Woking, compared to, say, Whitechapel, isn't all that bad. Lower middle class, as it were. It could be dangerous at night, though, and I kept my hand in my coat pocket as Holmes and I walked down the street. My old Army revolver was a comforting weight.
It was not yet full dark, and there were still a number of people out and about in the chill autumn twilight. Hansom cabs and carriages clattered over the damp cobblestones as people returned home from work or those with more money passed through on their way to parties and other entertainments. As an open carriage full of brightly dressed young women and their escorts passed I found my thoughts wandering toward my upcoming nuptials. Mary still wanted my opinion on linens for the wedding breakfast. I'd initially told her that it didn't really matter to me one way or another what the linens looked like, but she'd become so put out with me for some reason that I had agreed to help. I wondered if I could use Holmes and Moriarty as an excuse for getting out of it, then dismissed it hastily. I would have to have a death wish if I were stupid enough to put that to my fiancée.
A small noise from Holmes drew me from my thoughts. The street was nearly empty now. He'd slowed his pace, and caught my sleeve as I drew ahead of him. "Over there, in that doorway." A small jerk of his head indicated which doorway. Trying not to appear too obvious, I looked.
At first all I could make out was a vague person-shape in the deepening shadows. Initially, I thought it was a woman, for the figure was heavily draped in something flowing. Then it moved, and I realized that it was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be any such thing. A man, then, but very strangely dressed. The flowing drapery appeared to be some sort of robe, dark and unidentifiable in the poor light. I caught a glimmer of pale fabric underneath as he moved. "What is it?" I asked Holmes softly.
He shook his head. "I'm not certain. But he's being stalked." A flick of his eyes, and I noticed another shape, standing very still in the heavily shaded mouth of a nearby alley. As far as I could tell, this one was more conventionally dressed.
"What are we going to do?" I hissed.
"Nothing, for the moment." He drew me to the side, into the shadows of another doorway. "Just watch. I want to see this play out."
"But Holmes, if that man doesn't know he's being—being stalked, as you put it, shouldn't we—"
"He knows he's being watched," my friend said softly. For once, I forbore asking him how he knew that and turned my attention to the robed man. After a moment, I thought I understood. There was a furtive tension in his movements that suggested all was not well.
It was like watching a drama, so captivating was the tableau, but it was not a comfortable one. The knowledge that it was real, and not knowing what was going to happen was maddening. After a long moment, the robed man moved at a half-run towards the other side of the street, his hand darting beneath his robe.
Another movement caught my eye. The second man had withdrawn a strange object that looked vaguely like a pistol, though it was unlike any gun I'd ever seen. He raised his arm, and I felt Holmes stiffen beside me. I, too, tensed, ready to distract the armed stranger.
The other man seemed to sense the threat; he turned as he neared the street corner, and started to draw his hand out of his robe. Without warning, a carriage rounded the corner. I could hear the driver's curses clearly as he hauled back on the reins, trying to avoid running down the man standing in the street. The horse reared with a ringing cry. The robed man turned to see this new danger, and a flash of green light coupled with a strange whine flared from the alley. The man in the street staggered forward, the horse's front hooves barely missing his skull, and fell heavily to the ground. The driver just managed to twist his animal to the side so it would not crush the fallen figure. The horse squealed in pain and protest, and the noise was like a catalyst. It was as though we had been frozen in place before, but now Holmes darted forward. I moved as well, but towards the fallen man, while my friend took off at a long-legged run towards the alleyway.
I could see that the driver gotten down from the cab and was hovering near the still form on the cobblestones. "Don't touch him!" I shouted as the driver bent over the man. He jerked back at my authoritative command as though burned.
I dropped to one knee on the grimy stones, wishing that I'd thought to bring my bag with me. A quick examination told me that he had, fortunately, broken neither neck, back, nor skull in the fall, and that it was safe to turn him over. He had a deep gash on his forehead, and a bruise was already darkening his left cheekbone. I checked his pulse, and ran my hands over his legs, arms, and ribs. The thick layers of clothing made a thorough examination difficult, but I doubted that he had done more than crack a few ribs.
