The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (18 page)

I took the young woman’s hand and kissed it briefly, before accepting Newbury’s offer of a seat. Miss Hobbes was stunningly beautiful, with dark brown hair tied up in a neat chignon. She was wearing dark grey culottes and a matching jacket—the picture of modern womanhood.

“Would you care for a drink, Doctor?” said Newbury, indicating the well-stocked sideboard with a wave of his hand. “A brandy, perhaps?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you. Most kind, but I’ll abstain.”

Newbury returned to his seat by the fire, angling his body towards me. “So, how may I be of assistance, Dr Watson? I presume it’s not related to one of your journalistic endeavours?”

“Indeed not,” I replied, gravely. “I’m here on behalf of an associate of mine, a man named Brownlow. It’s connected with that business about the supposed beast that’s been seen crawling out of the river. Last night Brownlow had an encounter with the thing, and it rather left him terrified out of his wits. It was... suggested to me that you might be able to help shed some light.”

The corner of Newbury’s mouth twitched with the stirrings of a wry smile. “And this was not a matter that Mr Holmes was able to assist you with?”

“Holmes is busy,” I said, a little defensively. “And besides, it was Holmes who recommended I call. He said you were considered rather an expert in matters such as these.”

“I’m sure he did,” said Newbury, knowingly.

“Tell us, Dr Watson...” Miss Hobbes interjected, offering Newbury a mildly disapproving look “...did Mr Brownlow give you any indication as to when and where this sighting occurred?” In truth, I couldn’t blame the man for enjoying the moment. It was fair to imagine that Holmes himself would have done precisely the same. In fact, knowing him as I did, I’m convinced he would have taken the time to truly relish the irony of the situation.

I smiled at Miss Hobbes in gratitude for the timeliness of her interruption. “Cheyne Walk,” I replied. “Close to eleven o’clock yesterday evening. Following the incident he came directly to my club, where he is also a member, and sought me out for my assistance.”

Newbury looked thoughtful. “And did he offer a description of the beast?”

I hesitated for a moment as I considered the sheer ludicrousness of what I was about to relate. I felt ridiculous now for coming here and adding weight and validity to this story. How could it be real? Had I simply overreacted to Holmes’s rebuttal?

Well, whatever the case, it was too late to back out. “Brownlow described it as having a large, bulbous body about the size of a hansom cab, and eight thick limbs like tentacles upon which it slithered in the manner of an octopus. Now, I’m a little unsure as to the veracity of my friend’s description, but given the accounts in the newspapers this morning... well, you understand, I had to come. The poor man thinks he’s going insane. He might yet be right.”

Newbury glanced at Miss Hobbes. “Oh, I assure you, Dr Watson, that your friend is quite sane. His report is the same in every respect as the others. This ‘beast’, whatever it is, is quite real.”

“Sir Maurice’s clerk, Mrs Coulthard, was another of the witnesses,” continued Miss Hobbes, smiling reassuringly. “You find us in the midst of a discussion over how best to approach the situation.”

“Have you any thought yet as to what it might be? Some sort of primordial beast, woken after years of hibernation? The result of an experiment? A previously undiscovered species brought back from the colonies?” I sighed. “The mind boggles...”

I realise now that these suggestions may appear somewhat ignorant to a reader aware of the facts, but at the time I could think of no other reasonable explanation for what this beast might have been. As Holmes was fond of saying, “Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” If that axiom was indeed correct—and Newbury, also, was right in his assertion that the beast was real—then I could see no other credible explanation.

“I think it would be wrong for us to jump to any conclusions at this stage, Doctor. At least before we’ve had chance to lay eyes upon the beast ourselves.” Newbury glanced at his companion before continuing. “Miss Hobbes and I had only just resolved to take a stroll along Cheyne Walk this very evening. I’m of a mind to catch a glimpse of this creature myself. You’d be more than welcome to accompany us, if you so wished.”

“Well, it certainly makes sense to pool our resources,” I said. “And I also tend to favour the evidence of my own eyes. I’d be delighted to join you, Sir Maurice.” I admit to feeling a certain sense of relief at this rather unexpected development. I couldn’t help but wonder what Holmes would make of it all.

