The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (17 page)

So it was that Brownlow downed another large brandy and set about relating his tale once again, this time in exquisite detail. I must admit the credibility of his words grew somewhat in the retelling, but there was nothing in it that could help me to discern what might truly have occurred. I had seen some things in my time, particularly since returning from Afghanistan and falling in with Holmes, but this tall tale seemed to test the bounds of even my well-trodden credulity.

It was with a heavy heart that I sent Brownlow home to his bachelor’s apartment that night, unable to offer him any real comfort, other than a prescription for a mild sedative should he find it necessary in order to sleep. I promised the man I would consider his story, and that I would contact him directly should I happen upon any possible hint of an explanation. There was little else to be done, and so I made haste to my bed, my mind restless with concern.

* * *

The next morning I approached breakfast with a mind to refer Brownlow to a nerve specialist I’d worked with on occasion. Having slept on the matter I was now convinced that his ungodly vision could have only been the result of a hallucination, and decided that, if it hadn’t been brought about by drink or other mind-altering substances, it was most likely an expression of nervous exhaustion. Brownlow had always had a tendency to throw himself into his work, body and soul. Aside from his private, paying customers, I’d known him to spend hours in aid of the poor, administering free treatment to those wretches who lined the alleyways of the slums, or huddled in their masses beneath the bridges that criss-crossed the banks of the Thames. Perhaps he’d been overdoing it, and he simply needed some rest. Or perhaps he’d succumbed to a mild fever.

My theories were soon dispelled, however, as I set about hungrily tucking into my bacon and eggs. It is my habit to take the morning papers with my breakfast, and upon folding back the covers of
The Times,
I fixed upon a small report on the bottom of the second page. The headline read:

My first thought was that Brownlow had gone to the papers with his story, but I quickly dismissed the notion. The previous night he’d been in no fit state to talk to anyone, and I’d seen him into the back of a cab myself.

I scanned the article quickly, and was surprised to see that there were, in fact, a number of reports that seemed not only to corroborate Brownlow’s story, but also to expand somewhat upon it. It appeared the previous evening had been the third in a row during which sightings of this bizarre creature had been reported. Furthermore, one of the reports stated that the woman in question—a Mrs Coulthard of Brixton—had seen the beast give chase to a group of young vagabonds who had been generally up to no good, throwing rocks at nearby boats and jeering at passers-by. Many of the reports claimed, just as Brownlow had, that the creature had dragged itself out of the Thames, and what’s more, that it had been seen returning to the water upon completion of its nightly sojourn.

I leaned back in my chair, sipping at my coffee and staring at the remnants of my breakfast in astonishment. So Brownlow had been telling the truth. He
had
seen something down by the river. And if the veracity of his story was no longer in question, then the beast was something truly diabolical. Could it have been some sort of throwback to the prehistoric past, or some previously undocumented variety of gargantuan squid?

I resolved to visit Holmes directly. There was a mystery here, and people were potentially in grave danger. If only I could persuade him to apply his attention to the matter, there was hope that we could uncover precisely what was going on.

The drive to Baker Street passed in a blur. All the while, as the cab bounced and rattled over the cobbled roads, I couldn’t help imagining the scene that must have confronted Brownlow and those others, the sight of that hulking beast dragging itself out of the ink-black water. It would surely have been terrifying to behold.

I resolved then and there that I would find a way to look upon this creature with my own eyes. Only then could I be utterly sure of its existence and the nature of any threat it represented.

Upon my arrival at Baker Street I found Holmes in one of his peculiar, erratic moods. He was pacing back and forth before the fireplace, somewhat manically, pulling at his violin strings as if trying to wring some meaning out of the random, screeching sounds the instrument was making. It was icy cold in there, yet the fireplace remained untended to, heaped with ash and charred logs. If Holmes felt the chill he did not show it.

He had his back to me. I coughed politely from the doorway, noting with dismay that my breath actually fogged in the air before my face.

“Yes, yes, Watson. Do come in and stop loitering in the hallway. And since you’re here, see about building up this fire, will you? It’s perishing in here.”

Shaking my head in dismay, but deciding it would do neither of us any good to take umbrage, I set about clearing the grate.

