Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (20 page)

Upon finishing the final verse, he paused. Tilting his head to one side, he listened intently for a few moments, then complained, “Nothing. Nothing! When will you answer, oh being from another world?”

“What being is that, Holmes?”

“Oddlingsygn. Last night and this morning, it seemed every reveler and passerby I saw was calling upon the same entity. All London is bent on summoning him, yet he will not appear! So strange…”

“Not strange, Holmes,” I said. “That is not a name, it is a Scottish phrase.”

“Oh, I think I know a demon’s name when I hear one, Watson.”

“‘Auld Lang Syne’ means ‘for the sake of old times.’”

“Oh! A nostalgia demon—he must be potent indeed…”

“No, not a demon at all, I am telling you… Wait! What is this?”

My eye had fallen across a white envelope that lay upon the side table beside Holmes’s armchair.

“Oh, a letter,” said he.

“From whom?”

“Well, I don’t know! Honestly, Watson, would you put aside the chase for a reluctant demon just to read an everyday letter?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do so then. I have other matters to attend.”

He launched back into the first verse of his supposed summoning ritual. I stepped to the table, unfolded the letter and read. I must have made quite a face, for when he observed my expression, Holmes at last lay aside his accordion and asked, “What does it say, Watson?”

The message was short. It read:

When I read it to him, Warlock sucked air through clenched teeth and declared, “Ouch. Sounds like a bad one. What say you, Watson? Ready for an adventure?”

“I don’t know, do I?” I replied. “He gives us no hint of what we might expect.” At the bottom of the letter, Lestrade had included an address, but nowhere was there any indication of what was wrong or how we should prepare ourselves.

In the delay between adventures, my frustration with Vladislav Lestrade had only grown. At first I had sought to raise his spirits whenever I caught him moping. Holmes had given me to understand that this was a useless gesture, as Lestrade was an annihilist. At first I thought he meant a nihilist: a person who believed in nothing. But no, he was an annihilist: a person who believed there
should be
nothing. Thus, anything that was, is, would be, or might possibly be offended the little Romanian, by dint of its very existence. Every man, woman and child, every object and every idea was a slap in the face to Vladislav Lestrade, who was convinced that the only way to avoid tragedy and suffering was simply not to exist. He many times commented that, if only he had the ability, he would cheerfully annihilate himself, me, and all of creation. Without commenting on the philosophical validity of this position, let me just say: Vladislav Lestrade did not have many friends.

“Of course he hasn’t given us a clue,” Holmes beamed. “The little fiend is playing on my curiosity, as well as my duty to help my comrades. Let us chide him for it when we get there.”

So—in only the time it took for us to gather our hats, coats, gloves and Holmes’s shoes—we found ourselves bouncing along in a hansom, bound on a new adventure. The address was not in an area of London I often frequented, but the streets were familiar to me and became more so as we drew nearer our destination. As we made our final turn, I realized why.

“Wait! This is Grogsson’s street! Are we going to Grogsson’s house?”

Very nearly. In fact, our destination was just next door. As we approached, I could see Inspector Lestrade pacing the pavement in front of the house. I knew he must be perturbed indeed to suffer daylight just to wait for us. Holmes must have thought so too, for the moment the hansom pulled to a stop, he sprang from the cab calling, “Lestrade, what is the matter?”

Lestrade made no answer, except to tilt his head and raise his eyebrows as if to say, “It’s bad.” He turned and walked inside, leaving Holmes and me to follow.

The first piece of bad news greeted us with a smile. In the hall stood a smirking man/boy. I call him such, because his face looked to be no older than twelve. In spite of his seeming youth, he wore a badge that declared him to be a detective inspector of Scotland Yard—of equal rank to Grogsson and Lestrade.

“This is Inspector Lanner,” said Lestrade. I winced. On his many visits over the past few weeks, I had heard Lestrade complain of him often. Of all the things Lestrade hoped would cease to exist, he rather hoped Inspector Lanner would go first. Though Lanner had solved less than half the number of cases that Lestrade had solved in the last year, and less than a third as many as Grogsson, he was considered a rising star at Scotland Yard. He therefore enjoyed the support of his peers and superiors when he had declared he would at last discover the true nature of the two supernatural detectives. It seems Grogsson and Lestrade’s success bred more resentment than esteem.