The wound in his shoulder, however, was another matter. It looked more like a burn than a wound, raw and ugly. At least it was mostly cauterized, and the bleeding was minimal. I had seen far, far worse in Afghanistan.
"It was an accident, guv'nor!" the cabby gasped. I spared him little more than a glance. "'E's-'e's all right, ain't he?"
"He's been shot," I said shortly.
"Shot! I didn't–"
"I know that," I snapped. "Please be quiet."
"Is—is 'e dead?" the driver asked in a very small voice.
"No, but he's hurt pretty badly." I wrinkled my nose at the smell of burnt flesh and cloth. What the devil would have produced a weapon like that? I'd seen flash burns caused by gunpowder and the like in my career, but those were all the result of close contact.
Holmes returned, slightly breathless. "I lost him," he said grimly. "Whoever he was, Watson, he knew what he was about. I could find no trace of him." He looked down at the unconscious man. "We should take him back to Baker Street. You can treat him, and I can discover what that little drama was about."
"Very well. My good man," I said, and drew the driver's horrified gaze from the unconscious man to meet my eyes. "Help me load him into your carriage."
The cabby complied, muttering worriedly beneath his breath the whole time about misfortune and the wrath of God and so on. I ignored him. Holmes, however, quickly grew impatient.
"Come, Watson. My shoulder blades are starting to itch. I don't like presenting myself as a target, and in this neighborhood that is a very likely possibility. Oh, for Heaven's sake, man, pull yourself together!" This last remark he addressed, rather unkindly, to the poor driver, who was wringing his hands as I arranged my new patient on the carriage seat.
He was quite young, and I gathered that this was the first time he'd almost killed someone. Feeling sorry for him, I tried to calm him down, but it took a few chilling threats from Holmes before the man got a hold of himself enough to drive. At last, however, we were off, leaving behind the shadows and secrets of Woking.
221B Baker Street was a welcome and comforting sight to me as we pulled up to the curb. I paid the cabby, adding in a few extra shillings and suggesting the man go and get himself a stiff drink. He gave me a grateful, wavering smile and clattered off, leaving Holmes and I to carry the stranger up the front steps to the door.. He was far heavier than he looked.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise as she took in the strange little party on the doorstep. "Oh, good heavens!" Her tone was less an expression of shock than it was exasperation. She has had any number of strange people in varying stages of health intruding upon her territory for years. I think she left the capacity to be shocked behind a long time ago. "Bring 'im in! No, Mr. Holmes, don't you dare put 'im in the parlor! I just cleaned it. No, no, take 'im to the guest room." She put her hands on her hips and glared fiercely at him as he balked at carrying the deadweight up the steep, narrow stairs. "Don't you give me that look, Mr. Holmes. I'll not have 'im bleeding on my parlor furniture!"
Holmes looked for a moment as though he would argue, but after a look at the set of her jaw decided that discretion was the better part of valour. We meekly hauled our heavy load up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson following. We laid the man carefully on the bed, and I asked Mrs. Hudson to bring my bag up to me. She towed Holmes out with her, ordering him to the kitchen to start boiling water, a past time I invented years ago to keep him out of my way when I was treating an unconscious patient. In this case, I really did need the water, as I intended to make a poultice for my patient's shoulder. His protests were firmly ignored and in the end he meekly shuffled off to do as ordered while I turned my attention to the man lying on the bed.
His clothing was more peculiar than it had looked in the dim light at Woking: a long, voluminous brown robe of what felt like soft wool, and underneath, a cream colored tunic and tabard belted over trousers of a slightly darker shade. The clasp of the belt was a curious piece of work, and it took me a moment to figure out the mechanism. The belt's chief adornment was a long cylinder wrought of some metal with odd protrusions on it. I'd never seen anything like it, and I examined it closely before setting it carefully aside with the belt wrapped around it.
Once I had him stripped to the waist, I saw why he had been so heavy: the man was solid muscle. I wondered what his profession could be, to keep him in such excellent shape. I hadn't looked like that even at the height of my army career. I hadn't even come close, if I were perfectly honest, having been endowed with a shape that might be kindly referred to as 'stocky.'
