The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (28 page)

McMahon and I discussed the timber trade in Vancouver, military life in the far-flung reaches of the Empire, and the race to the north between the trains of the Great Northern Railway and the London and North Western Railway. We passed Abbots Ripton and the topic of the rail disaster that had occurred there occupied us until we reached York.

After a hurried luncheon, Holmes returned to staring out the window. McMahon settled back in his seat and appeared to doze, and I followed suit.

Night and heavy clouds had descended by the time the train pulled into Waverley Station. We collected our bags and stepped out onto the streets of Edinburgh, the great granite sphinx of the North, crouching high on her towering rock, looking across the intervening plains to the waters of the Firth of Forth and the North Sea. Fascinating, regal, splendid, and cruel.

As we left the station, we caught our first glimpse of Edinburgh Castle, bleak and menacing, through a cloud of fog and rain.

McMahon paused beneath a street lamp, his gaze following mine.

“A grim sight,” he said. “I must admit, gentlemen, the view strikes me with fear, even on the sunniest of days.”

“Grim indeed.” As Holmes spoke, the lamp-light emphasized the curve of his nose, the firm set of his lips and jaw. “Part castle, part fortress, part prison. Wars have been plotted there; dancing has lasted deep into the night; murder has been done in its chambers.”

I shuddered and looked about for a cab. “This is no time to stand here chatting. Let us find shelter from this confounded rain.”

Holmes laughed. “Rain, Watson? You are growing soft. This is not rain, it is just a good Scottish mist.”

“Mist?” I tucked my muffler closer around my throat. “Hardly. I am soaked to the skin and my teeth are chattering.”

We were fortunate to quickly engage a cab, and McMahon instructed the cabbie to let us out in front of St Giles.

“Why St Giles?” I asked. “Are we not bound for Hangman’s Lane?”

McMahon smiled apologetically. “The lane is too narrow for cabs. We must go from St Giles by foot.”

“Of course we must,” I grumbled, staring out at the gutters, which were fairly running with muddy water. My wound ached, and I longed for a fire and dry clothing.

We left the shelter of the cab outside the Kirk. Rain dripped from the eaves and darkened the sooty stone. A pungent mixture of mildew, smouldering coal, and rotting refuse caught in my throat. We followed McMahon as he crossed the yard, splashing through puddles on the pavement.

With a grim smile, McMahon paused before a narrow opening between two buildings. “Welcome to Hangman’s Lane.” He turned and disappeared into the mist.

I paused for a moment. Although I was accustomed to London’s old neighbourhoods, with their winding streets and ramshackle buildings, they paled in comparison with the dank path that fell away before us.

“A narrow, steep little byway, eh, Watson?” Holmes clapped me on the shoulder. The brim of his hat dipped as he bent his head, sending a stream of water onto my coat.

“What a miserable place.”

Shoulder to shoulder we made our way down the slippery pavement.

“I do not like it, Holmes. No lights in any of the windows. Every building looks positively deserted.”

McMahon appeared before us. “As I explained in London, they
are
deserted, Doctor. One house in particular has not been opened for over one hundred years, but since the piping began, the rest of the inhabitants have fled. Due to my great-uncle’s charity, the rents have always been reasonable, but now I have lowered them to the vanishing point, and still there are no takers.”

We stopped before the only house that appeared inhabited. One window was illuminated, and a lamp burned beside the heavy oak door. McMahon took a large key from his greatcoat pocket and, with some difficulty, opened the door.

“Mrs Rennie?” he called as we stepped inside, our coats and hats dripping. “I hope she has not left yet, or at least—Ah! There you are.”

An old woman hurried into the hall, the candle she carried casting a glow over her old-fashioned lace cap and starched apron. “Och, ye have returned, Mr McMahon. The Lord be thanked.”

“Yes, and I have brought Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson with me.”

She fussed over our wet things, the flickering candlelight casting sinister shapes across the age-blackened panelling.

“Good Lord, it is dark in here,” I murmured as I brushed the dampness from my jacket collar.

Once she was satisfied with the disposition of our garments, Mrs Rennie lifted the candle. “If you will kindly step this way, there is a brae blaze aburnin’ and candles lit in the back parlour.”

