The Fantastic Horror of the Disembodied Gun

Chapter Six

After leaving a message with the porter at the Diogenes Club that Mr Mycroft Holmes should contact me as a matter of some urgency, I resolved to return to Baker Street. It seemed to me that Holmes's fears for my safety had been unfounded. In a strange reversal of roles, his life was now threatened and only I could save him.

Yet the one thing they demanded in return for Holmes's release was the one thing I did not have. If I had cause to curse Professor Croxley before, I had reason enough now.

In the cloying chill of the yellow fog, the lights of Baker Street shone out as a welcome beacon. A wreath had been hung on the door, a fitting embellishment considering the sentence of death that hung over one of its residents. The ivy was drooping and thick with moisture, and the holly had impaled the limp red ribbon to leave it torn and shredded like the grisly entrails of some disembowelled creature. It brought to mind Matthew's thugs and their liking for violence. If I shuddered, it had less to do with the cold than the thought of what would happen to Holmes when I failed to deliver his ransom.

The fog followed me inside and was soon banished by the rich smells from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson was singing at her work as the Christmas pudding boiled merrily away on the stove, filling the house with steam so that every surface shone wetly with condensation. Faced with this scene of comforting domesticity, I could not help but experience a profound awareness of my own isolation.

If there had been a sense of resigned inevitability the first Christmas I had spent without my wife, this was different. In the world beyond our front door, it was Christmas Eve and people were gathering to celebrate with their families. Children had expectation of gifts on the morrow. Parents listened indulgently to the sprightly rendition of carols. To be in the midst of such joy yet to be faced with such a dilemma was something I should not have wished on my worst enemy.

The singing grew louder until Mrs Hudson appeared in the hall. Her apron was dappled with the flour, as were her glowing cheeks. She smiled, told me I had a visitor and promised to bring up mince pies and mulled wine.

"And you can tell Mr Holmes it's safe to come home now," was her parting shot. "Since he wouldn't give me an answer, I went ahead and put in the order with Mr Hedley. He brought the turkey round this afternoon, ugly-looking thing."

"Who, Mr Hedley?"

"No, bless you, Dr Watson, the turkey. You don't mind turkey meat, do you, sir?"

"No, Mrs Hudson, not at all."

"A good deal of fuss over nothing if you ask me," said she. "A bird is a bird when all's said and done. Still, I'll not have it said that this household can't afford a decent Christmas lunch. If that Mrs Fenwick thinks a turkey means she can give herself airs and graces, then she can think again!"

With that, she returned to her kitchen before I had had the opportunity to ask who was waiting for me upstairs. Under the circumstances, the prospect of having to entertain a guest was not an appealing one. I hoped whoever it was would be understanding when I asked them to leave.

It was with some relief that I found not a client but Inspector Lestrade. He had ensconced himself in the chair beside the blazing hearth and had taken the liberty of removing his shoes. The faint plume of steam that rose from his threadbare socks told me that he had not long finished for the evening. From the look of weariness on his face, I did not begrudge him the few comforts our rooms provided.

"Dr Watson," said he, near tipping his wet shoes into the fire as he rose to greet me. "A Merry Christmas to you. I hope you don't mind."

He gestured to the chair and the empty glass which now contained the last dregs of his brandy.

"Not, not at all. To tell the truth, I'm surprised to find you here, Lestrade, on Christmas Eve."

"I would have gone home," said he, settling himself in his chair once more. "The family's visiting, you see. What with Aunt Ethel and her bunions and Uncle Alfred and his stories about his time in the Crimea and Cousin Morris and his banjo… well, let's just say I won't be missed for an hour or so. Er, Mr Holmes not with you?"

"No," I replied. "He's… been detained."

"A case, is it?"

"Something like that."

"Ah, well, that's a shame because he'll be missing his share of this." From the pocket of his overcoat he produced a sizable bottle of malt whisky. "A present from my counterpart over Lewisham way. I did him a favour with a case this year and he's not the man to forget something like that. Well, Doctor, I'm sure you'll not say no."

"It's very kind, Lestrade, but no, thank you."

He glanced at me quizzically. "It's not like you to refuse a fine whisky. You haven't taken the blue ribbon, have you? This isn't the cheap stuff, you know."

Given that my headache had not long receded to bearable levels, I was not tempted to provoke it. "I dare say," I said, "but I'd rather not."

Lestrade stared at me for a long moment and then nodded, resigned to the task of drinking alone. "Very well. You won't mind if I do?"

"Please, be my guest."

As I divested myself of my outer garments, I heard the sound of liquid slopping into a glass and then a long sigh of contentment.

"Good stuff," said Lestrade appreciatively.

I had been glancing through my correspondence and, when I looked up, it was to find that he was watching me with some curiosity. I decided that it was better to disappoint him now rather than later, however uncharitable it might be to turn him on Christmas Eve when he had come bearing gifts. I needed time and space to think, and Lestrade and his whisky was an unfortunate distraction.

