Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (15 page)

Holmes’s mouth spread into a sympathetic grin. He reached over to give my wrist a reassuring shake and said, “Perhaps I may help. You are John Watson: a man of worth, possessed of a sharp mind and a true heart. As for the last two points…”

He swept the lead soldier from the table and regarded it for a moment. His features turned suddenly whimsical and sad. He cupped the soldier between his hands so I could not see it and continued, “Have you ever heard of the alchemists, Watson? Suppose one of those poor fellows had succeeded. Picture the unlucky fool who finally learned to turn base metal into gold, only to find that in the same moment, he had turned his own, golden self into… something base.”

He uncapped his hands and I gave a little cry of surprise, for from them issued a gout of sulfurous smoke and a surprising quantity of blood. I recoiled. I saw no wound upon his hands and his face registered no pain. Instead, he stood up resolutely and gave me a wan smile. “Welcome to the fight, Watson. We’re all very glad to have you on our side.”

He rose, leaving me to gawk and stare. There, in the middle of the table, dewed in blood and reeking of brimstone, stood my little soldier—once of simple dross, now gleaming gold.

JUST AFTER LUNCHEON, ON A QUIET TUESDAY AFTERNOON,
I said, “No, Holmes; Robert E. Lee was not a demon.”

Holmes stared at me, mouth agape.

“That is what you were thinking, is it not? Well, it is incorrect; he was a gifted general—that is all.”

“But, Watson,” Holmes gasped, “I said nothing! Nothing!
You have read my mind!
”

“I did no such thing.”

“But you did! For that indeed was my last thought!”

I sighed, folded the front section of
The Times
into my lap and said, “Holmes, you know better than that. Simple observation has revealed your thoughts to me and—if you are going to persist in explaining away your demonic insights as detective work—I think you had better take the trouble to learn how to correctly observe and deduce.”

“Do you expect me to believe your little parlor trick affords insight into another man’s inner thoughts?” Holmes scoffed. “To that, I say a loud, abrupt ‘pshaw.’”

“Holmes…”

“Pshaw!”

“Holmes! Let me detail my observations for you; perhaps you will begin to understand. First, I noticed you reading the featured article in my military history magazine, in which Lord Huffington sings the praises of General Lee’s martial prowess.”

Holmes nodded that this much was correct.

“You then ran to the bookshelf and picked up a volume of poetry by Stephen Crane, the newspaper correspondent who turned to apocalyptic poetry when he was sent to report on the war. It may be the darkest verse the hand of man has ever put to paper and I wish you wouldn’t read it, for I fear it gives you ideas.”

“It does, Watson. Oh, it does.”

“After you had read enough poems to turn your mind from generalship to demonics, you suddenly gasped and stared in amazement at the portrait of Robert E. Lee which hangs above our bookshelf—for reasons I still do not understand.”

“His was the picture that came in the frame when I purchased it, Watson.”

“Ah—mystery solved. After staring for some time with your mouth hanging wide, you ran to the desk and began sketching another version of the same portrait, wherein the general has horns, fangs, a tail and slitted snake eyes. You then gave a cry of triumph and threw down your pencil as if you had proven a great truth, at which point I chose to inform you that Robert E. Lee was not a demon. Now do you see how observation led me to that deduction?”

“But it looks just like him!”

“Of course it does—you
drew it
to look just like him. This does not prove—”

The ringing of our bell cut me off.

“Yes?” I asked.

From behind our closed front door, Mrs. Hudson’s voice said, “A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.” Judging by her breathy tone, I imagined it must be an attractive gentleman indeed—perhaps worthy of inclusion in one of her smutty novels.

“Enter,” said I.

Warlock gave me an angry glance and flew back to his desk. He flung a book over his devilish sketch, still certain he had discovered a secret that must be guarded from the eyes of the common man. The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Hudson hanging from our guest’s left arm in a half-swoon. She might have fallen in love on the strength of his facial hair alone, for our visitor wore a dashing moustache, such as one might find in the circus or on certain cavalry officers. He held himself with a feminine reserve and a demure, almost subservient air, yet his upper body bulged with musculature. As he stepped forward, I noted he had the trace of a limp and that his left foot turned in slightly.

“Mr. Percy Trevelyan,” Mrs. Hudson announced, dreamily.

“At your service,” our guest added, then asked me, “You are Mr. Warlock Holmes?”

I indicated my companion with a wave and sat back to watch.

“Yes, I am Warlock Holmes,” said he, rising to shake Trevelyan’s hand. “How may I be of service?”

“It is a matter of some delicacy…” Trevelyan said, then held his silence until Mrs. Hudson realized that he was waiting for her to leave. She favored Mr. Trevelyan with a gaze that promised… well… everything, then fired a hateful sneer at Holmes and me, and departed.

“Ah… that’s better,” said Holmes. “Now, tell me all.”

“Well, I am the founder of Trevelyan’s Aerial Ballet…”

“And a dancer,” Holmes declared. “I perceived it at once.”

“Trapeze, I think you’ll find,” I said. “Observe his calloused hands, muscular upper body and the club foot which would surely preclude a career as a dancer.”

“Oh… Damn…” mumbled Holmes.

I saw from Trevelyan’s glance that I had wounded him somewhat, but he agreed, “It is just as your… colleague… says. I’m sorry, you must be…”

“Dr. John Watson, at your service.”

“Oh, well, I am very pleased to meet you,” Trevelyan said, then, in a lower voice added, “Very glad to find you here, indeed.”

