Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (8 page)

When I had extricated myself, Holmes whispered, “Wait here one moment, Watson, I shan't be long.” And, accompanied by the slight fellow who had met us upon our arrival, he guided the Widow into an unlit shed across the narrow alley.

I waited in silence for Holmes' return, stamping my feet against the damp chill, while the particularly foul pong in the air, like that of stale grease mingled with mold and rotten fish, made my nostrils curl in disgust. Holmes emerged presently and, taking my elbow, led me back down the alley, around the corner of a wooden building which appeared to be in the last stages of decay, and came to a stop before a nondescript door set in a squat brick building. Holmes knocked briskly with his cane.

The door opened, letting out a gush of harsh yellow light over the gray and black stones at our feet, and a surly keeper peered around the door suspiciously. He looked my companion and me up and down, and relented at last with a reluctant,

“Evening, Cap'n Basil, sir.”

“An' good-evening to you, too, my good man,” replied Holmes briskly in a guttural twang, exhibiting no surprise at the man's address. “Might I beg a table for my friend and myself? I assure you we would be no end grateful to exchange the raw damp of this evening for a few pints of your choice bitter.”

“Right, Cap'n, sir; this way, then.” The massive fellow bowed in a grotesque attempt at ceremoniousness, and shut out the cold air to our backs. While he was thus employed, I turned towards my companion, and suppressed with some difficulty an exclamation of surprise. For in the gas-lit passageway Holmes was utterly unrecognizable as the lean, ascetic consulting detective I knew so well. Indeed, his appearance was so altered, I believe I might have passed him by on the street without knowing him. It was not so much his actual features that were changed, except that he wore a captain's bonnet, a patch slung over one eye, and the neckerchief and collar of a sailor's pea jacket peeped out from his overcoat; his entire manner and bearing had become that of a stern, hardy young sea-captain, confident in his command, lacking neither in courage nor audacity. A pair of shining scuffs completed his nautical outfit to perfection.

Holmes smiled at the astonishment in my eyes, as we followed our guide along a narrow passage of worm-eaten floor planking, and down a disreputable flight of steps. Thus, 'Cap'n Basil' and I entered the subterranean den of mischief known as the Foul Fish and Fowl Club.

* * *

It was a sprawling chamber of enormous dimensions into which we entered, riven at intervals with chest-high walls lined with rich velvet, which served to create an illusion of privacy for the occupants of the tables along the walls. The ceiling was enshrouded in deepest gloom, far beyond the reach of the gas lamps, which, though numerously scattered about the premises, all seemed to have their shutters drawn half-way, so that the atmosphere was dim, and hazy with smoke. My companion led the way down the few steps into the main room, and strolled in a rolling gait towards an untenanted table in a couched and half-curtained recess.

Not wishing to address my companion until he should have occasion to brief me, I sat down nervously, looking about with as nonchalant an air as I could muster, while Holmes settled his coat and mine on a convenient hook in the corner of our recess, and signed for drinks.

When he had settled himself across the table, I ventured a quiet remark.

“Captain Basil, eh? You've been here often, I gather?”

His eye twinkled. “More than once. As I say, the home-brew is particularly fine.” Lowering his voice to the faintest whisper, he said, “We await Mycroft's cue.” Aloud again, he cried, “Ah, here are our drinks! Long life an' health to you, m' dear Finch, and may your tenure here be prosperous!” Following his lead I drained my cup; Holmes sighed contentedly and flicked his fingers for another round. The strong bitter seared my throat pleasantly, and I agreed that the brew of the establishment was decidedly good.

While we waited for another drink, I looked about, wondering when Mycroft would make her appearance, for it was twenty minutes past ten already. My field of vision was somewhat limited by the boundaries of our recess, and the few tables within my sight were mostly untenanted, while some were occupied by individuals or pairs. I speculated whether any of these might prove to be our quarry. Holmes appeared to be thoroughly engrossed his second drink, paying no attention whatsoever to our surroundings. His behavior surprised me, for I had imagined that he would be watchful, intensely on his guard, with every sense acutely tuned in to the scenery about us; how else could he manage to identify and ensnare his prey?

