—OOO—
Chapter 14.
'Tea, Colonel Moran, and Markham's Restorative'
"Ha-ha!"
"Don't laugh, Holmes. If you had only been there?" I stared gloomily at the tall form of my friend as he lounged in one of our slightly decrepit armchairs.
"Well, at least we have learned something, Watson."
"Oh, yes."
"The potency of that fine batch of wine our foreign client so happily gifted to us." Holmes grunted in amusement again at the remembrance of the woeful tale of my last night's engagement with the Greek ladies. "Rather stronger than I had imagined, in fact. Perhaps, as in Classical times, you should water it down for your next banquet, eh. Ha-ha!"
"Holmes, it was a disaster." I could barely bring myself to recall the events of the previous evening, so fresh and terrible were they still in memory. "The things Gabrielle said, and the way her mind seemed to work! Well, I was astounded. Even Markham thought it all a bit much!"
"Be that as it may, we need to return to the case in point, Watson." Holmes settled more comfortably in his chair and puffed deeply on the meerschaum pipe he had chosen for his enjoyment.* "I think we can safely say some things are clearer now."
"You surprise me, Holmes." I felt justified in interrupting the great detective. "As far as I can see everything is murkier now than when we started."
Holmes had reappeared at our Baker Street rooms just before 10 a.m. and, as was his usual habit, had shouted for the indispensible Mrs Hudson to hurry up and supply eggs, bacon, and hot tea instanter. A sure sign he had made substantial progress.
Now, having slaked a formidable appetite and harassed the busy Mrs Hudson into providing a second pot of tea, he was ready to explain just what he had been up to in the last few hours. But before he could begin there was a formidable banging on the street door and we soon heard Xena's deep tones as she addressed Mrs Hudson in the hallway downstairs. Another moment brought a quick knock on the study-door and the tall dark-haired Greek woman breezed in with a wide grin, clearly none the worse for her encounter with the Chianti yesterday evening. Behind her Holmes and I could hear the slow steady tread of another climbing the stairs and, after a moment, Gabrielle also came into the room.
But between Gabrielle and her companion was a world of difference. My professional instincts came into play and I immediately formed a pretty fair notion of a person labouring under all the lingering effects of a night on the tiles. Her blonde hair was tousled and straggly; her face much paler than usual; shoulders slumped; and an expression of pain flickered across her features at every step. The general impression she favoured us with was of someone unhappy with their surroundings; their feelings; and their likely chances of a quick recovery.
"Don't speak to me." Gabrielle subjected Holmes and me to a baleful glare from shadow-circled eyes under a deeply frowning brow. "Don't. Not a word. Wassat—tea? Gimme!"
She collapsed onto a chair at the table; poured the reviving beverage; and hung her head low over the steaming cup as if the fragrant aroma would of itself bring much-needed healing benefits. She waved a cursory hand in the air, as if enjoining us to go on without her for the time being, then brought the cup to her lips and proceeded to imbibe the restorative brew with a loud slurping sound. She had other things on her mind than mere manners, obviously.
Xena simply favoured her friend with a censorious shake of the head before crossing to look out the bay window at the passing traffic in the street below. After a moment she swivelled round and leaned back on the sill, while focussing her attention on Holmes where he sat near Gabrielle.
"Don't worry about her. The old lady's just had one too many again." Xena actually sniggered; which I thought somewhat cruel in the circumstances. "I keep tellin' her she can't hold her liquor, but she will do it."
The only response from the hunched girl was a low growl, like a leopard preparing to spring, which Xena completely ignored.
"She'll be back with us shortly, when she's taken enough of that tea stuff on board." Xena again looked askance at her battered companion. "D'ya want another pot, Gabrielle? I can easily shout for Mrs Hudson."
"If you shout—you die screaming, lady." Gabrielle's reply was given in a pain-wracked snarl as she held her forehead with both hands for a moment, before she fell to slurping the contents of her cup again.
"Anyways, I'm thinking you might have some kinda news for us this morning, Mr Holmes?" Xena paused to favour Gabrielle with a quick smile, but as the patient was now engaged in peering into the teapot's interior in the hope of finding the last dregs still there, she got no reply to her conciliatory action.
"I have had a modicum of success." Holmes dragged his fascinated gaze away from the antics of the blonde young woman to look across at Xena. "Yes, things are taking a rather more hopeful turn. About ten o'clock last night I ended up in Wapping again. I was in a disguise that was meant to reflect a sailor on shore-leave; but I fear my expertise is slipping, for hardly had I entered the 'Town of Ramsgate' Public House* than a highly doubtful character looking like a cross between a chimney-sweep and a racing tout sidled up to the corner table where I sat and introduced himself.
