Dead End

„Wand'ring this darksome desert, as my way/ lies through your spacious empire up to light"

Paradise Lost

For a few seconds, silence reigned. I was dumbfounded. How could we not have foreseen this? The first thing to do before we descended into this subterranean corridor would have been replenishment of the petroleum. As it was, we had not paid attention to the dwindling flame during our argument, and now we were without even the faint solace of a dim light.

I was prepared to faint when suddenly, the low hiss of a match on the stones announced the pale ray of light breaking through complete darkness. I gasped with relief, and accepted another match that was pressed into my hand. Thank God for Mr. Holmes' incurable smoking habit! It might possibly save us.

„How many ya got left?" I spluttered.

„Half a box."

He had distinctly accelerated his step, and I had a hard time following on his heel without extinguishing the little speck of light, sheltered by my hollow hand.

„It might only just suffice, but we must save some for the end of the tunnel. I have no preconception of what kind of exit we shall meet, if there is any at all."

A chill crept along my spine that had nothing to do with the cold dampness of this nether world. I thought of the barricaded back door we had overcome so as to enter the church. What if the entrance to St. Lazare had been sealed with equal thoroughness? And what if, finding the baptismal font removed in the morning, somebody would judge it best to push it back into place, and be forever silent?

I drew my shoulder blades together. It would be useless to pester Holmes with my misgivings. He would berate me for my cowardly demeanour, and possibly tell me I was seeing ghosts.

„Ouch!" The match had burned down to my finger, scorching the skin, and I dropped it to the ground. However, Holmes did not stop to hand me another one. He apparently tried to economize both on matches and on time, and there was nothing left for me to do but to cling to his sleeve like a frightened child, and to try not to stumble on the uneven ground. We continued for another two miles or so, utterly silent.

Every other minute, Holmes would stop to reach into his match box and light another one. The moment came, however, when he withdrew his hand, and thrust the box back into his pocket.

„We must save the rest. There is no other way but to feel along the wall. Let's just hope we're not too far from the end of the tunnel."

„But, Mr. `olmes…."

„Very sorry Frances, but I have to ask you to stand by the other side of the tunnel and do the same."

„Awright…"

I was loath to let go off his sleeve. Who knew whether in this pitch-dark hell I would ever be able to find him again? But it was no use. I stood by the opposite wall, and very hesitatingly laid my hands on the stacks of human bones. They insecurely slid over the uneven surface of the gruesome array, and I was startled almost to death when under my anxious grip, some of the bones came loose and the whole section of the stack gave in. A loud clatter on the cobble stone ground told Holmes of my mishap, but to my relief he refrained from comment. Placing my feet gingerly between the scattered bone fragments, I slowly, very slowly moved along the wall. It seemed like I was making no way at all, but it was impossible to tell for sure without the benefit of eyesight. From time to time, I nervously called out for Holmes, who, I was afraid, had long left me behind, but each time, a reassuring grunt told me he was still there, and still annoyed with my cowardice.

Then, finally, I heard that om his side of the tunnel, also bones were coming loose, and he seemed to traipse over the debris, moving away from the wall.

„Holmes, what…?"

„Hush! I think this is the end, Fanny. The end of the tunnel. Take another few steps. Here, here. Can you feel this? It is another wall - a third wall."

„This is a dead end…" I wiped my palms across the brickwork like a blind woman. „There is no way out!"

„Compose yourself. There must be."

Another match rasped across the stone, and with an irrational sense of safety, I recognized the contours of his face in the half-light. „If we had something to burn that would not produce too much smoke, that might be of some help", he muttered, running his eyes up and down the part of wall that was more or less visible to him.

My hands mechanically delved into my pockets. They met with a pocket-size Shakespeare edition - one of Uncle John's presents. But he would understand. Wordlessly, I gave it to Holmes, and equally without words, he put the match to the pages of the small book, and by the light of the primitive torch quickly surveyed our surroundings. When he craned his neck to look at the ceiling, I did the same….and spied a wooden square above our heads that had been let into the stone. Very well, then, the exit was of the same nature as the entrance. However, one important part of it was missing: There were no steps, nor even a ladder!

Holmes fingers had also come dangerously close to the flames, and he let the book drop, which hit the ground and fell apart quickly into a smoldering pile of ashes. But by the fading light, we both had been able to see one last thing: A chain had been put on the hatch cross-wise, a chain secured with a large padlock.

Holmes groaned. Having witnessed how deftly he had opened the back door of the vestry with my hatpin, it had to be frustrating for him to see the small obstacle on the ceiling, were it was just out of reach for him. I was also out of my depth. Of course, he could make a ladder for me easily, but the other way round would hardly be so easy, and I had never picked a lock before in my life!

Still, there seemed to be no other way. I lit one of our remaining matches, and allowed him to show me the movement of the hand that was required of me to perform with my already hard-used pin. I nodded my understanding, though less than confident, and he lowered himself down on one knee and folded his hands for me to step on.

I reached out my arms, and clawed into the chain as soon as I could get hold of it. A third hand would be extremely useful, I pondered, holding the match with one hand and clutching the chain with the other.

„Can't ya lift me any higher?"

He cursed somewhere in the region of my knees, and I stretched and brought the tip of the pin into the padlock just as the match extinguished. I let it drop, I had no capacities to hold it, anyway. So without the least light to see by, I tried to execute the turn of the wrist and the tilt of the fingers Holmes had quickly taught me. But it failed, and when I tried again, it failed once more.

