Part XXXV
John examined the strange contraption half-buried in the mire, something he had mistook for an odd misshapen rock on the edge of the moor. It was certainly designed to resemble that, but obviously once someone got closer the machine became less rock-like and more metallic, with steel panels and rivets and what seemed to be a giant tank of some sort of liquid.
Next to the contraption – which looked eerily like some sort of gas machine – sat a giant pool of muddy water with the faintest hint of something in its murky depths. John frowned, looking around for something long enough to probe into the mud.
His eyes fell on a walking stick. A very familiar-looking walking stick.
What was Dr. Mortimer's stick doing here?
Sherlock jumped on the next steamcart carrying supplies to Baskerville Hall and urged the Driver to go faster with a couple of banknotes. The currency exchanged hands; the steamcart hurtled out of Coombe Tracey and towards the moor without a moment to lose. The open-air design of the cart caused Sherlock's hair and scarf to whip violently in the wind; he had to put his goggles over his eyes to see. The Driver wore aviator goggles and cap for a reason.
The steamcart stopped in front of Baskerville Hall and Sherlock rushed out, running into the mansion to look for John, who was nowhere to be found. He located Dr. Mortimer, demanding to know where John was.
"He took a walk after breakfast. Hasn't returned since."
Outside, the morning had slipped into noon and now afternoon, and Sherlock's blood ran cold.
"He didn't report to lunch?" he demanded.
"Not at all."
Sherlock rushed out of the house, running down the yew alley brimming with apprehension and excitement. The tension coiled in his stomach released slightly when he saw, to his immense relief, John standing a little ways into the mire, poking at a pool of stagnant muddy water.
"What are you doing?" he shouted at John, carefully deducing which pieces of ground were safe to step on as he manoeuvred his way to his Protector's side.
"Fishing," John deadpanned. Sherlock grinned. "Fishing for clues."
Sherlock could make out a dark bundle as the grime rippled around John's stick.
"That's Dr. Mortimer's stick," he noted.
"Yes."
"And the machine…" Sherlock frowned. "You saw the piping on the machine, didn't you?"
"Piping?"
"Get that thing fished out." Sherlock gestured for John to continue, and John did so, finally surfacing with a bundle hooked around the handle of the walking-stick. The clock on the handle would never be the same again, but that was hardly an issue at the moment. Sherlock unrolled the bundle – it appeared to be a dark coat, a dark-coloured scarf, a dark wig.
"What's this?" John asked.
"You don't need me to point it out to you," Sherlock replied. "It's painfully obvious that this is a disguise." There was something extremely wrong about it – something that suggested that the culprit… "The culprit was in disguise when he kidnapped them," he murmured.
"Kidnapped who?"
"The children, the children in the puzzle! It's tied to this; this is tied to Moriarty twice over!" Sherlock would have leapt for joy and excitement at seeing the pieces come together, had he not been standing on the banks of a piece of extremely unreliable marshland. "The piping goes from the machine to under the marsh; we need to figure out where it leads. I've already a very good idea where."
"And where would that be?"
"Right underneath Sir Henry's window. I said that fog was put underneath his window for a reason. The machine is right here." Sherlock twisted some valves, brought out a phial – John shouldn't be surprised that he had one handy; he was Sherlock, after all – and collected some of the tank's contents. "What's in here should be one of the final clues. Oh this is all so brilliant, yes…"
John nodded, straightening up with the walking stick and the disguise. Sherlock bundled everything back up and replaced them, drawing out his mobile and dialling a number.
"Lestrade? Yeah, get down here; we've got something for you. Bring an unsigned arrest warrant."
They'd searched throughout London, but there was no sign of young Tobias Jones, the Clerk who had been having an affair with Inspector MacDonald. Said Inspector was one step away from donning mourning.
Lestrade looked over at him as he hung up on Sherlock, letting a sympathetic smile creep onto his face. "I'm sorry," he told MacDonald.
"Mm." MacDonald sighed. "I can cover for you; go see what Sherlock's got."