As I turned my foot caught, and I stumbled. Holmes grabbed my arm, steadying me.

Mrs Rennie shook her head. “Go canny, gentlemen. This corridor is nae so smooth as once it was.”

“I apologise, Doctor,” McMahon said. “The house has settled, sending the boards out of true. I forgot to warn you.”

We carefully made our way down the dim corridor. The room at the far end blazed with light, and it took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. I glanced around at the comfortable, well-used furniture and the heavily carved mantelpiece.

“What a magnificent old room. Just look at that fireplace.”

“Aye,” said Mrs Rennie with a frown. “Once there was life in this old house. Full of lords and their ladies, they say. But here will you be standing on the hearth and dryin’ your breeks.” At her insistence, we arranged ourselves in front of the fire.

“Brandy will help chase away the cold, as well.” McMahon filled the glasses with a generous hand. I took a grateful sip, welcoming the heat that spread through my chilled limbs.

Between the brandy and the warmth of the fire, we were soon comfortable, although the room smelt strongly of damp wool. A gust of wind rattled the windows, and a low moan sounded from the chimney. I glanced at Holmes. He raised an eyebrow and nodded once; he had heard it as well. I did not doubt that we would have McMahon’s mystery solved that evening.

Mrs Rennie pulled a heavy shawl around her shoulders.

“I have left a tasty cock-a-leekie pie in the oven for your supper, Mr McMahon. An’ now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll unshunk mesel’ away.”

“Thank you for staying so late, Mrs Rennie.” McMahon set down his brandy. “I appreciate everything you have done.”

She smiled up at him. “You’re a good man, Mr McMahon. And you have your two friends to keep you company. Dinna fash yersel’. I’ll return in the morn, early.”

He walked her to the door, then disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a heavy, earthenware dish, his hands protected by a folded dish-towel.

“Mrs Rennie is not a fancy cook, but her cock-a-leekie pie is delicious,” he said, removing the lid and releasing the heavenly scent of chicken and leeks.

After supper—and McMahon was right, the pie was very tasty—Holmes settled beside the fire and lit a cigarette.

“Now, please describe where you have heard the sound of bagpipes.”

McMahon indicated the far wall. “There. From inside the old Hurley house.”

“What do the Hurleys have to say about it?” I asked, cradling another glass of brandy.

McMahon frowned and shook his head. “No one has lived in that house for many years, Doctor. It is one of the fatal houses.”

“Fatal houses?” I glanced at Holmes. His expression was sombre.

“Houses marked generations ago by the great plague,” he explained. “Buildings harbouring those with the disease were marked by a large cross. No one dared enter or leave. Furniture was destroyed and doors and windows sealed. If the bodies of victims still remain inside, the plague is supposed to lie captive, ready to escape and spread sickness and death through the city if the doors are opened.”

“A tale fit to frighten the credulous, Holmes. Germs cannot sustain themselves for such a length of time.” I shrugged. “At least, we have no medical evidence that they can.”

The wind picked up again, rattling the windows and sending another low moan from the chimney. It sounded like the cry of the damned. I suppressed a shudder.

“There!” I said. “That must be what you heard. Just a peculiarity in the construction of the chimney.”

“No.” McMahon suddenly lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the firelight, and raised his hand. “Dear God, it has begun again!”

I shall never be able to describe the sound that crept into the room, a sound that grew more and more intolerable with every passing moment. The chimney’s howl was sweet as a cathedral choir in comparison to the infernal clamour that echoed in our brains and shredded our nerves.

McMahon and I clapped our hands over our ears, while Holmes leapt to his feet and dashed to the wall shared with the Hurley house, pressing his hands flat against the vibrating plaster. His high brow furrowing, he swept his palms across the wall in broad arcs, gradually concentrating his movements toward the door leading to the corridor.

“It is shaking the very foundations!” Holmes cried over the din.

As he moved down the corridor, the noise lessened, resolving itself slowly into the recognizable sounds of a bagpipe’s drone.

“The Devil’s Piper.” McMahon’s hands shook as he clasped them together. “Doctor, you must admit that this is more than a superstition, or the sounds made by a noisy chimney.”

My own hands were none too steady as I nodded. “I beg pardon for doubting you.” I reached for the brandy, poured McMahon a tot, and handed him the glass.