“I expect you’re here about those wild reports in the newspapers this morning,” he said, strolling over to the window and peering out at the busy street below. He gave a sharp twang on another violin string, and I winced at the sound.

“I won’t bother to ask how you managed to discern that, Holmes,” I said, sighing as a plume of soot settled on my shirt cuff and then smeared as I attempted to brush it away. “Can’t Mrs Hudson do this?” I said, grumpily.

“Mrs Hudson has gone out to the market,” he replied, turning back from the window to look at me.

“She was here a moment ago,” I said, triumphantly. “She opened the door and let me in.”

Holmes held up a single index finger to indicate the need for silence. I watched him for a moment, counting beneath my breath as I begged the gods to grant me patience. Downstairs, I heard the exterior door slam shut with a bang. “There!” he exclaimed with a beaming smile. “Off to the market.”

I sighed and continued piling logs on to the fire. “Well, of course you’re right.”

“About Mrs Hudson?”

“About the reason I’m here. This supposed beast. I had the unhappy task of comforting a friend last night who claimed to have seen it. The poor man was terrified.”

“Hmm,” said Holmes, resuming his pacing.

I waited for his response until it was evident that I’d already had the entirety of it. “Well?”

“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something, Watson?” he said, a little unkindly.

I glowered at him. “Really, Holmes! I thought you would be glad of the case. I mean, you’ve been holed up in here for weeks with nothing to occupy your mind. And poor Brownlow—”

“There’s nothing in it, Watson. Some idle hoaxer looking to sell his story. Nothing more. I have no interest in such coarse, ridiculous matters.” He plucked violently at three strings in succession. “Besides,” he continued, his tone softening, “I find myself in the midst of a rather sensitive affair. Mycroft has gone and lost his favourite spy, a government scientist by the name of Mr Xavier Gray. He’s quite frantic about the whole matter, and he’s prevailing on me to assist him in the search for the missing man.”

“Well, what are you doing
here?”
I asked. Sometimes I found it very difficult to fathom the motives of my dear friend.

“Thinking,” he replied, as if that explained everything. He reached for the bow that he’d balanced precariously on the arm of a chair and began chopping furiously at the violin, emitting a long, cacophonous screech. I rose from where I’d been crouching by the fire and dusted off my hands. Clearly, I was unlikely to gain anything further from Holmes. As I crossed the room, heading towards the door, the violin stopped abruptly behind me and I turned to see Holmes regarding me, a curious expression on his face. “Send your friend to see a man named Maurice Newbury, of 10 Cleveland Avenue, Chelsea. I understand he’s an ‘expert’ in matters such as these.” He spoke the man’s name with such disdain that he clearly thought him to be no such thing.

“Very well,” I said, curtly. “I hope you find your missing spy.” But Holmes had already started up again with his violin.

* * *

As I clambered into a hansom outside number 221B, frustrated by Holmes’s dismissive attitude, I made the sudden, snap decision to pay a visit to this Newbury character myself. I am not typically given to such rash acts, but I remained intent on discovering the truth about the infernal beast that had so terrified my friend. Brownlow, being so meek, would never call on Newbury of his own account, no matter how I pressed him. I was sure that even now he would be reconciling himself to what had occurred, finding a way to accommodate the bizarre encounter into his own, conservative view of the world. He would rationalise it and carry on, returning to the distractions of his patients and his busy life. My interest, however, had been piqued and I was not prepared to allow the matter to rest without explanation.

I must admit that I was also keen to prove Holmes wrong. I realise now how ridiculous that sounds, how petty, but his attitude had galled me and I was anxious to prove to my friend that the matter was not beneath his attention. As things were to transpire, I would be more successful on that count than I could have possibly imagined.

The drive to Chelsea was brisk, and I passed it by staring out of the window, watching the streets flicker by in rapid, stuttering succession. Almost before I knew it we had arrived at Cleveland Avenue. I paid the driver and watched as the cab clattered away down the street, the horse’s breaths leaving steaming clouds in the frigid air.