Lestrade nodded, smiling as he got up, collected his things, and left. He hailed the first cab he could find to the air-docks, where several airships and floating steamers were docked. Buying a last-minute ticket onto the A.S. Friesland, he boarded hastily just as the warning whistle sounded.
By the time he disembarked from the airship at Coombe Tracey, the sun was starting to set behind the hills and tors along the moor. It threw the cliffs and solitary rocks into sharp, jagged silhouettes against the waning light. As he stepped down from the air-dock, he spotted Sherlock and John waiting for him next to a cab.
"What's this, then?" Lestrade asked, clambering into the cab before the two of them. Sherlock plopped into the driver's seat and pulled a lever; the cab took off towards Baskerville Hall. "What am I doing out here with an unsigned arrest warrant?"
"Disabling two M.A.T.I.N.s with one spanner," Sherlock replied calmly.
"Cheerful." Lestrade leaned forward. "How?"
"We were sent to investigate the suspicious death of Sir Charles. Seemed like some hound – mechanical or real – tore his throat out, and we had to find the person who enabled it to do so." John looked out at the countryside as the cab clattered on into the darkening twilight. "At the same time, Sherlock received a call from some young man informing him of a kidnapping at a comp school in Coombe Tracey, and now that and the Baskerville case are somehow linked."
Sherlock continued to look ahead. "The country air's so lovely, isn't Lestrade? Getting London out of your lungs?"
"Mm, nice." Lestrade inhaled the pure country air. "You two've been having the lion's share of good air, though, or so I've heard."
"From Sussex to London to here. Quite." Sherlock's voice was terse, guarded. He was tense about something, possibly the subsequent actions.
As they neared Baskerville Hall, however, Sherlock diverted the carriage several yards away from the gate and got out, signalling that John and Lestrade should do the same. They did so; Sherlock quickly pulled several levers and pushed a couple of buttons, programming the mechanical horses to march through the gates and head straight for the coach-house. They set off on foot, cutting across the moor.
"I'm sure we're all waiting for the day Mycroft finally approves the production of mechanical horses that run on autopilot," Sherlock remarked drily as they did so.
"He hasn't already?" Lestrade asked.
"Thinks there may be too much to program," Sherlock replied.
They continued in silence, as darkness settled around them. Baskerville Hall was screened by gates, hedges, but there was the moor-gate that led to the yew alley – that fateful place where Sir Charles had met his death.
"I've told Sir Henry that he should meet us at the moor-gate," Sherlock said as they drew near, skirting the edges of the mire. But even as they reached the gate, there came a sudden grating sound, like the starting of a giant machine hidden in the darkness. Lestrade twitched in shock.
"The machine begins. It's far enough from the house that no one there will take any notice." Sherlock's face is calm; he looked out at the moor and then back up at the house. The clanking of the machine died down to a smooth humming. The first wisps of fog curled in the air, snaking towards them. Up at the Hall and evident by the light of the moon, a similar blanket of fog coated the ground outside Sir Henry's room.
Lestrade watched the fog thicken. Sherlock and John looked at each other; John was gripping his revolver hard enough to whiten his knuckles. Sherlock watched him calmly, as if knowing his plans would play out perfectly.
He didn't seem to be disappointed when suddenly out of the fog came the silhouette of a man. Sir Henry was walking down to them, lantern in hand and anxious expression on his face.
"Sherlock?" he called. "Sherlock, I can't see you through the fog –"
The howl of a hound cut through the air. Sherlock nodded at John, who turned about and aimed for the machine, shooting it. It spluttered, but the gas continued to pour through. Sir Henry was drawing nearer; he seemed panicked about something – it was no wonder, since Lestrade was also feeling extremely panicky.
"Oh my cogs and gears, it's the hound, it's the hound!" Sir Henry screamed as John aimed for the machine again. The young lord fumbled the lock, looking backwards with a panicked expression on his face. The howling increased in intensity and blood-chilling power. As he drew his gun, Lestrade could have sworn his legs were buckling.