" 'ello Mr Holmes, we've bin waitin' yer arrival all evening, so's we 'ave." He spoke with the guttural intonations of Whitechapel and reeked of the foulest gin. "The old 'un wants a word wiv you. Over there, in the other corner."
Peering through the thick blanket of tobacco smoke wafting through the close-packed room I could just make out the silhouette of a tall gentleman standing beside a door on the far side of the public saloon. I knew instantly it was none other than Colonel Moran. He made a gesture towards the door, which he himself immediately went through; leaving me in the position of reviewing my options in the matter."
"I'da gone after him." Xena spoke concisely, in cold tones. "Grasp any opportunity of doing away with the bloodthirsty villain."
"Well, my own idea was rather more along the lines of a Peace Conference, and perhaps his quiet surrender." Holmes favoured the tall warrior-like Greek woman with a considering glance. "So I stepped across the sawdust-strewn floor, past various groups of stevedores, costermongers, and-ahem-dubious women who frequented the place. The door, when I reached it, was slightly ajar and I have to say I opened it with a feeling of wariness. But it merely led to a short alley which in turn opened out a few yards along onto Wapping High Street. Here, on the pavement, the tall figure of our foe was awaiting my arrival with what I can only describe as a nonchalant attitude. He appeared completely at his ease; which, of course, is when he should be regarded as at his most dangerous! It was with this last belief in mind that I approached to stand by his side; with, I have to say, no very clear idea of what my next move ought to be."
"To kill him!" Xena was positive as to her response. "Break the hound's neck before he could get a word out. Job done!"
"Murder done I fear, madam." Holmes shook his head. "This is Britain. We cannot have vigilante revenge here, it won't do at all. A proper fair trial and a fair sentence is the way."
"Ha! That's crap." Xena here began, I thought, to show her real personality; beginning with some startlingly profane language. "By all the Gods, we track a f . . .ing monster that Tartarus would be proud of all over London, and when you finally meet him your only worry is about the proper manner of greeting him! I'da had the b . . . . .ds guts splashing over the floor before he could'a blinked."
"Enough with the guts, woman. I'm suffering here." Gabrielle whined in a low strained tone, as she up-ended the obviously empty teapot over her cup.
"Suffer then. Suffering strengthens the spirit. Didn't Aristotle say that somewhere?" Xena sneered this aside at her bowed companion with remarkable lack of sympathy.
"B . . . .r Aristotle." Gabrielle's mind, as much of it as was functioning, was clearly trained on more important matters. "Dr. Watson, pull that bell-pull thingy. I want more tea, and I want it now!"
"So what'd Moran have to say, then?" Xena made a brave effort to bring the conversation back to the important matter.
"He started by being rather aloof." Holmes unconsciously brought his hands up to his chin, fingers flat together, in a characteristic habit he had as he pondered the scene in his mind. "After some curiously meandering statements he eventually admitted that the man killed in the Piccadilly Circus mishap; you know, the man who shot at you and Gabrielle, was his second-in-command. The very fellow who had been present at the jetty when Moran threatened to let him shoot members of a Charity outing if he himself was harassed."
"Great!" This news seemed to please Xena immensely. "One dog less. Now we just need to bring the ring-leader to bay, then we can all go home."
"I wanna go home now."
This pleading statement, voiced with immense self-pity by our resident blonde casualty of her own unruly appetites, was roundly ignored by all. We had more important affairs taking up our attention.
As Xena turned to question Holmes further the door opened and the worthy Mrs Hudson made another entrance. She could hardly have arrived at a better time, for she carried a large silver platter on which was a third pot of steaming tea. Gabrielle looked up with bloodshot eyes, saw the medicinal brew, and almost screamed in ecstasy.
"Mrs H., you're a Goddess from Olympus." Gabrielle waved an imperious hand, ignoring us all in her turn. "Over here. They don't need tea; they're too busy chatting. Gimme! Here. Beside me. My cup's ready. Damn the milk—oh sorry, Mrs H.—Just lemme pour it myself. You're a Dryad of the forest; a—a—what are those people with wings, who fly around doin' good deeds to the righteous?"
"Angels?" I hazarded, at a guess.
"Yes, you're an angel, Mrs H." Gabrielle paused to take a long pull at her cup, before sitting back to stare at the ceiling with a look of rapture on her pale features. "That hit the spot. Thanks Mrs H."
"I think she's on the road to recovery." Xena darted over to hold the door for Mrs Hudson as she left with the empty pot on her tray. "Gabby, are ya with us or not?"
