Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (4 page)

Regardless of these precautions, the peculiarity of our eating habits did attract her notice. One Thursday, after surviving a particularly vicious Hudson-scowling, Holmes slunk into our sitting room and muttered, “I think our landlady takes it amiss that I survive on toast and soup, Watson.”

“I suspect she does,” I said. “It is a most unusual trait.”

“Well, damn! What am I supposed to do? Toast and soup quite suffice to provide all the nutrition I require!”

“Indeed.”

“Why are people so particular about what they eat? Where do they find the time to worry over such things?”

His expression was one of animal desperation. I made no answer except to shrug. He paced the room for a few moments, sparing me an occasional nervous glance until—having worked up his courage, I presume—he approached and asked, “I say, Watson, I don’t suppose… you’d help? That is… if you wouldn’t mind… you could go down to the grocer and furnish us with some more suitable food? You know what people are meant to eat, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well then, go get some, won’t you? Have them deliver it here some time when old Mrs. Hudson is watching. Tell them they can present the bill to me. May I count upon you, Watson?”

“You may,” I replied.

Later that day, I set off. At first I approached our nearest greengrocer, but at the last moment, a cruel idea occurred to me and I resolved to carry it out.

You see, I still had no notion as to Holmes’s occupation or the source of his funds. Despite this, he seemed to have no concern over money, nor indeed did he place much value in it. When he needed me to go out so he could conduct his private business, he would often dispense a few shillings and encourage me to visit one of the local teashops. I don’t know which I resented more: the fact that he did this, or the fact that I always accepted. Thus, I decided to test the limits of his fiscal disregard.

I directed my steps south to Fortnum & Mason’s, on Piccadilly. I knew of no other place so aloof, elite and criminally overpriced. I bought everything I could think of: the finest Ceylon tea, cakes, crumpets, French cheese, Italian wine, German beer, cold meats, greens and a truly singular marmalade I had admired once while lunching with the dean of my medical school. These I ordered in unnecessary quantities and asked that they be brought round at about two that afternoon. I hardly made it back before that hour myself, my legs being still uncertain. I pulled one of our sitting-room armchairs closer to the front window into a suitable vantage point to observe the coming exchange, sat and waited.

Promptly at two, Mrs. Hudson ushered up a pair of porters who deposited two large hampers on our dining table. I had ordered even more than I realized. The quantity was such that the two of us could scarce eat it all before it spoiled, and the bill would have raised eyebrows at Buckingham Palace. Warlock did not mind in the slightest. He paid without complaint, smiling all the while, then as our landlady retreated grumpily down the stairs, he called out, “I say, Mrs. Hudson, you must come around some time and join us for one of our
perfectly normal meals
!”

He then spun on his heel, whistled a cheerful jig, stepped over to our fireplace and proceeded to make himself his usual: toast and soup. He seemed to have no desire to examine his newly acquired mountain of victuals or even remove it from the table. He may not have been tempted, but I certainly was and, I confess, I proceeded to eat him out of house and home.

Thus it was that, on that fateful Saturday, Holmes interrupted me in the middle of my fourth consecutive marmalade crumpet. I had been stuffing myself insensible for three days running. Holmes stepped out of his bedroom, gave me a nod and opened his mouth to mutter some pleasantry or other. Yet, it never came. All of a sudden, he stiffened as if stricken. His spine arched, his face contorted, he threw back his head and his eyes shone with such an intense brightness that I swear they illuminated a circle of the ceiling above him. In that strangely deep voice he had used the day we met, he intoned, “
On the eleventh hour of the fifth day of the month of nine, thou shalt receive a dire messenger! The sea hath refused him—his sheep cast loose upon the waves to wander uncommanded. Fear him, for in his hand lies the mark of the reaper! Death brought him hither and discovery shall be thy fate, Holmes, if thou darest attend his challenge!
”

At that moment, his spine lost all its rigor and he crumpled to the floor in a heap. Tossing the crumpet to my plate, I ran to attend him. I found him shaking, sweating, even more pallid than usual.

“What is wrong, Holmes? What has happened to you?”

“Oh… why… nothing, Watson…” he stammered, his voice weak and uncertain, “I was… I was practicing for a play, you see.”

“A play?” I demanded, incredulous.

“Yes. Yes. A play, that is all.”

“Much as I wish to believe you,” I said, “I cannot help but reflect that the only people who rehearse for plays are those people who are actually
in a play
. Which you are not, I think you will recall.”

“Ah… yes. Well, no,” he spluttered, “but I hope to be. I practice this play, every year, in case some theater mounts it. Then I shall be ready to audition.”

“What is the name of this play?” I pressed.

“Uh…
The Dread Messenger
, of course,” he answered, then changed the subject. “I say, Watson, what day is it?”

“November the fifth,” I said.

“And what time?” he asked.

“Ah… three minutes to eleven.”

“But… that makes no sense, does it?” Holmes wondered aloud. I was sure he hoped I’d failed to notice his fell prognostication, but such was his confusion with his own message that he could not help but stop to puzzle it out. “Month of nine? September?”

“There was some curious word choice, you know,” I reflected. “September may be the ninth month, but it is named for the Latin-derived term for seven:
sept
.
Oct
is eight;
nov
is nine;
dec
is ten. So, though the months are effectively named ‘Sevenmonth,’ ‘Eightmonth,’ ‘Ninemonth’ and ‘Tenmonth,’ their numbers no longer match their names.”