The moor-gate swung open; the three of them rushed through. Sherlock drew a pistol from his pocket as the howling intensified yet again, the fog swirled thickly, and Sir Henry screamed with terror at the thing heading straight for them.
The hound was immense. It had once been a M.A.T.I.N, obviously, but now it had been modified into some terrifying mechanical hellhound. Its howling had dimmed into low, menacing growls as it opened its maw, exposing knife-like teeth. It glowed, a sickly phosphorescent green. Its eyes shone red; in the lantern-light they could see specks of rust from where blood had splashed onto its metallic surface.
"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Lestrade breathed, taking a step back in horror.
"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "There's something in the fog. I had it tested this afternoon – it was colourless absinthe. That machine is dispersing absinthe in aerosol form, and while the spirit itself is not hallucinogenic, it seems that the mixture found in the machine has been contaminated with poisonous adulterants commonly found in cheap absinthe. Once filtered and processed, it intensified the fear and paranoia and caused a naturally dangerous M.A.T.I.N. to look like a hellhound."
"That's great, but how are we going to escape the thing?" The four men slowly backed away from the M.A.T.I.N., Sir Henry shakily drawing his own revolver.
John took the first shot, aiming for the eyes. The bullet bounced off the metal, but the mechanical hound was provoked enough to charge, snarling and barking. Sherlock, Lestrade, and Henry fired at the same time; Lestrade's bullet lodged into the hound's side but the other two ricocheted. John yelped in terror.
"No!" Sherlock screamed as the hound backed up to charge for his Protector. He moved in front of John, arms wide as if to shield him from the manic M.A.T.I.N., a look of rage and fierce protectiveness on his sharp, pale face. However, the M.A.T.I.N. stopped short of leaping at Sherlock and instead turned round to attack Henry, who fell to the ground grappling with the beast.
Lestrade shot at the M.A.T.I.N.'s back, over and over and over – the bullets pierced through the metal occasionally but still barely did any damage. Sir Henry was fighting with all his might, trying to fend off the M.A.T.I.N.
"Henry? Henry!" Another voice rang through the darkness. Dr. Mortimer was on the scene with his own gun in hand, looking about him wildly. "Henry!" His face paled; his mouth set into a determined line as he joined Lestrade in attempting to get the M.A.T.I.N. off of Henry. Sherlock wheeled about in the darkness, looking for another figure.
There came the distinct noise of someone breathing through a gas mask. Sherlock and John slipped away; Lestrade and Dr. Mortimer combined managed to get the snapping hound off Sir Henry, who now lay insensate. Dr. Mortimer fell to his knees next to his charge, hands trembling in anxiety. Lestrade grappled with the glowing hound, struggling to find the switch or the generator.
Pain shot up and down his body as he looked down, seeing the dark trickle of blood drip down his leg. The M.A.T.I.N. had bitten him in the struggle. Lestrade cried out in pain just as he heard a solid thump behind him. Moments later, John was at his side, fingers fumbling along the glowing hound's body. There was an unearthly shriek as he twisted something, and moments later the M.A.T.I.N. slumped, loosening Lestrade's leg as it slid to the ground.
"What," the Detective Inspector gasped, "was that?"
John knelt down next to him, digging through his utility belt to find a tourniquet and bandages. "I found the emergency switch. I saw the Mechanics fixing it a couple of days ago." He started to bandage Lestrade's legs. "Good job it didn't get your artery. You probably would have been a goner if it did."
Lestrade whimpered in pain and tried to cover that with a bout of coughing. Not too far away, Sir Henry was stirring.
"Where… where is it?" he asked feebly. John looked up, seeing the machine on the edge of the moor. He took aim and fired at it again and again until the fog stopped dispersing.
"Next to you," Sherlock said.
Sir Henry turned his head to see the limp form of Fluffy the M.A.T.I.N. on the ground next to him, his features restored to a noble, albeit still glowing, expression.
"Dead?" he asked.
"No, temporarily shut off." Sherlock sounded smug for some reason. "Look what we caught in our nets, gentlemen!"