I did not like his inference. I had observed the marks of—shall we say—a
gentleman’s gentleman
about Mr. Trevelyan. I supposed he assumed himself to be in like company, and thought my relationship with Holmes was a romantic one.

“Holmes and I are merely fellow lodgers; it helps to share expenses,” I explained.

“Even for a doctor?” Trevelyan asked, raising a mischievous eyebrow.

“Well… I… Yes, for
this
doctor. I am not currently in practice, so…”

“Ah!” said Trevelyan, raising a finger. “I am here to ask Mr. Holmes’s advice over just such an arrangement.”

“I think a different arrangement,” I said, but he ignored me and continued.

“Last spring I was approached by a gentleman after one of my shows, name of Blessington.”

I cringed, hoping the story was not to be too lurid.

“He found me at Le Café Majestique, taking dessert with a few of my admirers, still in my costume. He walked straight up to us, declared an interest in trapeze and offered to pay for the entire table if he might be allowed to join. Well, we were delighted and admitted him at once. Yet he proved to be so crude, I found myself amazed that a mind like that could have any interest in the arts at all. As the evening wore on and people began to excuse themselves, it became clear that he was waiting to be the last man at the table with me. When he had me alone, he made a very strange proposition.”

I shifted uneasily in my chair, which drew a look of annoyance from Trevelyan. Holmes was yet to give any indication that he understood the situation our guest was describing.

“Blessington told me he wished to become a patron of the arts, but knew nobody in London’s creative circles. That very night, point blank, he offered to support me. He promised me room, board, spending money and financial support for my trapeze show. All I had to do was come live with him and offer a share of my profits.”

Here Holmes brightened and asked, “I say, do you make a lot of money at trapeze?”

“No. I don’t. Nobody does.”

“I imagine that did not concern Mr. Blessington,” said I.

“It did not. I chided him for his forwardness, but told him I might be interested. He offered to show me the place that very night and I will confess, I agreed. Imagine my surprise when he had me installed in a separate room from his own.”

“Why should that surprise you?” Holmes asked.

Trevelyan gave Holmes a sly look. I attempted to explain, “Well, Holmes, Mr. Trevelyan enjoys the company of other men…”

“As do I,” Holmes agreed.

“No… I mean, instead of women.”

“Well, that is understandable,” said Holmes. “Much as I would like to say I am beloved of the ladies, I find I never know quite what to say to them. So, I suppose, I must also state that I find myself more comfortable in the company of men.”

I sighed and said, “You misunderstand. Mr. Trevelyan is a
confirmed bachelor
.”

Holmes threw up his hands. “Well? If anybody asked you or me to confirm our marital status, would we not have to proclaim ourselves bachelors also?”

“Holmes, when a gentleman agrees to move into another gentleman’s house and allows that man to pay his way through life—”

Here Holmes interrupted to say, “Just as you and I do…”

“No, Holmes. This is a different arrangement entirely.”

“It sounds exactly the same.”

Finally, Trevelyan nodded to me that he would take over. He leaned close to Holmes and whispered a few words in his ear.

“Oh,” Holmes said. “Yes, that is different. I have heard of such things, of course. But Mr. Blessington was not offering such an arrangement?”

“No!” said Trevelyan in exasperation. “Once he had me installed and dependent, he ignored me entirely. Still does. We rarely speak more than a few words to one another. I have the whole top floor to myself; he keeps the lower one. In payment, I give him four-fifths of my box-office takings whenever I mount a show.”

“Eighty percent?” I coughed.

But Trevelyan waved me down. “It is a pittance! What is eighty percent of nothing, Doctor? He’s squandered a fortune on me, yet he never complains of the loss. The only way I can upset him is by staying out too late. He is insistent that I spend every night in my rooms. He seems to want me there during all hours of darkness.”

“Curious,” mumbled Holmes. I agreed.

“This arrangement held until yesterday evening. Earlier this week, an actress friend of mine brought me a card. It bore the name of Gerard Me’doreux—a confederate of the great father of trapeze, Jules Léotard. She told me that Monsieur Me’doreux wished to meet with me and might consent to instruct me on a few of Léotard’s techniques. Well, I was ecstatic! I agreed to meet him at my house, yesterday evening. Blessington spends his early evenings at his club, so I knew we would not disturb him. Monsieur Me’doreux arrived in the company of another gentleman—quite the specimen. He was nearly fifty I should think, but muscular, very short and with reddish hair. Monsieur Me’doreux introduced him as a colleague, but said that his companion—unlike myself—was unworthy to learn the secrets of the Great Léotard. He made the man wait in the hall while we spoke.

“If I hoped he would open the floodgates of knowledge, I was much mistaken. Monsieur Me’doreux first insisted that I tell him all I know of trapeze in order that he waste no time instructing me in that which I already understood. We spoke for almost an hour but all I had from him were questions—it was
I
who shared my knowledge. Just as it seemed he might be ready to favor me with his own wisdom, his companion burst in upon us and announced that it was time to go, as Monsieur Me’doreux had theater commitments later that evening. He bustled the old man out without another word.

“I was frustrated by the meeting and still hopeful that I might arrange another, when Blessington came home. I heard his footsteps in the hall and then a few moments later, a great cry. In a twinkling, he was up the stairs and crashed through my door, demanding to know if I had been in his rooms.”

“You hadn’t, of course,” I interjected, “but you must now realize that the old gentleman was merely keeping you busy while his accomplice rifled Blessington’s rooms.”