Chapter Ten

~~o~~

As the cab made its way toward our rendezvous with Lydia Hastings at the natural history museum, Sherlock Holmes and I each opened a book to a section devoted to the illustrious pirate known as Jack Sparrow. Holmes admitted that he had been mistaken about the swallow once we each found pictures to accompany the narrative in our respective books.

"Ah, the sparrow," Holmes said, peering closely at the drawing on the page before him. "Yes, rather obvious now that I think upon it; if memory serves, the sparrow became fashionable as a mark of those who sailed all seven seas after the pirate with the same namesake made it his own first...Watson!" Holmes broke off and wore what must have been the same disconcerted expression that I met him with after gazing at the pictures in my own volume.

"Do you see?" he asked excitedly, tapping the page energetically with a long finger.

I found that I couldn't help but have seen: the man in the drawings and paintings, if one were to cut the hair shorter and remove the many trinkets that had adorned it, couldn't have been a better likeness of Jonathan Teague than if he were standing before us.

"My word, Holmes!" I cried. "This man certainly must be a direct descendant. The resemblance is uncanny!"

Holmes frowned heavily for a long contemplative moment and then asked me softly, "Which hand did you say his bandage was on, the right?"

I nodded dumbly for a brief moment, still transfixed by the likeness some eighteenth century artist had captured. "Yes, just below the tattoo, on his wrist."

Holmes stared, unseeing, into the air before him. "I will wager very heavily, my dear Watson," he said with a recondite air, "that underneath that bandage is no mere laceration."

"You think there is a brand on Teague?" I asked, having seen the mark left by the East India Trading Company on the original pirate.

"As surely as there is a scar on Matthews," Holmes replied gravely. He was silently contemplative for another few moments, and finally I voiced the question that was nagging at me.

"Why is it, Holmes," I asked, "that these men have gone to such great lengths to duplicate the same marks that scarred both of the original pirates? It seems quite barbaric."

"I would confidently venture that any individual who finds himself heir to a Pirate Lordship must prove his worth before assuming the title; trial by fire, in Teague's case most literally. Apparently becoming one of the Nine is no trivial matter, and each successor must prove that he has the courage and the fortitude to stay true to his position in the face of danger. I fear they believe they are not just assuming the roles, but the very identities of their predecessors."

"Still, it is rather disturbing," I replied in a troubled manner, disquieted by the notion that anyone would so mutilate himself for ambition's sake.

Holmes ignored my comment and remained deep in thought as our cab rattled toward the museum. We were nearly there before he broke his ruminative silence.

"The question we must ask ourselves and answer rather quickly, Watson, is what will Teague do now? He has failed to acquire the flask and yet greatly desires to do so. I doubt he will abandon his mission; he was willing to kill a man to possess it."

"Yes but, Holmes, why?" I asked. "What is it about an old dented tin of water that has led to murder to try to obtain it? Certainly it has no real value."

"To us no, but to these men it obviously represents something quite precious," Holmes replied, still absently perusing the chapter of the book in his lap. "Have you any theories as to what might make this flask of water so valuable, Watson?"

I considered long and hard as to what might possibly make the half-pint of sulphurous water worth killing for, and was suddenly struck with a most strabismic thought. "Is it possible it might be some sort of Holy Water?"

Holmes fixed his eyes on me with a thoughtful expression upon his aquiline features momentarily, but at last shook his head. "A fine theory, indeed, my dear fellow, but I daresay it hardly seems the sort of thing that might interest pirates." With that, he went back to his book and his own thoughts, and we rattled the last mile in companionable silence.

"Halloa," he said suddenly, under his breath. "Watson, look at this!"

He pointed then to a paragraph near the end of the chapter he'd been examining concerning the pirate Jack Sparrow, and I leaned closer to read the passage he'd indicated.

"'The last known adventure of Jack Sparrow, after the Battle of the Maelstrom, was his attempt to sail to Florida in order to locate the Fountain of Youth. Nothing more was heard from him after that, and although rumoured sightings continued across the Caribbean for many years to come, none of them have ever been confirmed,'" I read aloud.

When what I had read sank in, I glanced back up at a grave-looking Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, that's preposterous!" I exclaimed. "Surely you can't believe that the flask at the heart of this matter contains water from the Fountain of Youth?"