"Gimme a minute, woman. Gods, you're such a slave-driver." Gabrielle ostentatiously put a hand to her head and fondled her brow, as if gently massaging it. "I think—I think I might survive; just gimme another minute and lemme have another cup o' tea."
"Sorry for the interruption, Mr Holmes. Just carry on; she'll catch up when she comes back to life—as much of it as is left to her, I mean." Xena again smiled somewhat unconcernedly; even though Gabrielle favoured her companion with a remark so grossly vulgar I couldn't possibly allude to it in these pages.
"Well, the gist of what Colonel Moran had to say was rather personal. To us all, I mean." Holmes finished raising his eyebrows disapprovingly at the late words of our unashamed blonde Amazon and glanced at the rest of us. "He intimated that his patience was exhausted; that he was rather busy in these concluding days before the finale of his great plan; and that from now on he regarded us all as enemies whom he was determined to erase as and when the opportunity arose."
"What on earth was he standing there telling you all this for, Mr Holmes?" Xena shook her head in disbelief. "He really must be mad."
"Oh, mad certainly." Holmes agreed with a nod. "But also somewhat constrained by his own warped idea of the gentlemanly Rules guiding Society."
"Whatd'ya mean?" Xena, like myself, was none the wiser.
"He appears to have a curious outlook on his own personal understanding of what he terms the 'Rules of Engagement'." The great detective smiled coldly as he ruminated on the depths to which madness can drive its victims. "He told me that he certainly meant to kill us all; but that merely doing so out of the blue, so to speak, would not be fair. He wanted us all to know that he was on our trail and that—like a tiger hunt in the forests of India—he meant to stalk us one by one and send us to oblivion with his trusty rifle. He thought it only fair that we should all be aware of the unstoppable Nemesis hounding our footsteps. Then he raised his hat; remarked on the damned awful rainy night; passed along into the shadows of Wapping High Street, and was gone once more. That was the last I saw of him."
"Gods, that's what I call a prime opportunity missed." Xena spoke in a discontented growl as she came over to sit beside Gabrielle; where she unceremoniously prised the teapot from the blonde-haired girl's grasp and poured herself a cup. "I'da had about six different opportunities to kill the damned wretch. Ya really gotta think about grasping your irons when they're hot y'know, Holmes!"
"Gimme that pot back. I'm drinkin' this tea." Gabrielle was obviously still concentrating on the important matters in life, as she leaned over and grabbed the container of heavenly nectar back into her possession. "Take it away again and you'll know all about Nemesis, lady!"
"So what should our next step be then, Holmes?" I asked this important question with interest: it seemed that the game was now most assuredly afoot.*
"There isn't really much we can do, except be extra-vigilant and hope that we are successful in apprehending him before the actual day of the Ceremony in Manchester." Holmes waved a hand in the air in a nervous gesture. "Having to take a train there, along with the Queen, is absolutely the last resort. We must be able to act conclusively before that."
As we contemplated these points there came another banging on the street-door, and a minute later Markham entered the room to join our happy group, with his shabby bowler in hand.
"How do, folks. Nice bright day terday, eh."
"Go away, Markham, an' take your Gods-damned bright day with you!" Our blonde victim of circumstance, and a reckless intake of strong wine yesterday evening, looked at the stocky figure with loathing; her eyes giving away the fact her vision was still somewhat unfocussed. "G'way!"
Unfazed (I think he was coming to understand Gabrielle's manners the longer he knew her) Markham stared closely at the injured party with a curiously knowledgeable light in his eye. Then he turned to Xena with a remarkably brisk tone in his voice.
"What was it she drank again, ma'am?"
"Er, wine; that red wine." Xena was taken a little aback by the question. "What did you say it was called, Doctor?"
"Chianti." I found myself addressing my reply more to Markham than Xena.
"Ah, nasty stuff when yer ain't used ter it."
The short shabbily dressed man then proceeded, with no sign of embarrassment, to glance over the table's contents before picking up a salt-cellar and a small silver teaspoon. He totally disregarded Gabrielle's evil stare, and her determined grip on the teapot, with as much firmness as Xena herself had done. He then turned to me and asked a couple of further questions.
"Have you got such a thing as a bottle o' Worcester Sauce, Doctor? Lea an' Perrins* fer choice." He glanced over at the sideboard against the far wall. "I'll need one o' those sherry glasses, if it's alright. An' is there sich a thing as a lemon in the 'ouse, d'yer know?"