“What shall we do, Mr Holmes?” McMahon swallowed the brandy. “Shall I send for the authorities?”

Holmes appeared in the doorway and settled his cuffs, his eyes bright. “And have them put the Devil in gaol? No, I have a better plan. I suggest we call on the old gentleman himself.”

I regarded Holmes with concern. Had the excessively loud noise addled his wits?

“What in Heaven’s name do you mean?” I asked.

“Exactly what I said.” Holmes turned and dashed toward the front of the house. “Come along, Watson!” he called. “And bring a lantern!”

I turned, and McMahon caught my sleeve.

“Doctor, what does he intend to do?”

I glanced at McMahon. His colour had returned.

“I will leave the explanations to Holmes.”

McMahon retrieved a lantern from a shelf, and we hurried after my friend.

Holmes had retrieved our damp coats and hats from the cupboard. I quickly donned mine, and at a look from Holmes, bent to retrieve my service revolver from my valise, still sitting in the hall.

McMahon waited beside the door, muffled in coat and hat, confusion writ over his features. “Mr Holmes, will you please—”

“How do you feel about a spot of breaking and entering?” Holmes said, throwing open the bolts and flinging the door wide. Sleet coated the pavement with a frosty rime, but Holmes did not falter as he descended the steps.

I slipped my revolver into my coat pocket and lit the lantern before following him out the door, McMahon close on my heels. By the time we made our way to the neighbouring house, Holmes was waiting impatiently by the entrance.

“Light, Watson!”

A shallow stone portico provided a modicum of shelter from the worst of the sleet. I held the lantern up, illuminating the massive oak door, and glanced around. We need not worry about attracting the attention of passersby, for every building along the lane appeared dark and deserted. The sound of the piping was muffled, barely audible over the patter of sleet. Holmes studied the door intently, then shook his head.

“There is no use in trying to break down the door. It is as solid as Gibraltar.”

“A good deal more solid than the house itself,” I replied, pointing to the stained, shadow-shrouded stones overhead. A wide crack split the huge stone that acted as the lintel, the massive stone beam supporting the opening for the door, and bearing the weight of the wall. “Look.”

Holmes glanced up. “The building is settling.”

“What about the windows?” I asked.

McMahon shook his head. “They are all boarded over or tightly shuttered.”

“Then there is nothing for it,” Holmes said with a shrug. He removed an iron ring from his pocket. From the ring depended a collection of thin pieces of metal, and he held them up to the light. Selecting one, he knelt and inserted it into the keyhole. Metal scraped against metal.

McMahon’s fingers plucked at my sleeve. “Doctor, are those—”

“Picklocks,” I replied, lifting the lantern high so Holmes could see. Shadows danced over the stones, turning the already gloomy scene macabre. I could not blame McMahon for feeling trepidation. “If you would prefer to return to your house …”

“No.” He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “I asked for your help. The least I can do is share the danger.”

After a few moments, Holmes straightened with a smile. “Success, gentlemen.”

The door, although unlocked, did not yield easily. Our feet slipped on the icy stoop as Holmes, McMahon, and I set our shoulders to the wood. For several minutes the rusted hinges remained adamantly immovable, despite our efforts and breathless exclamations of encouragement.

“We cannot succeed,” I panted. “It will not budge. We must find another way inside.”

“I refuse to be foiled!” Holmes settled himself more firmly against the door. “Watson, I beg your help.”

“Please, Doctor.” Despite the chill, perspiration beaded McMahon’s brow.

I felt ashamed. How could I refuse their entreaties? I resumed my position.

“Put your back into it, man!” cried Holmes.

Perhaps it was Holmes’s encouragement, perhaps simply a fortuitous application of pressure. I pushed against the weathered oak as the hinges groaned. “It is moving, Holmes!”

Holmes glanced up. “So is that crack in the lintel.”

I raised my gaze. The great granite lintel, which had supported the enormous weight of the old stone walls for many hundreds of years, shifted. The crack that split it in twain visibly widened. “Good Lord, Holmes! Hurry inside! We must close the door before the wall collapses.”

Mindful of the danger, McMahon and Holmes squeezed through the opening, and I collected the lantern before following. We pushed against the door and it closed with the finality of a coffin lid.