Presently a lady, rather short of stature and wearing a dark veil over her features, passed by our table and disappeared beyond my range of vision. She was followed a moment later by a very tall woman dressed in deep purple and black, with a detail of black lace around the eyes, and a sweeping train of the most remarkably exquisite black fur. Though she did not so much as glance in our direction as she passed us by, I recognized her instantly, and my heart, I am forced to admit, skipped a beat or two in appreciation of her elegance and beauty.

Holmes, giving no sign of having noticed either lady, quaffed his third cup with a flick of his wrist, and stood up. “Come along, Finch,” said he in the character of Captain Basil, flinging my coat across to me. I quickly drained my own glass, and donned my coat. My companion, swinging his stick jauntily, tossed a handful of coppers onto the table, and in his brisk seamanly step, strode around the partition that divided us from our neighbors behind my bench. Stopping before the table, he removed his hat and extended his hand to the gentleman who occupied the place.

“Evening to you, Mr. von Oberon,” said Holmes in his own, ironical voice. “Or shall I call you Pierrot? Mind if my friend and I take a seat at your table?”

The gentleman's eyes rounded, and he stared at Holmes with an expression of mingled surprise and consternation.

“I beg your pardon, sirs,” said he in a reproachful voice. “I am afraid I have no idea what you mean. And, agreeable though your company might be on any other occasion, my friends, my lady has only stepped away for a moment, and will doubtless take exception to finding you in her place when she returns.”

“Oh, you needn't fear for Miss Valentine; I assure you she is in good hands. The best, really, considering...”

My friend's voice trailed off at the change in the gentleman's expression. He was a dark man, not more than five-and-twenty, with handsome, well-cut features, wide-set eyes, and a peculiar rich tint to the skin; his face, however, had assumed a rigid and chalky quality at Holmes' last statement, his formidable black eyes widened, and his lips compressed in an attempt to regain his composure. This he did, by degrees, as Holmes removed his coat and hat and placidly sat down opposite him.

“This is absurd,” said the gentleman, with darkening brow. “I must insist that you desist this unmannerly conduct and leave my presence at once.”

“That is, I am afraid, quite impossible just at present, Mr. von Oberon,” Holmes replied with a little smile. “You see, I very much wished to have a private word with you. I'm not sure you know who I am, but I assure you that if you deal squarely and openly with me, you may find me a less noisome burden than the appointed guardians of the law, which are your only alternative. Then again, why should you trust me, a perfect stranger? You may take my word, Mr. von Oberon, that unless you take me entirely into your confidence and make a clean breast of everything, your fair companion may be held to blame for matters which, one might suppose, do not concern her in the least.”

“Never!” cried von Oberon, leaping to his feet and glaring at Holmes with a fury that did nothing to move my friend, though I reached instinctively toward the brace of my cannon. Remembering in time the modifications that had been done to my arm's weaponry, I instead felt for my trusty service revolver, which I had slipped into my pocket before leaving the house.

“Come, come, Mr von Oberon,” said Holmes in his most soothing tone. “You really mustn't excite yourself. Let me tell you again that your best and safest choice lies in taking me into your confidence without delay. That's right. Sit down and compose yourself, or you'll do yourself a mischief.”

The man, still glaring into Holmes' eyes, sat down slowly.

“Who are you?” he asked softly. “And where is Victoria?”

“My name,” said my companion, “is Sherlock Holmes. Miss Valentine is, at present, in the company of my sister. I assure you that Mycroft is an excellent companion, and Miss Valentine will come to no undue harm while in her custody. The young lady was merely detained a few moments in order to answer some questions relating to several small matters in which she has entangled herself of late, including the deaths of her brother and fiancé, and the robbery of some rather important Engine cards belonging to her brother's department. That is all.”

“But that is the sheerest nonsense!”

“Come now, my dear sir, come. It simply won't do, you know. We are not children.” Holmes' piercing gaze did not flinch. Mr. von Oberon's countenance fell slightly.