"Don't think me rude," I began.

"But you'd rather I go? No, no, it's all right, Dr Watson. I can see you've something on your mind, so I won't make a nuisance of myself. Mind you," said he, with what looked like a conspiratorial gleam in his eye, "I've always held that a problem shared is a problem halved. Not that you're the type to have a problem he couldn't handle on his own. No doubt it's a friend of yours that's found himself in a hole."

"Yes," I admitted weakly.

"I thought as much." He lowered himself back into his seat. "Friends have a penchant for getting into trouble. Is it anything I can help with?"

It occurred to me that there was a good deal of truth in what Lestrade had said. Holmes frequently poured scorn upon the wiry little detective, but there was much to be said in his favour. Even Lestrade's harshest critics would allow that he was a stout-heart with a good head on his shoulders. That he often set his sights on the wrong culprit or followed the evidence to an erroneous conclusion was not a failing exclusive to him, but was the common lot of those members of the human race not endowed with the unique insight of Sherlock Holmes. Certainly I needed advice, and as Holmes was not there, it was to Lestrade I turned.

"This friend," I began, "has recently found himself accused of possessing something of importance that certain parties would like to obtain from him. He has been threatened and demands have been made. This has now escalated to the extent that threats of violence have been made against an acquaintance of his if he fails to deliver this article to them."

"Then why doesn't he do so?"

"Because he doesn't have it. He never had it. He doesn't even know the item is."

Lestrade sat up. His expression was grave. "Something of a problem, Doctor, as you say. Has this friend of yours been to the police?"

"He cannot do so. It is a matter of some sensitivity."

"Blackmail?"

"Certainly not." I checked myself. "That is to say, no, Lestrade. Rather it concerns the security of the nation."

"Sounds like a case for Mr Holmes," said he, pouring himself another drink. He filled another glass and held it out for me. When I refused, he urged it on me. "Take it, Doctor. I've never seen anyone more in need of it. The last time I saw circles that black around a man's eyes was down at the morgue."

The smell was enough to turn my stomach. To be obliging, I took a drink. It was exceptionally fine as Lestrade had said, but I could not do it justice.

"Now," said Lestrade, "what about Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head. "Out of the question."

Lestrade considered. "How about that brother of his? He's something high and mighty in the government. I never did quite get to the bottom of what exactly it was he did. A jack of all trades, by all accounts." He chuckled and when I failed to respond, he grew serious again. "Well, Doctor?"

"I have been unable to contact him."

"Well, then, you—that is to say, your friend is in a pickle and no mistake."

I smiled at his error. Since it was so obvious, there seemed little point in denying it any longer. "No, Lestrade, you were right the first time. I can't go into the details, but I received this a little while ago."

I passed him the note. He read it quickly and whistled.

"Very formal, I must say. A funny turn of phrase about it too. 'Deliver unto us' – it's the sort of thing you'd hear in Sunday school. Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Their leader had a particular way of speaking, which led me to believe that English was not his mother tongue. He also said: 'As your Dr Johnson said.' The 'your' is superfluous if you are British."

"These would be the fellows who roughed you up."

I glanced at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

"You said yourself you'd been threatened. And there's some marks on your neck that don't look as though they've come from a sweetheart."

I adjusted my collar a little higher. "They mean to kill him, Lestrade, and they will. I can't give them what they want. I don't have it."

He pursed his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes showed that he was giving the matter considerable thought. "What is this thing that's worth killing for?"

"I don't know."

"Didn't they say?"

I cast my mind back to the interrogation in the theatre. "Now you come to mention it, they were vague about it was. They never actually said what it was I was supposed to have been given."

"Perhaps they don't know what it is either. In which case your problems are over." He grinned. "You could give them anything and they wouldn't know any different."

As plans went, it sounded so brazenly simple that a child could have seen through it. And yet, the more I thought about it, the more merit it had. In the absence of any other scheme, it had to work. Holmes's life depended upon it.

"Glad to be of service," said Lestrade genially when I told him of my approval. "You know, Doctor, I was thinking – you shouldn't be wandering around Blackfriars alone this time of night." He finished the last of his drink and stood up decisively, tugging down his wrinkled waistcoat as he did so. "I should come with you, just to make sure there's no funny business."

"That's very good of you, Lestrade, but I couldn't keep you from your family on Christmas Eve."

"I'll send them a note and tell them it's a police matter. They'll understand. With any luck, we'll have Mr Holmes back before they get the goose on the table."

"I appreciate this," I said, shaking his hand. "And I hope you're right."

"I'd better be, Doctor," said he, grimacing. "If anything happens to Mr Holmes, he'll never let me live it down. He's just the type to come back as a ghost and haunt a man. He's bad enough now; imagine what a nuisance he'd make of himself dead!"

Good old Lestrade! Sounds like an excellent plan. It couldn't possibly go wrong… or could it?

Find out in Chapter Seven!