“Curious,” said Holmes. “So, if it means the ninth month, then this warning relates to something that happened two months ago or which will happen, nearly a year hence.”

“That is correct.”

“Yet, if it relates to the proper name ‘Month of Nine’ or ‘Ninemonth,’ then it references an event which will occur…”

As I could see he was having difficulty with the mathematics, I chose to inform him, “Roughly two minutes from now.”

“What? Oh! Wonderful!
Wonderful!
Thank you for the
ample
warning, Moriarty,” he howled, then, “Watson, help me up! I must reach the window.”

I pulled him to his feet and towards the armchair by our front window, thinking to deposit him in it, but he had no intention of resting. He propped himself on the windowsill and scanned the street below.

“There,” he said, pointing. “That man there.”

“That man?” I asked, peering at the large, hunch-shouldered figure he indicated. “Who is he?”

“He is a retired sergeant of the Royal Marines,” Holmes said. “He’s coming here.”

“Why?”

“There has been a murder, I think.”

THE CARRIAGE BOUNCED ALONG, OVER THE COBBLESTONE
streets, shaking the already pale Warlock Holmes where he slumped in the corner. He looked as one who is in the very depths of pneumonia, but he had absolutely refused rest. Our strange visitor—who had indeed been a recently retired sergeant of the Royal Marines—had come to deliver a letter. This proved to be the oddest missive I had ever seen, but the messenger seemed afraid of Holmes and would not tarry to explain it. As soon as he left us, Holmes resolved to set out immediately. He tottered to the hook by the door, donned his long tweed coat and that peculiar hat of his. I had never seen its like. He said it was called a soulstalker. Still unsteady on his feet, he asked to borrow my walking stick—which I happily lent him—then sent me into the street to hire a cab. Holmes asked the driver to hurry to 3 Lauriston Gardens and collapsed into the corner of the carriage.

“Holmes,” I said, “you look terrible. Why are we rushing to answer this strange summons?”

“Because Moriarty told me not to,” he said, staring out the window at the gray streets.

“And who precisely is this Moriarty?” I inquired.

“Nobody you ought to have any dealings with, if you can help it.”

“Well, so you say, but it is a very strange business and I don’t understand—”

“Yes, it is a strange business, but it is
my
business,” Holmes interrupted, “and the mere strangeness of it cannot contrive to make it any other man’s!”

I demurred. This is a plea that cannot be ignored by an English gentleman, under any circumstances. The day an Englishman turns to any other and says, “Isn’t it strange that none of us get married until our thirties, yet when we do, it is to enjoy the ‘pleasures of the hearth,’ rather than out of fifteen to twenty years of pent-up sexual frustration? On what I’m sure is an unrelated note: I can’t help but notice our streets are choked with ‘flower girls,’ yet I never see anybody carrying newly purchased flowers. In fact, you yourself seem to visit the flower girls two or three times a day, but you never bring flowers to work. Or home. Or to the doctor’s office, where you go twice a week to combat your magnificent array of venereal diseases…” Well… that would be the day all our lies unravel and our society collapses. Thus, we doggedly afford each other the luxury to conduct our own matters.

“As you say,” I conceded.

“Read me the letter again, won’t you?” Holmes asked—to change the subject, I think.

I leaned over, pulled the letter from Holmes’s hand and read:

I rubbed the letter with my thumbs, wiping away smears of dirt, blood and strawberry jam, musing, “This has to be a hoax.”

“It is quite genuine, I assure you,” said Holmes, shaking his head gravely.

“But who would… who would write such a thing?”

“Torg Grogsson, just as it says.”

“Well yes, but what manner of man…”

“He is a detective inspector at Scotland Yard,” Holmes said.

“Surely not!” I began to laugh, in spite of myself.

“He is, I assure you,” Holmes shot back, “and a quite effective one at that. Perhaps he is not the finest example of reason or observational prowess, but there is more to police work than just that, Watson. When you meet him, I think you will realize why.”

“Why?” I pressed, unwilling to wait.

“The last word of that letter—before his name—which you read ‘
on-uhr
,’ is in fact ‘
honor.
’ It is the topic dearest to his heart. When you meet him, examine him carefully and ask yourself what might become of you if Torg Grogsson ever caught you in a lie.”

Warlock turned to the window, threw his arms across his chest and settled into one of his sulks. I realized I had insulted a friend of his. As luck would have it, I had another topic I was all too willing to address.

“Holmes… that messenger…”

“Yes?” he snapped.

“How did you know him to be a retired Royal Marines sergeant?”

A look of extreme weariness crossed his features and he looked over at me as if he were a nine-year-old lad whom I had just found with one hand on my teacake and the other in my wallet. His eyes bespoke exhaustion and they sought mine, begging with a glance to be excused the labor of explaining. I said nothing, so he heaved a sigh and began, “Simple observation, of course. His left boot was spattered with a unique red mud, particular to a puddle outside the Royal Marines… sergeants’… pension… dispensing office, or whatever they call it.”

“Is this unique red mud akin to the sample which told you I was staying at the Hotel d’Amsterdam?”

“Don’t be cynical, Watson.”

“I think his boots were clean, Holmes.”

“I assure you, they were not.”

“There is no sense arguing about it,” I said. “It is an easily settled matter. When we get home, we shall see if there is any dried red mud upon our carpet.”