Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (30 page)

In the fervor of its attack, the hand struck the pillow, the mattress and the easy chair with its murderous needle. All three melted into puddles of stinking slop. Holmes had the misfortune of placing his foot in one of these as he ran. He slipped and went down heavily. His trademark hat fell from his head and the contents of his pockets fairly exploded forth. His magnifying glass slid across the room towards me, but what caught my attention most was the metallic device that fell upon the carpet as he began to rise and renew his flight—his handcuffs.

As Holmes ran off, I dived in to recover them. I fastened one side to the stout lower rail of the bed, then waited. The next time Roylott’s viperous arm passed, I lunged out and snapped the other cuff around it. In my panic, I fastened it cruelly tight. Roylott must not have been expecting that, for the arm jerked back and forth arhythmically a few times before it turned on me and tried to end my life with its bewitched poison. I flung myself to the far corner of the room and sat breathless against the wall. Holmes joined me and clapped a hand on my shoulder, crying, “Bravely done, Watson. I think we have him now.”

The hand recoiled all the way up to the silver handcuff and feverishly attempted to pull itself through. I feared Roylott would manage to yank it free and resume his murder attempts, but the cuffs held fast.

I breathed a sigh of relief and asked, “What is it, Holmes? What has Roylott done?”

“One more trick he picked up in India, Watson. I think he must be a fakir.”

I had heard of these mystics and recalled that they were famous for methods of manipulating their own bodies that seemed quite beyond the capabilities of mortal man.

“That makes some sense,” I agreed.

“In fact,” said Holmes, “he is a master of their art. I must say, I am impressed. Such transmutations are difficult to perform and even harder to maintain. Do you hear how much louder and more strained his chanting has become?”

“Ahhhhhhhhh! Watson! Help! The Freckled Hand! The Freckled Hand!”

I listened and agreed that I could note the change.

“In a few moments his spell will fail,” said Holmes. “He will find himself returned to his normal shape, exhausted and unable to defend himself. He’ll be helpless, Watson.”

I nodded that this was good, but held that opinion only for a fraction of a second. Soon, the full ramifications of the situation occurred to me and I found myself shouting, “Keys!”

“Eh?” said Holmes.

“Where are the keys?”

“What keys? For what?”

The chanting reached a fever pitch, then began to fail. I could hear Roylott gasping for breath in the next room over.

“The handcuffs, Holmes! Quick!”

He patted at his pockets fruitlessly, and decided, “I must have dropped them when I fell. Look around, Watson.”

But it was too late. Roylott’s voice gave way to a fit of coughing, followed by a ragged scream. His spell failed. His body began to resume its normal shape and, as his hand was attached to the bed in our room, his body was drawn inextricably towards it. From his room came the shriek of tortured metal as the vent deformed. An instant later, the duct within our room began to bulge and shift. A number of rivets popped free and a second later the vent over the bed became a spout. Several gallons of chunky gore erupted forth all over Julia Stoner’s vacant bed.

* * *

Another case closed. Another success, we thought. True, I had slain a man, which offended my sensibilities and violated my Hippocratic oath. Yet this had been the result of an accident and the personality of the victim was such that nobody ever said to me that they missed his company. More to our satisfaction, Miss Helen Stoner was preserved from harm. Despite the sudden, strange death of Dr. Roylott, her fiancé’s zeal to marry held and the couple moved away to begin their life together. They could have stayed at Stoke Moran, I suppose, but Helen Stoner was never happier than the day she packed her bags and left it forever.

In the Adventure of the Freckled Hand, we see one of my greatest failures. I allowed myself to be distracted. Our survival, our seeming victory and Helen Stoner’s happy ending brought me such elation that I failed to consider the greater consequences of the case. I happily moved on to the next adventure and thought no more of Stoke Moran. How many men would have paused to ask themselves, “What will become of that house now?” Would a wiser fellow have worried that perhaps the next heir might be none other than Sebastian Moran? Would he have realized that—should Moran succeed in reconstituting his fallen master—Moriarty would now have a sturdy stone house with defensible walls and an evil magical workstation already in place?

A better man might have.

I did not.

I apologize to you all.

THAT LADY EVA BLACKWELL
’
S ENGAGEMENT WAS
threatened did not bother me in the slightest.

I suppose it should have. She had, after all, come to Holmes and me in the express attempt to save it. Yet, as she spoke with dread about the prospect of becoming unattached, it occurred to me more and more that she was just the sort of girl I would like to marry some day. If the worst should come to pass—if she should lose the affections of the Earl of Dovercourt—how should she replace him? With a doctor perhaps? Doctors are not so well regarded as earls, I will admit, but they are a good deal more practical. What if someone were to become injured or sick? Having a doctor in the house saves a carriage ride. And really, what
does
an earl do?

“Can you gentlemen help me, do you think?” Lady Eva sighed.