„Well, Frances? Hurry up, I can't hold you for much longer!"

„I'm doing me best, Mr. `olmes!„ I returned, half angry, half frightened. Why had my education not included the picking of locks? Uncle John knew well how important a skill that was! But then, he could not have foreseen that I would replace him.

„It's no use. I must lower you down."

„No, no, Mr. `olmes…wait…"

Had I got the hang of it? I was just turning - slowly turning the lock - when he set about to let me down. I squealed, holding on to the thick chain.

„No, no, no, hold on - hold on - !"

„No I have to let you down - I - no, Frances -„

Feeling the support vanish under my foot, I started kicking in the thin air like a panicking horse for a second, when suddenly the lock snapped, my hand let go and I fell right into his arms, a fraction or so before I would have hit the ground.

„You fool!" I snapped as soon as I had air in my lungs again. „`ow could ya `ave let go when I told you I was nearly done? Why, I could of broken me neck!"

„So you would, If I hadn't prevented it!" He bit back, and I tried to disentangle our limbs and get out of his arms with as much dignity as possible.

The scratching sound of the match, by now familiar, preceded another glimpse of light. Holmes struggled to his feet, matchbox in hand. „That's our last - „ he remarked, and fell silent when he glanced up at the ceiling, from whence the chains dangled, the padlock hanging from one of the ends. „Why, you made it, Frances!"

„Of course I did! I told you I was jus` makin` it when ye - but set fire to the matchbox, its going out!"

He did as I told him, and flung out last match, black and useless, into the darkness. There was no time to be lost now.

„Hold it", he told me, extending his arm toward me. I gingerly took the burning little box by one of its corners, removing my fingers as much as possible from the flame.

Holmes leaped for the opening above our heads, caught two of the ends of chain and somehow reached the wooden hatch pushing it open before he dropped back onto his feet. The dim light of very early morning hailed from the square hole…but to us in our complete darkness, it was better than sunshine!

I laughed with joy and surprise, and would have hugged Holmes if - we—he had not been Holmes. Dropping the coal black little piece of cardboard the match box had turned into, I beamed at him, our earlier disputes forgotten.

„Are ya ready ter lift me up again?"

„I don't think it necessary." He took another leap at the hatch, and, his fingers curled around the edge in an iron grip, pulled himself up in one move. Before I could worry that he was leaving me behind, he stretched out his arms, and, a little out of breath, motioned me to make an effort.

I am not good at jumping, but I managed to get hold of one of his hands, and he lifted me high enough so I could reach the edge with the other. From here, he could pull me up easily, and I stood next to him, in a church once again.

I would have liked to recover my breath and become aware of my surroundings, only dimly perceived, but Holmes took me by the shoulders.

„Quickly now, the morning mass is soon to begin. We must disappear before the deacon comes in to sweep the floor. Come - come!"

I could only stumble across the stone flagged floor after him. All of a sudden, I realized how deadly tired I was. I could not even care any more whether we would be caught. We crossed the nave, and Holmes cautiously opened the church door a little to see whether anybody was outside. When this was apparently not so, we slipped out like so many mice, and ran to vanish into the labyrinth of small alleys surrounding St. Lazare. What happened next, I don't really remember. I think Holmes hailed a cab, and we must have got in, for I have a blurred recollection of resting against leathern upholstery, and nodding off as we rattled further and further away.

oooOOOooo

He was thinking; thinking again. The ungentle stutter of the heavy carriage on the bumpy roads shook the sleeping girl through and through, but she did not wake up. How tired she had to be.

He had had word from Mrs. Hudson again. The unknown neighbors had not been back at the old farmhouse. They had an odd rhythm visiting there. Last time when, seven years ago, his life had burst into pieces. Again now, around the time of his unforeseen departure for France.

Only how unforeseen had it been?

Who were Madame Zhao's abducters?

Where was the King's Orb now?

In the Times, he had recently read of the death of a certain Lorenzo Burini, of late acquaintance. Some lesser art gallery had organized an exhibition to show a post-mortem collection of his works. But on examination of the deceased artists estate, it had been established there had been burglary; some of his paintings were missing.

Burglary had also taken place at the mansion of Sir George Lewis, a patron of the late Mr. Burini. Where had the pictures gone?

He mechanically took out a cigarette and reached for his matches, realizing he had none. He needed tobacco to keep his brains going. How did things fit together?

These were deep waters. He took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, and watched the girl, whose locks were tumbling over her shoulder and onto the leather seats. Was it right to draw her into this business? There might be danger in hot for her, and it had not really to do with her, after all.

Or had it?

Oh, he could not fathom what was at the bottom of things at the moment. But the moment of cognizance would come, it most always did. Holmes raised his hand to rap at the roof of the cab, so as to show the driver they had arrived.

Frances was not to be woken, but he had never allowed decorum to hinder his march, and they had been through enough together in the last 48 hours to make such a liberty as lifting her out of the cab seem a trifle. Her head lolled against his chest as he carried her up the stairs. Upon arrival in Madame Zhao's apartment, he lowered her onto a low, bed-like structure in a small separate room. She muttered in her sleep, her white hand falling onto the cushions limp as a leaf. But she did not stir as he went out of the room on tip toe, and left the flat noiseless.

Hey ho!

Another dead end, but have patience! Some criminal cases are slow to come to a conclusion, and this is a particularly tricky one for our heroes!

Love, Mrs. F