Sherlock Holmes (7 page)

We’d faced danger together countless times before, of course, but this time the enemy was not simply a criminal out for revenge, or a murderer attempting to flee. There was no master plan at work here, no trail of clues to uncover. This was not an enemy that Holmes could understand and outwit, but rather an implacable, faceless foe, and the realisation of that, I believe, was quite startling to him.

In all the years he’d been hiding away in Sussex with his bees the world had changed, and there, in Grange’s house that night, his disassociation with the modern age was brought to the fore in sharp relief. Where Foulkes and I had remained in London, and had consequently witnessed the horrors of the war first hand, Holmes had only read the reports in the newspapers, or heard them recited on the wireless. Witnessing them directly had momentarily stopped him in his tracks.

“I’ll do it,” I said, deciding to give him a moment. I started toward the door, but as I did so there was a momentary stillness. Then a bomb exploded in the street outside.

The percussive
boom
of the blast was like a terrifying thunderclap, and the force of it bowled me forward, sending me sprawling across the sitting-room floor. I landed face down on the burgundy rug, jarring my elbow and knocking the wind from my lungs. It felt as if I’d been shoved between the shoulder blades.

I rolled onto my side, trying to catch my breath. My hands were smarting, and my ears were ringing so that I couldn’t hear anything but the sound of my own heartbeat, thumping ten to the dozen.

I propped myself up, gasping, trying to get a measure of what had occurred. Holmes was on the floor beside me, stirring and in the process of picking himself up. He had a small cut on his left cheek, but otherwise seemed unharmed.

Foulkes was on the other side of the room, close to the sideboard, and had already regained his footing. He was dusting shards of broken glass from his trousers.

The bay windows had shattered in the explosion, and a spear of broken glass – a jagged shard about as long as my arm – had skewered the chair I’d been sitting in just a few minutes earlier. I swallowed. If I hadn’t moved, or if Foulkes hadn’t urged me to step away from the window, it would have been buried in my chest now.

Fragments of glass were scattered all across the floor, and the edges of the curtains were on fire. I scrambled to my feet, skidding on broken shards, and rushed over to the window. “Help me!” I called to the others, grabbing the nearest smouldering curtain and tugging it down from the pole. The pole itself came away from the wall with my frantic wrenching, and I hastily bundled it all up together, tossing it out through the now empty window frame into the front garden. I realised Foulkes had joined me and was following suit.

Within a moment or two, the fire was safely confined to the garden.

I sighed with something akin to relief. My hearing was starting to return in stuttering episodes, increasing in frequency, and I was thankful that we were all still alive and mercifully uninjured.

Through the blasted frame, I took in the scene of utter devastation in the street outside. Many of the houses hadn’t been as lucky as Grange’s – the roofs and frontages had been severely damaged and small fires licked hungrily at exposed beams. Desperate people were spilling out into the street, laden down with their children and armfuls of their prized possessions. A portion of the road itself had largely disappeared; in its place was a crater the size of an omnibus, the tarmac cracked and splintered around the lip. Thick smoke hung in the air.

The ringing bells of ambulances were converging on our location, mingling with the sorrowful cries of children and the dispossessed.

I looked up, searching for the perpetrator. Searchlights still pierced the sky, but the zeppelin was now receding into the distance, its havoc wreaked, at least on this small area of the city. I had no doubt that there would be more to come before the night was out.

I would be glad to get home, although I guessed that Carter might have to abandon his vehicle for the night and join us on foot, at least until we could pick up a hansom.

And that’s when it dawned on me.
Carter
. He’d been outside in the motorcar during the blast.

Panicked, I shoved Holmes out of the way – he had come to stand beside me at the window – and rushed to the door. I hurtled along the hallway, flung open the front door and charged down the garden path toward the waiting automobile.

The sight that greeted me was one that I would never forget.

The blast had hit the vehicle with such force that it had tipped it over so that it lay on its side, half up on the pavement. The driver’s door was buckled, so that it had pinned Carter in, trapping his legs beneath the steering wheel. The roaring heat of the explosion had scorched the vehicle so comprehensively that the paint had bubbled from the metal panels. The seats were still smouldering where the leather and stuffing had burned. And Carter, that poor, poor boy, had been torched alive.