Mrs. Hudson returned with my things, and I set to work on the young man's shoulder. He did not stir even when I poked the wound roughly. He wasn't very old, not much more than twenty, but there were scars on his arms and torso that suggested a less than peaceful life. His features were regular, even handsome, with broad cheekbones and a deep cleft in his chin. His hair was even more outlandish than his robes. Cut short all over, it stood up like a light brown brush, save for a longer section that had been gathered into a stubby tail at the back of his skull, and a long braid wrapped at intervals with red and yellow thread that fell over his right shoulder. I wondered if he were a member of some strange religious order.
There was really very little I could do for the wound in his shoulder until Holmes returned with the water other than clean it and dress it lightly with gauze. There was bruising appearing along his sides, confirmation that he had indeed cracked a rib or two. With Mrs. Hudson's capable help I wrapped his chest tightly in bandages and we settled him back down into the bed.
Holmes arrived in due course with the water, and I began steeping material for a poultice. When it was prepared and cooled I would put it on my patient's shoulder. Holmes, holding up the wall next to the door, watched me work in unusual silence. When I set aside the poultice to cool, he finally broke the quiet. "Would you object if I were to borrow his clothes?"
Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow. "And what would you be thinkin' of doing with the poor boy's clothing, Mister Homes! Can't you leave the poor thing in peace?" She sounded unusually upset at this suggestion. But then, Mrs. Hudson's ideas of what was right and proper were somewhat different that my friend's.
He curled his lip at her. "I wish to know more about our unusual guest, madam, and as he is not currently available..."
Sensing a fight brewing, I interceded. "I'm more interested in the weapon that caused this," I said, gesturing to the bandaged shoulder. "I swear I saw a green light in that alley when the attacker fired, and I've never seen a gun that causes a wound like this."
Holmes immediately forgot his irritation in the face of an even more fascinating question. "Perhaps some sort of experimental weapon?" he mused, and veered dangerously close to the wound in question. Belatedly, I realized that I had only served to focus his curiosity on something I wanted him to leave be for the time being.
"Perhaps the young man can tell us himself when he wakes up." I suggested hastily. "Don't poke at it, Holmes, I just cleaned it. Content yourself with telling us what you've observed about him for now," I added, letting a hint of steel creep into my voice to let Holmes know I would not be moved on this.
He studied my patient, his grey eyes taking on that calculating expression I knew so well. All traces of annoyance disappeared. "He's twenty years old, right handed, meticulous in the care of his clothing." I saw Holmes fingering a minute repair in the robes. "He is a swordsman–see the calluses on his hands? Though not fencing. Perhaps one of the Oriental forms I'm not familiar with." He paused, frowning.
"What's his nationality?" Mrs. Hudson asked softly.
Holmes blew out his breath in frustration. "I am not certain," he admitted reluctantly. "I'll know more when I've had a chance to speak with him. Meanwhile, if you need me, Watson, I shall be in my study. I want to take a closer look at his robes. Tell me the moment he wakes up." With a curt nod to Mrs. Hudson he strode out of the room.
"He hasn't eaten yet," Mrs. Hudson lamented. "Ah, well. I'll bully 'im into it later. You must be starving, though, Dr. Watson," she said warmly to me. "It's been ages since tea. Shall I go and fix you somethin'?"
I nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be wonderful." She bobbed at me and exited, leaving me alone with the mysterious young man.
I had made plans for that evening to dine again with Mary, and to discuss the mysteries of wedding details. However, I felt that I could not in good conscience leave my patient, so I recruited one of the Baker Street Irregulars to take her a message bearing my regrets. I sent the ragged little boy off, feeling horribly guilty about my feelings of relief at not having to discuss linens and worry about making the wrong choice. Mary was usually the most levelheaded of women, but there was something about women and weddings…shaking my head, I went back inside.
Mrs. Hudson met me in the foyer and announced that she had left my dinner on the sideboard and that she was going to bed. I thanked her, went to the dining room to wolf down the food, and then went to check on my patient.
