit.’

‘You what?’ said I.

‘We need to blow the bloody doors off.’

‘What about the antidote?’ said Lestrade.

Holmes rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Given the occupations of our dining room friends, I did consider leaving them to their fate, but even Mycroft doesn’t deserve that. Besides, we don’t really want to start a war between America and Russia, which is exactly what would happen if the ambassadors were killed.’

Lestrade shook his head. ‘I don’t see ‘ow we can ‘ope to find a bottle of antidote in a place this size. It just ain’t possible.’

‘For once Lestrade, you’re absolutely right.’ He turned to Mary. ‘Where would you hide such a bottle, Mrs Watson?’

Mary frowned. ‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Because, Mary, I seem to remember a certain incident on a certain steam ship where you extracted a small device from a certain part of your anatomy.’

‘We were just talking about that,’ said I. ‘She’d shoved it up her—’

The slap echoed around the small room. ‘What the hell was that for?’ I whined, rubbing my offended features.

Mary glared at me. To Holmes, she said, ‘You’re right. I kept if up my vagina, but as I’m not in league with Lord Henry Blackwood, I can assure you that—’

‘Yes, yes, I know, Mary. I’m simply suggesting that a woman in the employ of Blackwood, should she fall foul of him, might, as punishment, serve as a receptacle for such a hiding place.’

I looked at Mary, who inclined her head in a way that suggested she already knew the answer.

‘Of course,’ I muttered. ‘Ratched.’

‘Ang on,’ said Lestrade. ‘Why would Blackwood punish Maudie?’

‘Tell him, Mary,’ said Holmes.

‘Because, Inspector, I broke her wrist. Blackwood might easily see that as a betrayal—don’t forget, she wasn’t his woman, but Moran’s and as Moran doesn’t exist…’

Holmes glanced at his watch. ‘We have to find her. And we have only fifteen minutes before the bombs go off.’

As we raced along the corridor, I wondered what would be worse—being blown to bits or having to give Maudie Ratched an internal examination.

Either way, it wouldn’t be pleasant.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on May 29, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , ,

Blackwood to the Stage

Journal of Inspector G. Lestrade

Having searched the guest bedroom and a couple of nearby closets, Holmes and I decided to go back to the dining room.

Back at our table, we found the Watsons had not returned.

‘How long have they been gone?’ said Holmes to his brother.

Mycroft checked his Half Hunter. ‘It’s just after seven, so almost fifteen minutes. Hadn’t you better go and look for them?’

Holmes started to rise from his seat, then sat down again. I followed his gaze to the far end of the room where a woman had stepped onto the stage. Standing at the lectern, she stared at the audience.

‘It’s Klopp,’ muttered Holmes.

While she waited for the diners to fall silent, I picked up my spoon and was about to start on the pea soup when Holmes touched my hand. His eyes went from mine to the soup bowl and back again.

‘Don’t.’

I looked at Mycroft and the two ambassadors, who had all finished their soups. With my stomach grumbling, I was about to complain that I hadn’t eaten for hours, when Professor Klopp began to speak.

‘Gentlemen and gentlemen, I vould like to zank you all for coming here tonight to hear my thoughts about bringing economic equality to ze world. Unfortunately, zer vould be no point in telling you zat, because by eight o’clock tonight you vill all be dead.’

A murmur of disapproval ran around the room, but rather unexpectedly, no-one stood up to protest. I glanced at Holmes whose beady eyes were scanning the other diners. When I looked at Mycroft and the ambassadors, I saw they were all sitting very still, with only their eyes moving.

‘What’s happenin, Holmes?’ I whispered.

‘It’s the soup. They’ve all eaten it. Probably laced with a formula taken from that damned book of Ravenscroft’s, or perhaps a substance similar to the one Blackwood used to murder his father.’ He leaned over and poked Mycroft in the chest. Mycroft’s eyes widened but he did not move.

‘They’re bloody paralysed.’

‘But still able to hear,’ said Holmes.

‘Yes, Mr Holmes,’ said Lord Henry Blackwood, who had now arrived on the stage, a tall black hat and long cape giving him the appearance of some sort of posh wizard. ‘In fact, you and the inspector are the only individuals still able to move. Unfortunately, you are also unable to escape, as all the doors and shutters have been locked from the outside. Your friends Mr and Mrs Watson are,’ he laughed, ‘also unavoidably detained. Anyway, on with the show. I’d like to welcome the American and Russian ambassadors, gentlemen of the British government and various other industrialists and businessmen. You were all invited here in the belief that you would hear something to your advantage. Sadly, that is not the case. As you will have guessed by now, you have all been poisoned. Our good friend, the world’s first and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, assisted me in locating a certain ancient book of spells. It is this book that has allowed me to develop a poison that would take effect approximately 30 minutes after imbibing it. However, the bombs we have planted above your heads will ensure that anyone who does not succumb, will be blown up.’