The flesh of his face was now a charred and blackened mess, but I could see the fixed expression of horror, the scream of anguish frozen forever in the set of his jaw. I couldn’t help but recall what I had said to him when I’d left him out here by himself, less than an hour earlier: “you’ll catch your death”. It was an old expression, but it had proved horrifyingly prophetic.

I sank to my knees, tears welling in my eyes. I felt responsible for the lad, as if I’d somehow let him down. I should have pressed him harder to come inside,
demanded
that he did as I said. But it was too late, now. There was nothing to be done. Carter had become another victim of the war.

I realised Foulkes and Holmes were standing behind me, and felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder. He helped me up, and the look on his face was one of heartfelt sorrow. “That poor boy,” he said.

Around us, the ambulances and fire engines had started to arrive on the scene, and the firemen were beginning to round everybody up.

“You should go,” said Foulkes. “Get home before you become embroiled in all of this.”

“We can’t!” I said. “I’m a doctor. I could help.”

Foulkes shook his head. “You’re in no fit state to help, Dr. Watson, and besides, the ambulances are here. There are plenty of doctors and nurses on hand. If anything, you should consider getting
yourself
looked over.”

“I am quite well,” I said, although in truth, I was wincing with every intake of breath.

“The Inspector is right, Watson,” said Holmes. “We can be of little use here. We should take our leave and repair to Ealing, where we can recuperate without distraction. We are neither of us as young as we used to be.”

I glowered at Holmes, but in truth I knew he spoke sense. I noticed he still had the photographs of Grange, tucked under his left arm. “We still have a case to solve, and I am resolved now, more than ever, to see it through,” he said. “That boy gave his life in pursuit of Mycroft’s cause. I shall see the matter resolved.”

“What of Carter?” I said. “We can’t just leave him here. Who’s going to speak to his mother?”

“I will remain here and see to the necessary arrangements, Dr. Watson,” said Foulkes. “Rest assured, I won’t leave until the boy has been extracted from the wreckage and taken to the morgue. I will see to it that the family is informed.”

“Very well,” I said, with a heavy sigh. I could see there was no point arguing, and in truth, my every instinct screamed at me to get as far away from the place as possible.

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “We shall be in touch.”

“See that you are, Mr. Holmes,” said Foulkes.

“You’re a good man, Inspector Foulkes,” I said. “Bainbridge would be proud.”

“Thank you, Dr. Watson. Now go, before that lot rope you in to start answering questions.”

I nodded, and with one last look at the terrible, charred remains of our driver, I turned and walked away, leaving Holmes behind me to catch up.

I came downstairs the next morning to find Holmes sitting in my favourite armchair, poring over the documents we had taken from the War Office the previous day. They were scattered all about him on the floor, many of them covered in pencil marks and scrawled notes. The fire was burning in the grate, despite the clement weather outside. Three teacups were abandoned on the hearth, beside the remains of my crumpets from the previous day. I grimaced at the sight of them.

Holmes glanced up momentarily as I came into the room. “Morning, Watson,” he pronounced. He returned to his reading without waiting for my acknowledgement.

“Haven’t you slept, Holmes?” I asked.

“A little,” he replied.

“Really, Holmes. At our age…”

I saw him grind his teeth, measuring his response. “Old habits die hard, Watson. Particularly when there’s a case to be solved. You know my methods.”

“Mmmm,” I murmured disapprovingly in reply. In truth, I had not slept well myself. Images of the burnt-out motorcar and the remains of that poor young man had haunted me every time I closed my eyes. I was plagued by the look of sheer, unadulterated terror on his face.

I felt as if I should have done something. I should have considered him, alone out there in the street, instead of cowering inside the building, thinking only of myself. Perhaps if Holmes and I had got to him earlier… He couldn’t have been more than – what – twenty years old? It was no age to die. Yet, I reflected, his story was no different to the thousands whose lives were being forfeited in the trenches every day. Just like my nephew, Joseph. The war itself was the real culprit here. We had invited death into our lives, and now it was wreaking chaos.