"Whether I do or do not is irrelevant, Watson," Holmes answered me soberly. "What matters is whether Teague does; apparently he believes and so did Matthews."

Our cab rolled to a halt at that moment in front of the museum, and carrying the books lent to us by Dr. Maynard, we paid our driver and headed for the entrance. Quickly Holmes made his way once more through the displays of preserved fauna specimens with me struggling to keep up. I am ever amazed at the level of activity he can sustain for days on end while on such a case as we were now investigating. We ran the gauntlet of vacant, staring, skeletal reptiles in the last hall, and found ourselves face to face with the dark wood of the closed and locked door of Dr. Hastings's office.

However, there, pinned to the door and bearing Sherlock Holmes's name, was a folded note, clearly written in a feminine hand. When he took it down and unfolded it, it ran thusly:

Dear Mr. Holmes,

My sincerest apologies for not being present to meet you, but I have another engagement that I could not be late for at six o'clock. I would, however, have you know that I managed to find the answer to the question you seek in one hour and thirty-seven minutes. I shall bring both the answer and the tooth to you at your Baker Street residence at eight o'clock, and I shall be prompt.

Yours faithfully,

Lydia Hastings

It was not difficult for me to read between the lines of the short note and perceive our new friend's teasing manner, as well as the implied gentle chastisement for our tardiness. I also did not overlook the fact that she elected not to write her answer in the letter, and had chosen instead to make Holmes wait. Apparently my perspicacious companion didn't either.

Holmes jammed the letter into his pocket when he had finished reading it and snarled wordlessly. "Bah! Could she not even write a one-word answer in her note? Now I must wait until eight!"

I tried not to smile too broadly at Holmes's frustration. "I believe she is implying once again that you should have patience, old chap," I said, earning myself a sharp look from my compatriot.

"Patience!" Holmes growled. "This woman has chosen to torment me for over an hour!"

"She is well within her rights," I replied pleasantly, "after all, you did send her scurrying off to find your answer as fast as she possibly could work, only to fail to show up in a timely fashion to retrieve it. I'd rather think she's feeling under appreciated at the moment."

Holmes scoffed once more at the situation and then did an about-face and strode quickly back through the hall of reptiles with me attempting to keep pace once again.

"Be glad that she apparently likes us," I continued, trying to placate my discontented friend. "Another woman might not have taken to being treated that way with such good humour, and may have told you in a most delicate and feminine fashion just what to do with your blasted answer."

Holmes considered my words and apparently resigned himself to the fact that he would have to wait, like it or not, and that he also owed an apology to our lovely research assistant in the case.

"You've made your point," he said with a sigh, letting his irritation fall away. "What time is it?"

I pulled out my watch and glanced down at it.

"Just after six-thirty."

"Good, then we shall have time to stop at Café Caldesi for dinner before returning to Baker Street."

~~o~~

The bottom of a bottle of claret and two empty plates found Holmes and myself in a better mood, and we decided to walk the short distance to our residence since the breeze that had persisted since midday made it such a lovely evening. It was clear that Holmes had forgiven Miss Hastings for making him wait for confirmation of what he had already conjectured: on the morrow we would be searching ships from the West Indies for our clever opponent, and he appeared cheerfully eager to meet with her again.

At five minutes to eight we were climbing the stairs to our rooms while discussing possible strategy for the next day, including how much we should involve Scotland Yard. It was going to be necessary to employ more manpower than Holmes and myself at some point, and Holmes had promised to inform Lestrade of any new developments.

By the time we had hung up our hats and I was reaching for the door to our sitting room, somewhere in the back of my mind I thought it strange that we hadn't been greeted by Mrs. Hudson on the way up, inquiring as to whether or not we required feeding. I put it down to it being likely that she was already unnecessarily preparing us some cold supper and an affectionate scolding for not keeping her apprised of our plans, but she knew as well as I did that nothing she said made much of an impact on the way Holmes conducted himself once he had thrown himself fervently into a case such as this.