“In that case, Doctor, I shall encourage you to make haste to your home and prepare for a cold evening by the river. Warm clothes, stout boots and a firearm would be advisable. We can meet here for an early dinner at, say, six o’clock, and then be on our way.” Newbury smiled, and stood to accompany me to the door.

“Thank you, Sir Maurice,” I said, taking him by the hand. “And good afternoon, Miss Hobbes.”

“Until this evening, Dr Watson,” she replied brightly.

It wasn’t until I’d already left the house on Cleveland Avenue that it occurred to me that baiting monsters by the river might have been a rather unsuitable pursuit for a lady. Nevertheless, as I was soon to discover, Miss Veronica Hobbes was most definitely a woman who knew how to look after herself.

* * *

So it was that, a few hours later, my belly full of the most excellent beef Wellington, I found myself on the banks of the Thames, shivering beneath my heavy woollen overcoat as Newbury, Miss Hobbes and I took up our positions along Cheyne Walk.

I’d found myself warming to Newbury as we’d talked over dinner, discussing the nature of his work—or rather, as much of it as he was able to discuss, given the secrecy of his role. It transpired he worked in some obscure capacity for the Crown, on one hand aiding Scotland Yard in their ever-constant battle against the criminal elements of the capital, and on the other taking direction from Buckingham Palace itself, performing the role of a state spy and expert in the occult.

That was about as much as I could glean about the man himself, but he talked openly about his catalogue of bizarre experiences, including his encounters with plague-ridden Revenants in the slums; his investigation into the wreckage of
The Lady Armitage
—a terrible airship crash from the previous summer that I remembered well; his run-in with the Chinese crimelord Meng Li; and other, increasingly surprising stories. He was a master at weaving a good yarn, and he held my attention throughout the three delicious courses of our meal. Miss Hobbes, herself a player in many of these exceptional tales, watched Newbury as he related these accounts of their adventures with no small measure of affection.

I came away from that dinner sure that, should Holmes ever decide to hang up his hat, I should readily have another subject upon which to focus my literary endeavours. Moreover, I decided that, despite Holmes’s obvious disdain for the man’s reputation, if the two of them were to actually meet they would surely find each other’s company most invigorating.

* * *

I reflected on this as I stood in the shadow of Thomas Carlyle—or rather his memorial statue—at one end of the street, looking out over the Chelsea Embankment. We’d spread out along this stretch of the river, about a hundred yards apart. Miss Hobbes—wrapped in a dark, grey overcoat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat—was between Newbury and I, who, from this distance, I could just make out in the misty evening as a dark silhouette.

This, I understood from Newbury, was the location cited in the majority of the reports, including those of Brownlow and Newbury’s clerk, Mrs Coulthard. Most claimed to have seen the creature scale the wall of the embankment and drag itself over the stone lip, pulling itself onto land and slithering off into the alleyways between the serried rows of terraced houses. One report, however, was of the creature also returning to the river by the same means, in or about the same spot. It seemed logical, then, that we should make our observation from this point, and we’d come prepared for a long wait.

Even so, my limbs were beginning to grow weary with the cold. It was a damp, miserable night, and the thick autumnal mist dulled even the glow of the street lamps. It seemed to wreath everything in its embrace, clinging to the trees and the buildings, curling its tendrils across the choppy surface of the Thames. There were but a few people abroad that night, passing along the embankment with their heads stooped low against the inclement weather. They appeared to me like ghostly shapes emerging from the mist, passing from one realm into another as they drifted along beside the river.

We must have waited there for hours without a word passing between us. I checked my timepiece at around eleven o’clock, stamping my feet in an attempt to warm my weary, frozen limbs. I was just about to hail Newbury in order to call it a night when I received my first indication that something was afoot.

I became aware of a low, mechanical sound coming from the river, not unlike the clanking of heavy iron chains being dragged through a winching mechanism. At first I imagined it to be a ship drawing anchor, but I could see no masts on the water. I glanced at Newbury and Miss Hobbes, who had evidentially both heard the same noise and had abandoned their posts to approach the embankment. I started after them, wondering if at last we were about to reap some reward from our long vigil.