“Ah! Holmes!” Lanner said as we marched in. “I am
so
glad you could be here to see this.”

“And what is it you intend to show me?”

“Your little group is going to shrink today, Holmes. One of your freakish cadre is bound for jail, perhaps the gallows. Come see what that oaf Grogsson has left for Miss Susan Cushing.”

He led us into the sitting room. On a sofa sat a young lady in her late twenties. She was haggard and pale, her eyes flushed from a morning of crying, but I caught my breath when I saw her nonetheless. She was strikingly pretty, yet it was not her beauty alone that caught my attention—it was her kindness. She wore it in her eyes. Understanding began to dawn upon me. I knew Grogsson to be a lonely fellow and easily fascinated by any person who possessed grace or beauty. Yet beyond that, if Miss Cushing displayed any kindness to him, she must be the only lady who ever did so. This would be invitation enough for Grogsson to hope that she might one day look beyond his monstrous form and begin to care for him. She also lived just next door and was likely seen by him every day and… In an instant I understood that he must be wretchedly in love with her.

“Gentlemen, this is Miss Susan Cushing,” Lanner announced, “and
this
is what she found on her doorstep this morning.”

On the table in front of the lady lay a package, clumsily wrapped in brown paper. It had been tied with tarred string, bent into a knot so convoluted and crude that she had been forced to forgo untying it and simply snip the string with scissors. Writing was just visible on the inside of the paper, but as the box hid most of the characters, I could not decipher it. Within the paper lay a battered cardboard case—the kind used to hold inexpensive cigars. Within that case, on a bed of coarse salt, lay two disembodied human ears. Two left ears.

“A token of his esteem, no doubt,” Lanner declared. “Like the cat who brings a mouse to the foot of your bed, Grogsson has surrendered his trophies.”

Holmes’s features sank. Lestrade gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate that he concurred with Lanner’s interpretation of events. With a deep sigh, Holmes asked, “Where is Grogsson?”

“Fled,” Lanner smiled. “He is not so great a fool as to stay. Miss Cushing confronted him this morning and he ran off. Hasn’t been seen since. It won’t take us long to find him, I think. There are few places in this city where a beast like that can hide.”

“I think our friend will soon be returned to us. Lanner has issued a warrant for his arrest,” said Lestrade. “Either the police will find Grogsson and arrest him, or they will find him and he will slay as many as he can, before they bring him down. However it goes, Holmes, I think things are not looking good for Torg.”

Holmes, brightening to the role of great detective—a role in which I had been tirelessly instructing him—declared, “We shall see, Vladislav, we shall see. Appearances can often deceive, but careful observation will reveal the underlying truth. Isn’t that right, Watson?”

“It is.”

“And I said it correctly?”

I clapped my hand over my brow; he’d been doing so well. With a deep sigh, I said, “Yes, just as we rehearsed.”

Lanner laughed. “Your charade is unraveling, Holmes. Soon the light of truth shall shine upon you and your confederates; we shall know who you really are.”

“Perhaps, Lanner,” Lestrade growled, “but in the meantime, Holmes and I will investigate. Holmes, won’t you come upstairs and help me examine the rest of the house?”

“What do we expect to find up there?” asked Holmes. Lanner’s expression led me to believe he was wondering the same. Vladislav gave Holmes a pointed look and Holmes quickly amended his statement, “The truth! The undisclosed truth—that is what! To the stairs, gentlemen!”

I excused myself, with a bow towards Miss Cushing and an angry glance at Lanner. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Holmes and Lestrade were already deep in conference.

“What do you suppose, Vladislav? Can he be bribed?”

“I don’t know. Lanner hates us, Holmes; he has for some time. If he will accept money to overlook this little incident, I’m sure it would be a tidy sum.”