“Sir, regardless of what you believe or imagine of my fiancée, will you give me your solemn word of honor that no harm shall befall her?”

“Barring an act of Providence or fate, I give you my word that no undue harm shall come upon her.”

“I, too, am a man of honor, Mr. Holmes,” said von Oberon. “I cannot allow Miss Valentine to bear the weight of my actions, for she is a sensitive soul, and wholly innocent of any crime. Your reputation has reached even my ears; you are known for your ingeniousness, but also for your equity. If my confession can dispel the suspicions that surround her, I shall most willingly tell you all you wish to know.”

“Excellent!” said Holmes. “I must ask you to begin by explaining the murder of Arthur Cadbury.”

“An accident—sheer accident, and one most regrettable.”

“Indeed? And was it an accident that his body was thrown from your upper window onto a train?”

The man before us drew himself very upright in his seat. It was plain that he was shaken by Holmes' knowledge of his affairs; nevertheless there was something noble and commanding in his posture.

“Mr. Holmes, perhaps it would be simpler for me to commence by relating my background and history; you will find my actions and motives easier to understand once all of the facts are known to you.”

“Ah, that would be most instructive. You have my keenest attention.”

“You may judge me to be a thief and a murderer, a mere criminal, but I am none of these,” began von Oberon, choosing his words with the care of one relating a historical drama. “Though I am known as Peter von Oberon, my true name is Pierre Nemo, son of Captain Nemo, who was once Prince Dakkar of Northern India. Many years ago, in the period that immediately followed the Great Mutiny, he was robbed of his rightful heritage by agents of a cruel and dominating nation, and separated from his loving family. Believing that we had been killed, he swore vengeance, and renounced the world to build his own legacy, in the form of a marvelous submarine, which he named the Nautilus. He was a brilliant inventor, an explorer and scientist, and above all, a man of honor and justice, full of compassion for the weak and under-trodden. His Nautilus became not only a tool for research and exploration, but also a weapon against the proud and greedy, for he maintained that while corruption and iniquity subjugated the earth and the sky, the foulness of Man could never permeate the depths of the sea, where alone could be found true freedom. As Captain Nemo he traversed the oceans, incurring the reverence of some, and the hatred of many. When he died, we laid him to rest in the heart of his Nautilus, and scuttled her in an undersea forest which my father had cherished as the most beautiful place on earth to him.

“I was a youth when he died, yet I grew to manhood under the shadow of his influence and legacy. Several years ago I went to Berlin to study scientific engineering, having assumed my mother's maiden name, for her people had been of German extraction. While there, I learned one day that my father's last resting place had been desecrated and destroyed, and the secrets of the Nautilus stolen by the very nation that had denied him his birthright and divided our family.

“I was justly infuriated, Mr Holmes, and pledged to retrieve the secrets of my father's legacy at all costs, and rebuild the submarine myself. I had his fortune at my disposal, but it was only after long and arduous research that I traced the thieves, and discovered where the plans were secreted. You may well imagine my surprise and chagrin when I discovered that the man who had overseen and executed the so-called salvage mission for the British Navy was none other than the brother of Miss Valentine.”

“You knew her already, then?” Holmes asked.

“Indeed, sir, I did, for she attended a Young Ladies' Academy in Berlin, and we had often met at lectures and concerts. We had long been friends.”

“Not only friends,” said Holmes, narrowing his eyes. “You were engaged by that time, were you not?”

“I don't see how you could have known, Mr Holmes,” said our interlocutor, a flush extending over his swarthy face. “I suppose it is no use denying that we became engaged in secret some time before.”

“Why in secret?” queried Holmes. “Surely you had no reason at the time to conceal your feelings for one another?”

“Victoria was a vivacious girl, very full of life, and very young. She loved me, but did not want to marry so soon, and desired that our engagement be kept a secret in order to avoid the society conventions imposed upon a woman who is engaged. For my part, I was content with her promise, and did not wish to hamper her high spirits with a premature public pledge.”