Holmes jumped to his feet. ‘You won’t get away with this, you fiend.’

‘Ah, Sherlock. Your rather stupid friend, Doctor Watson, said something along the same lines. Alas, he and his good lady are currently tied up in the company of one of my explosive devices and therefore won’t be with us for the rest of their lives. But I would not wish to kill everyone here without giving you, Sherlock, a small chance to save a few individuals, so I have hidden in this building, somewhere, a bottle of antidote. If you can locate it and give three or four drops to anyone still alive, you can save them. Of course, you still risk being blown to hell when the bombs go off, but you can’t have it all ways.’

‘Even if you kill us all,’ said Holmes, ‘you’ll still have half the government and the whole of the Metropolitan Police Force to contend with.’

Blackwood grinned. ‘The Government, yes, but not the dreaded fuzz. My men have also placed bombs at Scotland Yard and have utilised the services of a local soup kitchen to provide my special soup to any officers wishing to partake. So, you see, one way or the other, most of my current enemies will be dead by this time tomorrow.’

‘You’ve forgotten one thing, Blackwood,’ said Holmes. ‘You’re still here.’

‘For the moment, yes, but I have arranged an escape route for myself and my team.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘In half an hour, I shall be dining at my country estate in the company of several elder politicians who share my beliefs on the future of Londen. Which gives me what I believe the gentlemen of the law would call a water-tight alibi.’

With that, he grabbed Klopp’s hand and hurried offstage.

‘What the bleedin hell are we goin ter do now, Holmes?’ said I.

‘Find that bleedin antidote, that’s what.’ He pushed his chair back. ‘And save John and Mary, and find the bombs and…’ He sighed. ‘Or at least give it a bloody good go.’

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on May 14, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , , ,

Dinner and Death at the Club

The Journal of Sherlock Holmes Esq.

Inspector Lestrade flashed his warrant card at a passing Hackney and pressured the cabbie into taking us to the Diogenes Club. Spurred on by the promise of a mention in The Police Gazette, the man completed the journey in less than five minutes.

‘What are we going to do when we get inside?’ said Mary, as I assisted her onto the pavement.

‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ I said. We ran up the steps to the front doors, where the doorman seemed about to bar our way. On recognising my distinguished features, he grinned.

‘Evening, Mr Holmes. Will you be joining your brother for dinner?’

‘That’s right, Clacker.’

He blinked and muttered, ‘It’s Clackett, sir.’

‘Of course it is. Now, I suppose there won’t be any trouble signing in my friends, here?’

The doorman cast an eye at Mary as I pushed her through the doorway.

‘You do know ladies aren’t allowed in the Diogenes, don’t you, sir?’

I coughed. ‘Course I do, but as we are attempting to prevent a master criminal from taking over Londen, I’m sure you can make an exception.’

His eyes widened and he leaned closer. ‘Who is it, sir, Moriarty of Moran?’

‘Blackwood.’

‘Oh, fuck. He’s a proper bad ‘un, that one. Tell you what—I did a bit of time in Wormwood Scrubs before landing this job, so if you need a good bloke with a cosh, just tip me the wink.’

‘I’m obliged, Clackett, but I think we’ll need more than a cosh on this occasion.’

‘You’d better have this for the lady,’ he said, dipping a hand into his outer pocket.

Taking the necktie from him, I nodded my thanks and followed the others into the foyer. Lifting Mary’s collar, I fashioned a quick Half-Windsor knot. ‘Remember, talking isn’t allowed in the Club except in the dining room.’

Hurrying up the stairs, I wrote a note for the attendant that we were guests of Mycroft Holmes. While he scribbled a reply, I took the opportunity to whisper a final instruction to my companions.

‘Whatever Blackwood’s got planned, he’ll expect us to try to stop him, so keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious.’

‘Would help if we had weapons, Holmes,’ whispered Lestrade.

‘We do have weapons,’ I whispered back. ‘They’re just not loaded.’

As soon as I opened the door to the dining room, my heart sank. The place was packed to the rafters. All eyes turned towards us as we made our way into the centre of the room, where I spied Mycroft sitting with the American and Russian ambassadors. My brother gave me one of his For-Fuck’s-Sake looks and stood up as we approached. The table had been set for four, so I clicked my fingers at one of the waiters and indicated our need for three more chairs.  