Number 10 was an unassuming terraced house, fronted by a small rose garden that in turn was flanked by a black iron railing. A short path terminated in three large stone steps and a door painted in a bright, pillar-box red. I approached with some hesitation, feeling a little awkward now after my somewhat hasty retreat from Baker Street. What would I say to this Newbury fellow? I was there on behalf of a friend who claimed to have seen a monster? Perhaps Holmes had been right. Perhaps it was ridiculous. But there I was, on the doorstep, and I’d never been a man to shy away from a challenge. I rapped firmly with the door knocker.

A few moments later I heard footsteps rapping on floorboards from within, and then the door swung open and a pale, handsome face peered out at me. The man was dressed in a smart black suit and had an expectant look on his face. “May I help you?” he said, in warm, velvet tones.

“Mr Maurice Newbury?” I replied. “I was told I might find him at this address?”

The man gave a disapproving frown.
“Sir
Maurice is not receiving visitors at present, I’m afraid.”

Holmes! He might have saved me that embarrassment if he’d wanted to. “Indeed,” I replied, as graciously as I could muster. “I wonder if I might leave a card. My name is John Watson and I’m here on a rather urgent matter. I would speak with him as soon as is convenient. He comes very highly recommended.”

The man—whom I now realised was most likely Newbury’s valet—raised his eyebrows in what appeared to be genuine surprise. “Dr John Watson? The writer?”

I smiled at this unexpected recognition. “Quite so.”

The valet grinned. I had to admit, I was warming to the fellow. “Well, Dr Watson, I think you’d better come in. I’m sure Sir Maurice will be anxious to meet you when he discovers the nature of his caller.” He coughed nervously as he closed the door behind me and took my hat and coat. “If you’d like to follow me?”

He led me along the hallway until we reached a panelled door. I could hear voices from inside, two of them, belonging to a man and a woman and talking in the most animated of tones. The valet rapped loudly on the door and stepped inside. I waited in the hallway until I knew I would be welcome.

“You have a visitor, sir.”

When it came the man’s reply was firm, but not unkind. “I thought I’d explained, Scarbright, that I wished to receive no callers today? I have an urgent matter I must attend to with Miss Hobbes.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the valet, a little sheepishly. “Only, it’s Dr John Watson, sir.”

“Dr Watson?” said Newbury, as if attempting to recall the significance of my name. “Ah, yes, the writer chap. You’re a follower of his work, aren’t you, Scarbright?”

“Indeed, sir,” said the valet, and I couldn’t suppress a little smile as I heard the crack of embarrassment in his voice. “He claims to have a rather urgent matter to discuss with you, sir.”

Newbury gave a sigh of resignation. “Very well, Scarbright. You’d better send him in.”

The valet stepped back and held the door open to allow me to pass. I offered him a brief smile of gratitude as I passed over the threshold into what I took to be the drawing room. In fact, it was much like the room in Baker Street from which I’d recently departed, only decorated with a more esoteric flair. Where Holmes might have had a stack of letters on the mantelpiece, speared by a knife, Newbury had the bleached skull of a cat. Listing stacks of leather-bound books formed irregular sentries around the edges of the room, and two high-backed Chesterfields had been placed before a raging fire. Both were occupied, the one on the left by the man I took to be Sir Maurice Newbury, and the other by a beautiful young woman who smiled warmly at me as I met her gaze.

Newbury was up and out of his seat before I’d crossed the threshold, welcoming me with a firm handshake and beckoning me to take a seat on the low-backed sofa that filled much of the centre of the room. He was a wiry-looking fellow of about forty, and was dressed in an ill-fitting black suit that appeared to have been tailored for a slightly larger man. Either that, or he had recently lost weight. He was ruggedly handsome, with fierce, olive-green eyes and raven-black hair swept back from his forehead. He had dark rings around his eyes and a sallow complexion, and I saw in him immediately the hallmarks of an opium eater: perhaps not the most auspicious of beginnings for our acquaintance. Nevertheless, I’d made it that far and I was determined to see it out.

“You are very welcome, Dr Watson,” said Newbury, genially. “I, as you might have gathered, am Sir Maurice Newbury, and this is my associate Miss Veronica Hobbes.”