I opened the door and stepped through ahead of Holmes, only to find a most alarming sight to greet us upon entering. There, sitting in Holmes's favourite chair, draped across it as if he owned it, was none other than Jonathan Teague. However, what made the scene alarming was not the mere presence of Teague himself, but the presence of Miss Hastings, who had apparently not only been prompt, but early once again, and now found herself seated and handcuffed in the chair I usually favoured, gagged to keep her from screaming, and with a pistol in Teague's hand pointed casually across at her head.

"Evening, gents," Teague said with a roguish grin, momentarily redirecting the gun in his hand our way. Holmes and I each quickly raised our hands in a gesture of peaceful compliance. "A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson."

"You'll forgive us if we don't express the same sentiment, I'm sure, Jack," Holmes replied somewhat curtly.

"You mean Jonathan," I said as Teague shrugged indifference to Holmes's lack of enthusiasm at the situation.

"He means Jack," our captor replied with an insouciant grin.

"Surely," I said to Holmes, "you can't possibly believe that this man thinks he's really Jack Sparrow."

"Oh, but I do," Holmes said, meeting Lydia's gaze and then returning his attention to the gun pointed our way. "And I believe it's Captain, Watson," he added as Sparrow touched two fingers to his forelock in way of a jaunty salute of acknowledgement, "Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Have a seat," Sparrow then said, gesturing at the settee before us with the gun. Needless to say, we each endeavoured at that point to cooperate, and sat ourselves next to one another upon the small sofa.

Sparrow reached into his pocket and tossed another pair of handcuffs he'd saved from his attack on the unlucky constables my way. "If you wouldn't mind?" he asked, gesturing from myself to the arm of the sofa. "I prefer to minimize me risks."

A moment later I was fastened by the wrist as we faced our clever opponent, and a third pair of shackles was produced with which Sparrow indicated Holmes should secure himself to the opposite arm of the settee.

"Are you alright, my dear?" I asked the unfortunate Miss Hastings, while Holmes clicked his pair of handcuffs closed.

She nodded stoically, although I could read the alarmed look in her eyes from where I sat.

"Just what have you done with Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes then demanded, his attention trained on our captor.

"The old woman?" Sparrow asked. "She's right enough. Mad as a bee about being tied up, but she'll be right as rain in no time."

I was relieved to hear, as apparently Holmes was, that no real harm had befallen our dearest housekeeper, although I still felt guilty; the few times she had been placed in harm's way during our adventures was usually by her own choice, and in this matter she'd had none while being assaulted in her own home.

"So now we need to have a little chat," Sparrow commented, keeping his finger on the trigger of the pistol, but letting his hand relax onto the arm of the chair.

"Do you mind?" Holmes asked calmly, gesturing with the pipe he had produced from his pocket.

"Be my guest," Sparrow replied, apparently not caring about tobacco smoke.

"Thank you," Holmes replied, and he leaned my way to have me light the pipe for him as we each only had one free hand at the moment. "Oh, and pray, do remove that gag from Miss Hastings. I'm quite sure she's smart enough not to scream at this point."

"True," Sparrow replied, reaching across and yanking the gag from Lydia's mouth, "and she's smart enough to realize how fast I am with this." He wagged the pistol in his hand lightly.

"Surely you don't really intend to use it," Holmes commented between puffs of smoke. "Gunshots might bring the authorities before you could make your escape."

"In this place?" Jack asked, giving Holmes an indulgent gold-flecked smile and gesturing at the ragged 'V R' punctured in the plaster. "I rather doubt it."

It was Holmes's turn to shrug nonchalantly as he puffed away on his pipe, and then he turned his attention to Miss Hastings. "I believe you planned to tell me that the reptile you were researching was from the West Indies?"

"It was," she replied, casting a wary sideways glance at Sparrow. "It couldn't have been a Nile crocodile because there were fifteen maxillary teeth, and with five pre-maxillary teeth, it then couldn't be Crocodylus palustris from India. It had to be Crocodylus acutus – the American crocodile found in parts of Florida and the Caribbean islands."

"My compliments, Miss Hastings," Holmes replied collectedly, puffing away on his pipe contently as he turned back to Sparrow. "And I believe that you first met Henry Matthews in the West Indies?"

"What, Barbossa?" Sparrow laughed. "Yeah, I met him in the Caribbean all right, the mutinous bastard."

Offended that the pirate would use such language in front of our female companion, I cleared my throat pointedly and glanced her way to send him the message.