‘Sherlock, how good of you to come,’ said the elder Holmes, glancing at Watson and Lestrade. When he caught sight of Mary, however, his mouth dropped open. ‘Ahm, yes. Inspector Lestrade, Doctor and…Mr Watson. May I introduce Ambassador Slobinov of Moscow, and Ambassador Diddlysqit of Washington.

The two representatives stood and bowed, and we all shook hands, apart from Mary, who curtsied, blushed and then looked at her feet.

Two waiters brought the additional chairs and managed to squeeze all seven of us into spaces around a table meant for four.

As the general hum of conversation returned to the room, I scanned the faces of our fellow diners. Most were not members and had likely come along in the hope of insinuating themselves into the good books of one of the ambassadorial guests, while the others were the usual bunch of indolent politicians and greedy industrialists—in other words, the cream of the upper classes. At one end of the room, I noticed a small stage.

‘Are there to be speeches?’ I said to Mycroft.

‘Indeed.’ He nodded to the ambassadors. ‘Following our meeting, I’ve arranged an after-dinner speaker. To lighten the mood.’

‘Anyone we know?’

Mycroft gave a little shrug. ‘Just some chappie from the Londen School of Economics. Professor…’ He frowned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small card. ‘Professor H. Ppolk. With two ‘p’s.’ He paused. ‘Are you all right, Sherlock? You’ve gone rather pale.’

Leaning towards him, I whispered in his ear. ‘It’s Klopp, you cretin. Professor Helga Klopp.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Sherlock. As you told me yourself, she died on Huge Island. Besides, women aren’t allowed in the Diogenes Club.’ Glancing at Mary, he coughed. ‘Usually.’

John tapped my leg. ‘Holmes, I think we ought to check out the backstage area.’

‘Good idea, Watson, except there isn’t a backstage area. Only toilets, the kitchens and a guest bedroom.’

‘In that case I suggest we check out the toilets, the kitchens and the guest bedroom.’

Mycroft sighed loudly. ‘Sherlock, I realise it’s a lot to ask, but d’you think you could possibly pay attention while I outline our government’s proposals with our guests?’ He indicated the two ambassadors, who by now were becoming restless.

‘Is it a matter of life or death?’

‘No, little brother, but it is a matter of national security and I’d appreciate your input.’

I smiled politely at the ambassadors, then turned back to Mycroft. ‘Lord Henry Blackwood is alive and well and almost certainly planning to kill everyone here. If we don’t stop him, national security will be the least of your problems.’

‘Ah. I see. In that case, is there anything I can do to help?’

‘Keep the ambassadors talking. If they’re seen leaving, Blackwood may do something drastic. Nevertheless, if anything untoward occurs before I return, I suggest you exit the building with all speed.’

I signalled to the Watsons and Lestrade and we removed ourselves from the table and made our way to a door at the far end of the room. Closing it behind me, I glanced around. We were in a hallway with several doors leading to the aforementioned toilets, kitchens and guest bedroom.

‘What’s the plan, Holmes?’ said Watson.

‘The guest speaker is Helga Klopp. I expect her speech will be used as a distraction while Blackwood carries out his evil deeds.’

‘And do we know what those evil deeds involve?’ said Mary.

‘No, which is why we need to find him. Lestrade, you come with me. Watsons, check the toilets and kitchens. Meet back here in five minutes.’

Quite what we would do when we located the criminal mastermind and his villainous gang, I had no idea, but I did know we had no choice but to try.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on April 20, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , ,

To Londen on a Coal Barge

Diary of Doctor J. Watson

We reached the river at Richmond Hill within twenty minutes and with the aid of my revolver, engaged the services of a coal barge and its truculent captain.

‘Good thing he doesn’t know this is loaded with blanks,’ I muttered to Holmes as we clambered aboard.

‘Yes. Like you, Watson, most individuals see but they do not observe.’ He paused. ‘Of course, he wouldn’t be able to see into the barrel and identify the actual bullets.’

Holmes busied himself reading a copy of The Times he’d borrowed from the harbourmaster. We settled down for the voyage into the city and I finally had the chance to ask Mary about her encounter with Maudie Ratched.

‘Blackwood said you’d injured two of his associates.’

Mary nodded. ‘Ratched made the mistake of trying to interfere with me, so I broke her wrist with a move I learned at my Kung Fu for Ladies class. That’s when her friend intervened.’

‘Friend?’

‘Yes.’ Mary gave me a sly smile. ‘She had disguised herself as a man, with a bushy moustache and a ridiculous wig, but her distinctive voice allowed me to identify her as an old adversary of ours.’

‘Really?’ said Holmes, putting down the newspaper to listen in to our conversation. ‘Who?’