Holmes clucked his tongue—indicating that this was a matter of dread severity—and asked, “What do you think, Watson?”

“Oh? Eh?” I said, rousing myself from my dream. “Well, I suppose we might look into it. A blackmailer, you say?”

“Yes! A horrible blackmailer!” she agreed, nodding her chestnut curls. “He says I must supply him with seven thousand pounds by Friday, else he shall cross my match and see that Nigel and I never wed!”

“Seven thousand pounds…” I mused.

“The sum is extraordinary,” she cried. “Why, you could buy a palace for that!”

“I would buy you a mansion in Dover,” I said, “near the sea. A white one with a yard full of ponies…”

I became aware that Lady Eva was staring at me. So was Holmes.

“How would that help matters?” Holmes wondered.

“What? Oh… it wouldn’t. I just… ahem… Lady Blackwell, I do not mean to be indelicate, but I must ask: what does this blackmailer have against you?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“But he must have something,” I insisted, “else how does he think he could foil your marriage? How does he intend to turn your fiancé against you?”

“He does not say! In fact, he writes that the particulars of my downfall will be forever unknown to me. Of course, I was inclined to throw the ridiculous letter into the fire, but he included these two lists, you see?”

She waved two pieces of paper at Holmes and me. Both were lists of names, but there the similarities ended. One was writ in a gilded hand upon stationery worthy of the queen. The other was done in filth-brown ink upon parchment so poor that a street urchin looking for something to scrawl his begging sign upon would have passed it by, saying, “Meh, I could do better.”

She flourished the finer paper at us and said, “This first is a list of those previous victims who succumbed and agreed to pay him. I was shocked by some of these names, gentlemen! I called on some of them and asked if this document was true. Awkward as the matter is, they did confirm it. The blackmailer says that part of the price of his forbearance is that they tell their tale to the next poor soul to bear his letter, else he will work mischief upon them.”

“Cad!” I declared.

“I spoke with four of the people on this list and they all admitted that they paid him. Some said they felt foolish for it, yet that was the worst complaint any of them could make; their lives and fortunes are all quite intact.
This
list, on the other hand…” here she waved the brown, feculent list at us, “…this is a litany of shattered dreams. There is not a soul on this list who is happy today. Broken marriages… lost careers… great artists whose works suddenly fell from public favor… It is unaccountable, the sudden trials and failures suffered by the people upon this list! And all of them whom I spoke to traced their misfortune back to the same man! All of them cursed the day they refused to pay this blackmailer and encouraged me to do whatever I could to save myself from his fury.”

“An odd story,” said I, scratching my chin. “I have never heard of a blackmailer who operates without having some sort of leverage on his victims. One wonders if it is not a ruse…”

“A ruse?” Holmes reflected. “How might he pull such a thing off, Watson?”

“I can imagine two methods, offhand. Either he has compiled these lists from people who had nothing to do with him, but whose fortunes were especially good or ill—”

“Yes, but that does not account for them telling Lady Eva that this villain’s interference or forbearance made their fortunes or ruined them,” Holmes said. “Keep in mind that they all verified his story.”

“Did they? Suppose a man comes to you and says you must give him a pound or you will explode. You
do
give him a pound. You
do not
explode. Does it necessarily follow that your lack of unexplained detonation is due to the fact you paid him off? Is it not possible that you were never in any such danger and have just been conned out of a pound? Is it not also possible that you might blithely tell his next victim of your supposed escape and encourage them to pay as well?”

“It
is
possible,” Holmes admitted. “In fact, some might say it is the basis of all religion.”

“Ahem… yes… Well, the other possibility is that these witnesses are all in league with the blackmailer and stand to receive a portion of the funds.”

“I do not think that could be the case,” said Lady Eva, in a manner that all other ladies should study and endeavor to repeat, in order to render themselves irresistible to the mortal man. “Look at these names, Doctor; they are well-known public figures.”

“A good point, Lady Eva. I only mention it because I must consider all possibilities, even if they seem remote. Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Holmes rolled his eyes at me as if this were an extraordinarily naïve thing to say. I refused to be cowed and continued, “I think our next course of action must be to investigate the blackmailer himself and determine the true nature of his relationships with these supposed victims. Did he leave any clue as to his identity?”

“Oh yes,” said Lady Eva, who would likely have made a fine mother to my children—caring and doting, yet stern when the occasion demanded. “He signed it. His name is Charles Augustus Milverton.”

I laughed out loud. It was too good to hope that the man might be fool enough to begin such a criminal enterprise by signing his true name to a blackmail note. Yet my enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by Holmes, who said, “Milverton?” in the most disappointed way. He slumped into his chair and shrank like a beaten dog. Fixing Lady Eva with a look of both pity and apology for his own impotence, he mumbled, “Pay the man.”