The journey home from Grange’s house had proved increasingly harrowing, following the trail of destruction left behind by the Kaiser’s zeppelins, not to mention the ever-present threat of more incendiary devices tumbling from the skies above. It was a simple matter to map the route of the bombers across the city, following the guttering fires, the crumbling buildings, and the screams. Black smoke had formed a pall across the rooftops, and the stench of death hung heavy in the air.

I had tried to help, offering my medical services to the fire crews who had scrambled to attend to the bombsites, but there was little I could do. Those who had been caught in the blasts were already dead, and I was grateful to discover that many had escaped with their lives, if not their possessions. They would be moved on to shelters elsewhere in the city, distraught but grateful for their lives.

With little else to be done, Holmes and I had struck out towards Ealing on foot, and had been forced to walk some miles before finally picking up a cab.

As a consequence I was bone tired, and felt a dark shadow of depression threatening to overwhelm me. Left to my own devices, I was sure that I might sink into a well of grief and self-pity, and the very notion appalled me, bucking me up. I made a conscious decision to banish such black thoughts. There was a case to be solved. There was work to be done.

Holmes was still intent on the papers upon his knee. “Have you discovered anything?” I asked, as I collected the detritus from the fireplace.

Holmes sniffed. He shook his head. “Nothing of consequence,” he replied. “At least, not yet. I need those other transcripts. There is a pattern here, I’m sure of it. It’s simply that I cannot yet discern it. The picture remains incomplete. Additionally, without my index the work is much more difficult. Many of these names are familiar to me; minor criminals, petty thieves, that sort of thing, but I fear I’m going to have to rely on Inspector Foulkes to confirm it.”

I could see his frustration in the set of his jaw. He must have been at it for hours. There were dark bruises beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. “Coffee,” I said. “And breakfast.” It occurred to me that neither of us had eaten since before we’d met at Victoria Station.

Holmes waved a dismissive hand, without looking up.

“Now then, Holmes, I’ll have none of that. I’m speaking now as your doctor, as well as your friend. It’s time to eat.” I waited for a moment, but there was no response. So, grabbing the bull by the horns, I headed to the kitchen, where I rolled back my shirtsleeves and set about preparing a hearty spread of grilled kidneys and bacon, with a side of buttered toast. Years of experience told me that, despite his protests to the contrary, Holmes would soon attack this food if it were placed before him.

I was not wrong, and within half an hour we were both sitting at the breakfast table lining our stomachs in preparation for the day ahead. My culinary skills leave a lot to be desired, but my simple offering seemed to suffice.

“As I see it, Holmes,” I said, around a mouthful of bacon, “we have two potential lines of enquiry. The transcripts from the War Office, on which you’re already engaged, and those eerie photographs we recovered from Grange’s home last night.” I paused while I gulped down a welcome mouthful of coffee. “Have you any notion what they might be, what they might represent?” I’d intended to ask him this on the way home the previous evening, but events had somewhat disrupted my plans.

“I fear not, Watson,” he replied, in what I took to be a rare moment of modesty. “It is clear to me that these unusual prints bear some manner of relationship to the field of spiritualism and the occult, but I am not yet convinced of their exact purpose. It is most likely they represent a form of elaborate hoax, a way of extracting money from a vulnerable or gullible man.”

“I’d wondered much the same,” I said, for although I was perhaps more disposed to matters of the spiritual than Holmes – who was at heart a cold, clinical logician, prepared only to accept the empirical evidence of his eyes – I had found myself assuming the photographs to be the result of a parlour game or an artistic experiment, rather than a true likeness of anything from the spiritual realm.

“The problem,” said Holmes, “is that all evidence suggests that Herbert Grange was neither vulnerable
nor
gullible.” He underlined his point by stabbing fiercely at a piece of kidney, which he proceeded to chew on thoughtfully while staring into the middle distance.