“Ah… well… To allow Grogsson to come home, though… that’s worth a lot to us, isn’t it?”

Lestrade nodded and I will admit I was touched by the camaraderie they showed for their fallen brother. I had to remind myself that—in all likelihood—Grogsson had just killed or maimed two men.

“Yet I fear the situation has moved beyond the point where bribery is an option,” Lestrade sighed. “Though the warrant lacks a second signature, forces have been dispatched to arrest Grogsson. The hunt has begun. If Lanner were suddenly to call it off, he would lose face. Surely the chief inspector would want to know why he had mobilized such a large portion of the force then changed his mind.”

“Well then…” Holmes suggested in a conspiratorial whisper, “perhaps we must consult my friend Azazel, concerning what should be done with Inspector Lanner, eh?”

“Holmes!” I whisper-yelled. “You can’t kill him! You can’t murder an inspector of Scotland Yard!”

“Oh, I’m fairly sure I could manage it, Watson. And anyway, I
know
Azazel could. Gads, he’d be practically gagging to.”

“Holmes, I forbid it!”

Lestrade laid a calming hand on Holmes’s arm and said, “What would it accomplish, Warlock? It might put you and me under threat for Lanner’s murder and it would do nothing to clear Grogsson’s name. Even if Lanner were gone, the rest of Scotland Yard would still hunt Torg down.”

“True,” Holmes conceded and the fiendish green glare that had just begun to kindle in his eyes died out. “What do you propose, then?”

“I think our friend is finally done for,” Lestrade sighed. “Either we try to talk Grogsson into surrendering peaceably, or we help him flee the country.”

“But where would he go?” said Holmes. “His home is here! He knows no other language, no other land, no other custom… How could we expect him to establish himself in a strange country?”

I gave a derisive harrumph and Lestrade shook his head, saying, “I thought perhaps some place savage? Siberia? Australia?”

At this point, I was forced to interject. “Gentlemen, a moment, please. It seems to me there is no specific evidence against Torg. Lanner is happy to assume Grogsson’s guilt, but do we presume to damn our friend on such circumstantial scraps?”

Holmes and Lestrade both rolled their eyes at me.

“Doctor, please, don’t be naïve,” Lestrade complained.

“He’s right, Watson,” Warlock said. “I’ve known Grogsson a long time and… well… tearing off men’s ears and presenting them as a token of his valor to a pretty girl… I can hardly think of a more Grogsson-like act. I suspect we already know the truth of what happened.”

“We don’t need the truth! We don’t even
want
the truth,” I told him, scarce believing the words that poured from my own lips. “All we need is doubt.”

“I
have
no doubt,” Lestrade said with a sullen shrug.

“Then I shall go find you some,” I huffed. “You two are welcome to sulk up here; I am going downstairs to save Grogsson!”

I turned on my heel and blustered down the stairs. In truth, I had not taken my third step before I began to suspect I would be unable to back my promise with deeds. Nevertheless, I was determined not to abandon the chase until I had to. I set my jaw and strode back into the sitting room. Lanner greeted me with a satisfied sneer and suggested, “The investigation upstairs fails to yield fruit?”

“Patience, Inspector. As I am merely an amateur and you are handily outperformed by Lestrade, it seems premature to doubt his methods, don’t you think?”

He frowned.

Turning my attention to Miss Cushing, I felt an immediate swell of sympathy. It was strange, but I often felt towards victims of crime as I felt towards my patients. I had that same urge to correct what ailed them and now I found myself using much the same bedside manner. I noticed there was nothing on the table before her save the gruesome package.

“Miss Cushing, I am so sorry for your trouble,” I said. “I wonder if I might make so bold as to offer you a cup of your own tea?”

“Oh!” she said, with a sudden start. “Oh, I hadn’t thought… Forgive me, you must be… I shall make a pot straight away!”

“Nonsense!” I cried, clasping her hands and guiding her back down to the sofa. “I am sure I can manage it. You’ve had a hard enough morning, I warrant. I doubt this cad has stopped his gloating long enough to lend you a single kind word, has he?”