The lantern was swiftly rekindled – it'd gone out when Sir Henry had fallen – and its light caught the defiant face of Jack Frankland, the Scientist. Sherlock was holding his arms in a vice-like grasp behind his back. He grabbed the left wrist, tore off the leather bracer, and flicked back the cuff to reveal a brand, in the symbol of a lit matchstick.
"Our Knave – or should I say Jack? – of Hearts. This man kidnapped two young girls from the local comp school and has imprisoned them somewhere in the glass-walled wing. I had my suspicions as soon as he let slip that Sir Charles had been attacked by a hound despite not having found the body – after all, Barrymore never told them that he and Mortimer saw the footprints of the hound. Suspicions quickly rose when I found the missing tools in his laboratory."
"What about Dr. Stapleton and the paint?" John asked. "And what was your walking stick doing next to that giant fog machine?" He directed that bit at Dr. Mortimer, who looked shocked.
"I was looking for my stick. My poor cocker spaniel M.A.T.I.N. disappeared the night we arrived at Baskerville; I was getting worried."
Sherlock smirked. "I see. So Frankland needed parts to modify Fluffy to attack both Sir Charles and Sir Henry, ostensibly to sabotage the maintenance of the Legacy Project. He must have disassembled yours when it was carrying your walking-stick. I have a feeling, though, that Dr. Stapleton is also involved in this. Am I correct?" he directed the question at Frankland, who glowered at him.
"She never really cottoned on," he muttered sullenly. "Got her to fix Fluffy because she thought that helping Laura would bridge that gap between them, but that was it."
"What about Coombe Tracey?" John asked. "She found the same glowing paint that the children used to give Sherlock the message."
"No, she was showing Sir Henry the sights of Coombe Tracey," Dr. Mortimer cut in. "They were together all the time. She bought the paint for Bluebell; needed to figure out what would look best on it. The fact that she ended up painting the hounds was a response to Laura's complaint that they could never see the M.A.T.I.N.s at night."
Lestrade by this time was feeling rather overwhelmed. He looked from person to person, trying to figure out the full story.
"Lestrade, you just have to arrest Dr. Frankland. It's not that hard," Sherlock scoffed. He'd even produced a set of handcuffs and snapped them onto the Scientist's wrists.
"We need to recover the children, too," Lestrade pointed out, trying his best not to think of the missing Clerk back home. He wondered how MacDonald was coping.
They marched back to the Hall – Dr. Mortimer was helping Sir Henry; John found Laura Lyons and told her about Fluffy; Sherlock strode on towards the glass-walled wing with Frankland and Lestrade in tow. At the door, Sherlock gestured for John to come and let them in. Farther down the hall, Dr. Mortimer and Dr. Stapleton were helping Henry towards his room.
"She fancies him," Frankland muttered.
Sherlock harrumphed and pushed open the doors leading into the glass-walled wing. He marched straight for the book room, eyes scanning the tiles on the floor. After a moment, he stepped on one, twisting his feet to loosen it, to trigger a sliding mechanism. The wall suddenly slid out and started to rotate.
Lestrade and John quickly joined Sherlock and Frankland as the rotating wall took them into a hidden room with a trapdoor in the ground. John grabbed the ring, lifting it up with Lestrade's help. Steps unfolded before them, leading into the darkness.
"A loose tile in the book room. A secret passageway, leading into the vault." Sherlock stepped into the darkness, flashing John's torch into the shadows. "Finally, the truth."
They descended slowly into the darkness, listening to the drip-drip of damp as they got deeper and deeper. At the bottom, there was a lever. John pulled it back; suddenly a thousand lamps flickered into life, revealing a set of wrought-iron gates barring the way into a cavernous room.
Sherlock plucked a silver key from Frankland's belt pocket with a grin and unlocked them, swinging the gates open. They entered the caverns to see two little forms huddled over a tin plate in the corner, next to two immense, covered vats.
The little girls looked up, saw Sherlock, and screamed.