My hopes were confirmed a moment later when I saw Miss Hobbes start and fall back to the cover of the trees. I ran to her side in time to see two thick proboscises, each about the girth of a man’s torso and covered in scores of tiny suckers like those of an octopus, come probing over the stone lip of the embankment. They squirmed and shifted as if feeling for the best possible hold, and then appeared to latch on to the uneven surface, providing purchase for the beast to haul itself out of the water.

It was difficult to ascertain much in the way of detail, due to the gloom and the pervasive mist, but I had already seen enough to set a cold lump of dread in the pit of my stomach. The sheer size of the thing to which such tentacles belonged... I could only stand there beside Miss Hobbes, looking on in abject fear as the beast slowly dragged itself onto land before us.

Newbury had continued to approach the water’s edge but was now keeping himself at a safe distance, obviously keen not to find himself caught by one of the thrashing tendrils as the creature heaved itself further and further out of the Thames. The screeching noise continued, and I now realised that what I’d at first considered to be a mechanical noise must in fact have been the sound of the creature itself. I shuddered at the thought of such an infernal beast.

Another tentacle whipped over the side of the embankment, followed closely by a fourth. I had a sense, then, of the immensity of the thing, and as its body finally hove into view I had to fight the urge to run. Brownlow had been correct in his description of the creature and at that point I understood what had so disturbed him about his encounter with the creature the previous night. It was a thing to inspire madness. Simply to look upon it was to question one’s own sanity.

As I watched, the monster slipped its bulk over the top of the embankment wall and raised itself to its full height—at least twenty feet tall—twisting and turning as if trying to decide which direction it should now take. I could see very little of it, other than the silhouette of its mass and the gleam of its wet carapace, catching and reflecting what thin shafts of moonlight fell on it from above.

It appeared to settle on a course a moment later, shuffling off in the direction of the nearest side street. It had a curious ambulatory technique, partway between a crawl and a slither, and I couldn’t help thinking, despite everything, that the beast was far more suited to water than to land. Nevertheless, it moved with a not inconsiderable momentum, dragging itself along with all the noise of Hades, screeching and grinding as its multiple limbs struck again and again upon the flagstones.

“After it!” bellowed Newbury, his words rousing me from my temporary stupor. I did as he said, charging after it as fast as my numb, tired legs would carry me.

The beast had dragged itself into a narrow opening between two rows of houses, leading to a dark, cobbled alleyway beyond. Now its limbs were splayed around it, grasping at the sides of the buildings, pulling chunks out of the brickwork as it swiftly propelled itself along.

“Stand aside!” called Newbury, coming up behind me at a run. I dived quickly to one side as Miss Hobbes ducked to the other, and Newbury lurched to a stop, hurling something high into the air in the direction of the creature.

There was a sudden explosion of bright, white light as the flare—for that was what Newbury had thrown—hissed to life, rendering the entire scene in a series of brilliant, stuttering flashes as it spun wildly through the air.

I fell back, awestruck, as I caught my first proper glimpse of the creature, and realised with shock that it wasn’t in fact a creature at all. What had at first appeared as some kind of gargantuan, primitive animal was, in the harsh brilliance of the flare, shown to be nothing more than a huge mechanical construction. Its metallic limbs, now clearly a series of cleverly segmented iron coils, glinted with reflected light as they writhed and twisted, scrabbling at the walls. Its carapace was dull and black, still dripping with river water and, to my surprise, I saw the startled face of a man inside, peering out through the thick glass of a riveted porthole. I realised it was some sort of amphibious vehicle, and that the man was most likely the pilot. Judging by the appearance of it, I guessed it was a submersible—but a remarkable submersible of the like I had never seen, with the ability to clamber out of the water and scale sheer walls. I wondered at who might have even conceived of such a thing.

The flare struck the back of the machine’s carapace and rebounded, tumbling over and over until it struck the cobbles a few feet away and continued to fizz and sputter in the gutter.