For the next two minutes we all sat spellbound as Markham went about his mysterious, not to say mystical, preparations. He darted to a corner of the room where his eagle eye had spotted a bottle of milk cooling in the shade, and bringing all his materials to the table sat down to mix his concoction. I found myself recalling the Witches Scene from the Scottish play, and wondering if his ingredients were of purer quality than theirs.* Then, quite suddenly, he appeared to have finished his brewing activities.
"Here yer are lady, get that down yer throat." With which uncouth instruction he placed the glass in front of our erstwhile casualty. We all, of course, could have told him what the reaction would be.
"Damn your drink, Markham." Gabrielle obviously felt this was a Heaven sent opportunity to relieve her feelings. "Who gives a camel's turd! Drink it yourself an' welcome. Ha!"
"Drink it—now, ma'am!" Markham moved the glass close to Gabrielle's hand; and when she looked up at him in astonishment he stared straight back unflinchingly into her glaring eyes. "Yer'll be surprised. Go on, drink it."
Caught in such a position, with no way out except downright physical attack, Gabrielle gave in with a snarl that showed her white teeth; after which she raised the glass with its dark-coloured liquid and downed it in one ferocious gulp. Then she flung the empty glass onto the table, before looking at Markham again contemptuously—but not for long.
An expression of shock suddenly overtook her features and she grasped violently at her chest, as if having breathing difficulties. This was followed instantly by her drawing several deep breaths, as she wriggled on her chair as if in physical pain. Then a strangled gasp came from her lips; to be followed a few seconds later by another, after which she slowly collapsed so that her head lay unmoving on the tablecloth for several seconds.
I was just beginning to wonder if she had actually fainted when Gabrielle raised her head and sat upright once more. Not just upright, but with a clear light in her green eyes as if seeing the world sharp and clear for the first time that morning. She made one last deep inhalation of breath then gazed around at her hypnotised audience as if she was a new woman.
"Great Gods in Olympus! I feel great!" She transferred her gaze to the saviour of her health and happiness. "Markham, what in Hades' name was in that? It's brought me back to life. I can see clearly now."
"Ah well, ma'am. "The old prize-fighter actually simpered with pleasure at the success of his restorative. "That'd be telling. I got it handed down from me old Ma. She knew a lot about herbs and ointments an' things like that. But that's her best recipe—don't think its ever failed!"
"Gods, it certainly worked on me. Thanks." Gabrielle rose, somewhat shakily, to stand beside her resuscitator. "Markham, I was in for a day in Tartarus, and you saved me. I'm grateful. And if you want to know how grateful—I'm thinkin' marriage at once and live happily ever after!"
"Here, that's my—our thing, Gabrielle." Xena stepped back into the fray with an injured tone of voice. "Give it a rest, girl."
"Oh alright—but just because I've known you longer than Markham, Xena." Gabrielle looked at her companion with a rekindling of kindliness in her eyes. "But you'll have to get that recipe off him, you know. I can't live without it."
"Yeah, I bet!"
"What was it you were all talking about? Something to do with Moran?" The blonde-haired Amazon was so much improved she obviously felt impelled to rejoin our discussion with a clear mind. "What about that great plan I came up with yesterday evening?"
"Oh God!" Xena turned pale.
"Oh God!" I felt a sinking in my stomach that made me want to sit down quickly.
"Oh God!" Markham too was appalled by the return of her memory of the night before. "Maybe I shouldn't have given 'er the tonic!"
"No, no. Wait a minute." Gabrielle furrowed her brow a moment, then looked up at her trembling audience sadly. "I've forgotten. I know it was such a great plan; an' now I can't remember a damn thing about it!"
"Thank the Go—I mean, isn't that just always the way." Xena actually swept a hand across her sweating brow in relief. "Ah well darling, we'll all just have to come up with another plan. Not as good as yours was, of course—but something that'll do the trick just as well, eh."
"Hmmm." Was Sherlock Holmes's only comment on the matter.
—OOO—
Notes—
1. Meerschaum. This is a soft white, grey, or cream coloured mineral most generally found in Turkey. It was, and still is, mostly used to make tobacco-pipe stems and bowls as it can be readily carved.
2. 'Town of Ramsgate'. An old-established pub situated some distance further upstream from the 'Prospect of Whitby', both in Wapping.
3. 'The games afoot'. Holmes says this to Watson in the 'Adventure of the Abbey Grange'.
4. Lea and Perrins Worcester Sauce. This liquid sauce was first produced and sold in 1838 by John Wheeley Lea and William Henry Perrins, dispensing chemists from Broad Street, Worcester, England.
5. Witches Scene. Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' has long been referred to as 'the Scottish play' to guard against a perceived curse on using the title off-stage. In the play the three witches concoct their own brew from far nastier ingredients than Markham used.
—OOO—