"Apologies," Sparrow said to Lydia with a gracious nod when he realized what I was indicating, and she smiled diffidently in acknowledgement. "You must have researched the fanged beastie that had a taste of old Hector."

Lydia nodded, looking unsure as to whether or not she really wanted to be speaking with such a person as Jack Sparrow, but realising she'd best stay polite.

"Apparently," Sparrow added pleasantly, "my dear colleague had the last laugh -killed and ate the creature what was unfortunate enough to not have finished him off in one go."

"Remarkable," Holmes interjected. "You met him after this occurrence?"

"Aye."

"And you've known him for quite some time?"

"You might say that," Sparrow replied.

"Apparently there was some incident that caused a fair amount of friction between yourself and Matth...Barbossa."

"You might say that too," was Sparrow's solemn reply.

Holmes exhaled a small cloud of smoke and went on. "Most recently, after he'd been laying low for some time, you discovered his whereabouts in Owlsmoor."

"Aye."

"You broke into the house, surprised Barbossa, and when he wouldn't turn over the flask to you, you shot him point blank in the face, right in front of the fireplace."

Sparrow nodded.

"You would have looked for the flask had you not been interrupted by the servants in the house, after the gunshot awoke them, yet rather than confront an unknown number of persons, you elected to leave the premises and return at a later time to search the house at your leisure," Holmes continued, gesturing at Sparrow with his pipe for a moment.

Sparrow frowned a little, unsettled by Holmes's accuracy. "That's right."

"You hadn't, however," Holmes then said, "planned on the housekeeper's statement to the police informing them that Barbossa was aware that an attempt would be made to steal said flask, and you lost your chance to search for it once Scotland Yard confiscated it as evidence. You then decided to track Inspector Lestrade, following him to this very residence several nights ago."

"It's like you were bloody there," Sparrow replied, clearly impressed.

Holmes gave our captor a glimpse of a smile and pressed onward. "Indulge me upon another point, if you would..."

Sparrow frowned again and glanced briefly at the gun in his palm; clearly he recognised the fact that despite the loaded weapon in his hand, he was loosing control of the conversation, if not the situation. I admit he would not be the first adversary of ours to find himself in such a predicament when confronted by my clever and charismatic friend.

"You gained access to the house by way of the roof..."

"Yes...erm..."

"By way of the tree on the north side..."

"Aye, but..."

"A grappling hook to the rail..."

Sparrow opened his mouth to say something else, but Holmes interrupted him, anxious to prove his theory.

"Yet you slipped while making your way to the top, once, dislodging a small fragment of moss, which fell to the ground as you went over the rail!"

Sparrow turned and gave me a somewhat incredulous look. "Is he always like this?" he asked, frustrated.

I have to admit I shrugged, a little sheepishly, and then nodded.

Sparrow sat back heavily in his chair and gestured cavalierly at Holmes with the gun in his hand. "You need to find yourself a girl, mate," he declared.

Holmes looked displeased for a moment and then shrugged it off as he exhaled more pipe smoke. "A sentiment the good doctor has oft expressed in various manners over the years," he sighed, offering me a brief accusatory glance.

"As fascinating as that may be," Sparrow said snidely, "might we be getting back to the business at hand?"

"Ah, certainly," Holmes replied, apparently in agreement with our captor. "I presume by 'business at hand' you refer to the fact that you propose to keep Miss Hastings and Dr. Watson hostage here while I retrieve the flask for you from Scotland Yard?"

"No, mate. I refer to the fact," Sparrow replied smugly, "that I shall be keeping the lovely Miss Hastings and you here, while the good doctor goes and fetches the flask for me. I already said I prefer to minimize me risks, and setting you free in the outside world before I have what I want seems like a bad idea any way you slice it. You may take that as a compliment if you like."

"I shall," Holmes replied graciously.

"Well then, we have an accord," Sparrow added with a saucy grin, and he reached back into a pocket and then tossed me the key to the cuffs that shackled me to the settee. "No sense in wasting any time, Doctor. You have exactly one hour to return with the aforementioned flask."

"Or what?" I was bold enough to ask as I stood up and rubbed my now-free wrist.

The feral smile Sparrow offered me after a suggestive look at Lydia was all the answer I needed.

~~o~~