He was quiet—too quiet, I thought. He had been unconscious for well over three hours now, and showed no signs of awakening. Head injuries were strange things, and though his hadn't seemed all that serious, there was no telling how it had affected him. Since there wasn't anything I could do anyway, I resolved to go see how Holmes was coming with his investigation. As I turned to go, something caught my eye near the bed. I leaned over and discovered it was the young man's belt, with the strange cylinder still attached to it. Odd, I had been almost certain that I had placed it on the dresser across the room, and yet here it was, all but hidden beneath the guest bed's dust ruffle. Knowing that Holmes would certainly want to study it, I retrieved it and headed down the hall to his study.
I paused outside the door to listen. It was quiet inside, and there were no strange smells emanating from within. I'd learned long ago not to simply barge in on Holmes when he was working. Back when I'd first become his flat-mate, I had entered the study without warning just as he was completing a delicate chemical experiment. The resulting explosion had shattered the room's windowpanes and left the room in such a mess that Mrs. Hudson hadn't spoken to either of us for a week. Since then, I'd exercised caution before entering the room. I knocked, waited a long moment for a reply, and when I got none I opened the door and went in.
Holmes was seated in his basket chair, absently toying with his pipe and staring off into space. For a moment, I feared that he had succumbed yet again to the temptation of his seven percent solution, the relaxed as I realized that his eyes, though distant, held none of the cloudy lassitude common to his cocaine use. All the same, he was very deep in thought, and I had to say his name three times before he finally lifted his gaze to me.
"Has he woken up yet?" he asked immediately.
"No. I'm getting a little worried. But that's not why I'm here. I thought you might want to see this." I extended the belt and it's strange burden to him.
"Hello. What's this?"
"I've no idea. I noticed it earlier, when I was undressing him. Interesting, isn't it?"
He eagerly relieved me of my burden, rising and going to one of the wall-sconces. "I don't recognize this alloy. And the workmanship—so unusual!" He unclipped the belt from it, letting it drop carelessly to the floor as he turned the cylinder over and over in his hands, his sensitive fingers running over its surface. "This seems to be the business end," he said, tapping one of its ends. It looked like a small, concave disc with what looked like a lens or stone of some kind set into its center. "Whatever it's business may be. And this," he pointed to a small round protrusion, "looks like a button."
"Holmes, do you really think you should push that? We've no idea what it is, or what it does."
"Come, Watson. Where's your curiosity?" He grinned at me.
I shuffled my feet uneasily, recognizing and disliking that all-too-familiar expression on his angular face. "Right where it should be," I replied stoutly. "Firmly behind common sense."
He sneered amiably at me and his finger moved over the supposed button…
The sounds of pounding feet on the stairs in the hall made both of us start. Holmes turned swiftly toward the door as it burst open, admitting a small ragged figure. I recognized Billy, one of Holmes's more enthusiastic Baker Street Irregulars. "Mister 'olmes, sir!" he gasped. "I got a message for you!" He held out a grubby, much-folded paper.
Holmes took it, the curious cylinder forgotten, his eyes taking in the note's contents at a glance. "Ha! It appears, Watson, that one of my shadier sources of information has decided to talk to me." At my puzzled look, he explained. "I was stonewalled earlier today when I went looking for information about Moriarty. Apparently, he has been quite liberal with his threats. Not to be outdone, I let it be known that I would pay handsomely for information. Now it seems that a fish has taken the bait. Here, Billy. Go wake Mrs. Hudson; she'll get you something to eat." He flipped a coin at the boy, who caught it with a grin and darted out again. Holmes added the note to the stack of papers cluttering the mantle, pinning it down again with the dagger he kept there for that purpose.
"You're going to meet this fellow? Tonight?"
"No time like the present, Watson." He went into his 'dressing' room, and I could hear him rummaging about inside.
"Do you want me to come along?"
"No, no. You stay here and keep an eye on our other mystery. I won't be back until very late." He emerged, wearing shabby clothing and holding a cloth cap in one hand.
"Be careful, Holmes."
He smiled. "Always, Watson."