‘See if you can guess. Up until the point when I smacked her in the mouth, she hadn’t spoken, but then she said something that gave her away— I vill haf wewenge on you, Mary Vatson.’

‘Wewenge?’ said Holmes, his face draining of colour. ‘Oh, God. Professor Helga Klopp. So, I did see her in Massachusetts during the Lizzie Borden affair.’

‘It seems so,’ said Mary.

Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. I did the same, but it didn’t help. Then I realised something. ‘Why were Klopp and Ratched not with Blackwood just now?’

‘I think I know,’ said Mary. ‘Klopp said she would see me later and that I’d be sorry. I assumed she’d be there in the workshop.’

‘But she actually meant she’d see you somewhere else entirely,’ muttered Holmes. ‘In which case she must have known Moran’s real identity.’

‘Then why did Blackwood go through that whole palaver of pretending to kill us?’ I said.

Holmes grimaced. ‘Don’t forget, in the guise of Moran, he had to be dramatic and vengeful—that’s what Moran was known for. Blackwood, on the other hand, enjoys tormenting his victims, dragging out their agony. Look what he did to his own father.’

I recalled the crime scene all too readily. Being Sir Thomas Rotheram’s illegitimate son had always riled Blackwood. Using his knowledge of chemistry, the villainous lord drowned Sir Thomas in his own bath, baffling the police for days until Holmes revealed the source of the paralysing substance discharged into the bathwater. I shuddered to think what torments the man might have in store for us at the Diogenes Club.

‘How long til we reach the city?’ yelled Holmes to the barge captain.

The surly fellow sniffed and nodded up-river. ‘Ten minutes. Oi can drop yous at Lambeth Bridge.’

‘Westminster Bridge, if you don’t mind,’ said Holmes.

‘Suppose you’ll blow me brains out if Oi does mind, eh?’

‘Quite probably.’ Holmes turned to me. ‘I’d happily pay the fellow if we had any cash.’ He returned to scanning his copy of The Times and we fell into a companionable silence until Holmes broke it with a sudden yelp.

‘My God!’ He folded the paper over and pointed to a tiny column at the foot of the page.


Diogenes Club, Carlton House Terrace

Government representative Mr Mycroft Holmes will be entertaining the Russian and American Ambassadors this evening as part of a plan to bring the two sides together in a bid to secure world peace. It is rumoured that Mr Holmes will also be joined by his younger brother, the private detective Mr Sherlock Holmes…

‘Blackwood intends to provoke a war,’ I said, aghast.

‘At the very least,’ muttered Holmes. ‘And if I’m not much mistaken, he plans to murder Mycroft and the four of us in the process. Replacing us with his puppet stooges, he’ll be able to put out whatever story he likes—probably blaming the British Government for allowing criminals to run riot across Londen.’

‘I’ve never been to the Diogenes Club before,’ said Mary.

‘And you won’t be going this time,’ said Holmes. ‘Women are forbidden to enter, even when attempting to avert a world war.’

Mary made a growling noise. ‘If you lot think I’m missing out on this, you can think again.’

Lestrade examined his feet. Holmes and I twiddled our thumbs.

‘I’m serious,’ Mary went on. ‘If I have to dress up as a…as a…’ She looked around for inspiration. ‘As a bloody barge captain, I’m going to be there.’

And so the truculent captain suffered yet further indignities as Mary demanded he remove his clothes and put on her dress instead. Emerging from the tiny cabin a few minutes later, Mary barely looked human in a pair of black trousers, a grease-stained shirt, and a heavy black coat. With her hair bundled up into a woollen hat and black grease smeared across her face to give the appearance of an unshaven chin, she definitely resembled a man, though I could not say with any certainty that even the most defective doorman would deign to allow her entry to the most exclusive gentleman’s retreat in the city.

‘D’you think they’ll let me in?’ she said, in a deep voice.

Holmes and I nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

The captain clambered out of his cabin a few minutes later, Mary’s dress hitched up around his knees. ‘Oi ain’t ‘appy about this, mind,’ he muttered. He continued to moan and gripe until we reached Westminster Bridge.

It had started to get dark by the time we climbed up the steps to the quayside. Pulling my collar up against the cool breeze, it occurred to me that this might well be the last case Holmes and I, and indeed Mary and Lestrade, would work on together. At that moment I determined that if we survived whatever ordeal we were about to embark on, I would return to my medical practice and relinquish my crime-solving activities for ever.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on April 9, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , ,

The Unmasking of a Master Criminal

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.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on March 27, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , ,

Colonel Moran and Other Identities

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.’

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on March 12, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , ,

Porcelain and Poisons

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.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on March 7, 2022 in Detective Fiction

 

Tags: , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: