Chapter 13: "Charting a Course"
Watson
Holmes jumped down out of the cab and paid the driver, as calmly as if he had not just made such a dreadful pronouncement.
"Holmes!"
He unlocked the door of the house, oblivious to my calls, and I sighed and helped Lachlan out. The seaman looked a trifle shaky, and no wonder – such a fever as that could debilitate a man, no matter how strong he usually was. I took him up to the sitting room and settled him on the couch with a pillow and a drink.
Holmes came out of his bedroom, pipe in hand, and with an extremely excited look on his face at the knowledge he had just told us.
"That is the answer, I am sure of it. Smith is loose, Watson, he has to be!" he exclaimed, striking a match, completely unaware of the wave of horror that was sweeping over me.
I took a deep breath, willing my mind to disbelieve what Holmes had just stated as calmly as if he were discussing the weather outside.
"He is not alive, Holmes – he died in prison a year or so back!" I protested desperately.
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
"How do you know?"
"I saved the article – old habit I suppose," I said, my face flushing slightly, "I still tried to keep up with such things on my own after your 'death', Holmes."
My friend's face started a slight blush of his own at my words.
To cover our embarrassment I got up, striding over to my desk, and pulled out a scrapbook rather like Holmes's own, in which I had pasted articles and so on of criminal news from his hiatus years. I began to flip through it slowly, walking back to my friend.
"Here," I said, finally locating the clipping and shoving the book over to Holmes.
He took it and read the terse paragraph, which merely stated that Smith had died alone in prison, hanging himself in his cell with a twisted blanket. The article was only a tiny paragraph with no details.
Holmes shut the book thoughtfully and looked at me, his grey eyes narrowing.
"I still would wager he is alive, Watson," he said thoughtfully, "to fake a death in order to escape from prison has been done before, many times. And especially, a man of Smith's intellect would have no difficulty whatsoever in engineering such a feat."
I swallowed hard round the lump of fear in my throat – if that were true, Culverton Smith was alive. He was alive, somewhere out there in the world, possibly even here in London. And learning of Holmes's return from the grave, Smith would no doubt be coming after him in revenge.
He had said as much that horrible day in '90, when I had been forced to listen to that dreadful confession from Smith that he had killed Holmes with a deadly disease. Granted, Holmes was not really in any danger, but the thought of how close the call was still to this day frightened me.
I had long ago forgiven my friend for his deception in the case, though I had not quite forgotten it, and the only emotion I felt now about the case was a relief that Holmes had not really been infected.
But now, if my friend were right, this madman was loose upon the world, and heaven only knew what he was planning to do with the dangerous knowledge he possessed. Adding his madness to the fact that he had a personal vendetta against Holmes, I was very deathly afraid of what would happen if Smith took it into his head to come after Holmes again.
I took up the scrapbook, hoping to hide my shaking hands and the emotion on my features by walking back over to my desk and putting it back in position – but Holmes had already seen the look on my face, and he gingerly arose from his seat and followed me over to stand by the window.
"Watson. It will be fine; please stop worrying so," he said reassuringly, looking at me with a calm I wished I could possess.
"Fine? This man is a deranged maniac with a grudge against you, Holmes! You heard him as well as I when Morton arrested him four years ago – he said he would revenge himself on you, and now that he has found out you are alive, he will devote his energies to that!" I said, wishing my voice would hold still.
"He tried once to get rid of me, Watson – and failed. He will not succeed on a second attempt either," Holmes returned firmly.
"You cannot know that!"
"Yes, I can, old fellow," he replied calmly, "because I am not foolish enough to tackle him alone this time – I have the best help possible now to watch my back. I am not worried, and neither should you be."
I started, staring at him in surprise, and he smiled at me reassuringly and went back to stand by the fire, lighting his pipe. After a tense moment, I quietly went back to my chair and sat.
Lachlan had been watching this discussion from the couch, and now he spoke up wearily.
"Pardon my asking, gentlemen, but I have to admit I've never heard of the man, and I am rather confused."
I was silent, and Holmes glanced at me before telling Lachlan what had transpired those years ago in the Smith case. I had not yet written up that particular case, for the pain and fear of the memory was still too poignant for me to be summed up in cold black print.
The seaman's tired eyes widened as Holmes stated what had happened in the Smith case and then tied in the connection between the news article and the knife he had been stabbed with.
The knife!
"Holmes! That knife – if Smith is responsible – that knife could have had some germ on it like he tried on you before!" I gasped, my hand clenching on the arm of my chair, the deadly thought turning me sick.
"Watson, calm down!" Holmes said sharply, but his eyes betrayed his concern despite his curt words, "I am perfectly fine – even if that were true, I have survived it and so has Lachlan, so for heaven's sake, man, get a grip on yourself!"
"I am sorry," I whispered, dropping my gaze.
I really was not thinking clearly, I was so very tired. I rubbed wearily at my temples with a grimace of pain, feeling that throbbing headache of this morning coming back.
I felt two strong hands drop onto my shoulders and grip them tightly, willing me to calm down. I took a deep breath, trying to relax myself, and the hands stayed as the discussion continued.
"Are you saying, Mr. Holmes, that this Smith character is behind the ships disappearing?" Lachlan asked, raising himself gingerly on one elbow.
"It is a theory, at least," I heard my friend's voice above me, "there is definitely a connection between whatever was on that knife and our unusual illnesses. Tropical diseases point to Smith, as does the fact that the ships all disappear somewhere near Indonesia."
"Why is that?" I asked, my voice steady now.
"Because, Watson, Smith was a well-known resident of Sumatra before he came to live in London. An outbreak of disease started on his plantation there and wiped out his working force, plunging him into debt. He came to his London residence to live and to research odd tropical diseases and their cures."
"And you think that there was some germ on that knife that caused that odd fever?" Lachlan asked.
"I agree, there had to have been something odd," I interjected, my nerves starting to calm down under the matter-of-fact discussion, "for such a sudden coming on of a fever and such a rapid escalation in temperature is definitely not the normal, even for a severe infection."
Holmes's hands tightened once more on my shoulders before releasing, and then he walked over to his chemical table, extremely gingerly handling the knife he had placed there before we left.
"It is a fair deduction to say that the germ, the virus, or whatever the case may be, is only transmitted through the bloodstream," he mentioned, setting the instrument down once more, "because you have not gotten it, Watson, even though you were physically in close contact with both Lachlan and myself."
I nodded in agreement.
"So rest easy, Watson – whatever it is, it is not the disease Smith tried to give me in our last encounter, for that one was contagious by touch, you remember?"
"All too well, Holmes," I said dryly, remembering indeed Holmes's poor choice of words when he was trying to prevent me from coming near him in his sickroom four years ago.
Some odd expression I could not identify flitted briefly across his gaunt face before it was replaced by a pained expression, and he sat down heavily opposite me, wincing at the strain he was causing to his injury.
I arose at once and got my medical bag, fumbling around in it for a roll of bandaging and the antiseptic.
"Not now, Watson."
"Yes, now, Holmes," I retorted, "I am in no mood to argue with you – I was supposed to do this last night and I fell asleep. Now take off your shirt."
Holmes glared at me, but he finally relented when he saw my no-nonsense look and tone and removed his jacket and shirt, allowing me to check and rebandage the wound. It appeared to show no sign of further infection, for which I was devoutly grateful, and it took only a few minutes to wrap fresh bandaging around the injury.
Holmes buttoned up his shirt once more as I put the supplies back in the bag, rummaging through it for another small pain reliever.
"What course are you chartin' for us now, Holmes?" I heard Lachlan ask as I located the paper packet.
"We are going to have to get aboard that ship the Friesland before she sets sail tomorrow night," Holmes stated matter-of-factly.
"What?" I asked incredulously, pouring the powder into a glass and adding water.
Holmes shot me a concerned look but said nothing about the fact that I was taking medicine.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, the ship sails in less than two days, and she's sure to be booked solid – a steamer of that size and expense!" Lachlan exclaimed.
"I have already put a plan into motion that I believe will land us all three on board with relatively little difficulty," Holmes said, rubbing his hands together gleefully, "that is, if you are willing to sign on as a hand, Lachlan?"
Lachlan stared at Holmes for a long minute, while I gulped down the foul-tasting medicine I had just mixed.
"I have to say, Mr. Holmes, when I signed on with the two of you, I dinna expect to be at sea so soon," he said solemnly, but then I saw his eyes twinkle with a brilliant blueness and he continued with a crinkling grin. "But if ye think I can be of help, I shall be glad to stow my gear with you."
"You have already been an enormous help, Lachlan," I spoke up as I set my glass down, rubbing at my temples, "you saved Holmes's life on the docks, and I for one owe you an unrepayable debt for that."
Holmes shot me an odd look as I spoke, but Lachlan headed off anything he was about to say.
"Yes, well, you both returned the favor for this old salt last night, so we can consider the score even, now can't we? How exactly are you proposin' to get me a berth on the Friesland in two days, Holmes?"
"Well, I –"
Holmes was cut off by a familiar speedy tromping of small feet upon the stairs, and I smiled as the door burst open to reveal our little Irregular, wielding a sheaf of yellow envelopes.
" 'Ere's the answers to yer wires, Mr. 'Olmes!" the lad said, out of breath from his run.
The boy bounced over to the detective, handed him the papers, and then skipped back to me.
"Got anythin' good ta eat, Doctor?" he asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
I smiled, the lad's bright face putting a little ray of sunshine through the pain that was clouding my mind.
"I rather think Mr. Holmes has a tin of biscuits around here somewhere, Alfie," I returned, rummaging through the sideboard drawers, "perhaps – ah yes, here you are."
"Cor, ta Doctor!" the boy exclaimed, glancing at Holmes to ensure he was not being seen raiding the detective's stash of sweets.
After the boy had sufficiently stuffed his pockets, I knelt back down to put the tin away, and I suddenly turned to look into a pair of little green eyes that were gazing at me suspiciously.
"What's wrong, Alfie?"
"Are yew all roight, Doctor? You look fair sick ta me," the boy said frankly, fixing those green orbs on me with a sharpness that surprised me in one so young.
Some of my tension left me at the lad's words, and I smiled.
"I have a slight headache, Alfie, nothing to worry about," I said softly, ruffling the boy's ginger hair as I stood up.
He scowled knowingly at me and ran a little hand back through the tangled mess with a grimace, and I laughed at his indignant face.
"Hah!" we were both startled when Holmes's vociferous exclamation grabbed our attention, "I've done it!"
"Done what, Holmes?"
"Gotten us passage on the Friesland, Watson!" my friend said, nearly bouncing in his excitement. I went back over to my chair, and Alfie somehow scrambled up onto my desk to look over Holmes's shoulder at the telegrams.
"Do you remember my mentioning M. Oscar Meurnier, of Grenoble, Watson?"
"The fellow who made that grotesque bust of you that you insist upon keeping on your bedside table?"
"It is NOT grotesque!" Holmes cried indignantly.
" 'Tis too!" the Irregular jumped to my defense. "Fair flipped me an' Wig out th' last time we was 'ere – give me th' whim-whams, that blasted thing did, with them bullet 'oles in th' forehead!"
I snickered, and I heard Lachlan join me as we laughed at the look Holmes sent over his shoulder to the boy behind him.
"Anyhow, Watson, if you will be so kind as to listen – stop that, Alfie! You are getting crumbs all over my shoulder! This French artist Meurnier I met about a year ago while I was studying with some scientists in France. I did him a huge favor when a number of his choicest pieces of art were stolen, and after I recovered the articles safely he told me if I ever needed a favor to not hesitate to call upon him."
I stared at Holmes as he rattled off this list of facts concerning a part of his Hiatus. He must have noticed the eager story-hunting look on my face as I was about to ask him for particulars regarding this art case, for he hurried on before I could ask any questions.
"The fellow knows a good deal of people; he has many connections in his own country and ours. He knew of two fellow artists that were planning to travel on the Friesland, and as a favor to M. Meurnier and if we can refund the gentlemen's money, then they are willing to give up their staterooms to us!"
"Then we are on the steamer, Holmes, but what about Lachlan? The crew has to already be set," I said, puzzled.
My furrowed brow relaxed as I saw Alfie accidentally drop a piece of a biscuit into Holmes's hair and look frantically at me with a silent panicked appeal for help. I hid a laugh behind a cough as Holmes went on, totally oblivious to us both, and I could hear Lachlan trying not to snicker, as the lad peered down from his perch nervously at the offending edible.
"I also have this wire here," Holmes said, tossing it to me. I opened the paper and read it.
"Captain Basil?"
"My name in the docking areas, Watson," Holmes informed me, "having connections in the shipping offices and the docking offices has its perks, and I have taken advantage of my double identity as Captain Basil there more than once. You're to report to the Friesland early tomorrow morning, Lachlan, if you're willing. The ship sets sail tomorrow night at ten. Alfie! What the devil are you doing!"
The lad had been carefully trying to remove the piece of biscuit out of Holmes's hair and only succeeded just now in pulling his black locks accidentally. As Holmes turned a scathing glare in the boy's direction, he flew off the desk and nearly jumped on me for protection, hiding his face in my waistcoat.
I could not repress my laughter at Holmes's face, and Lachlan was roaring with mirth on the couch.
"Alfie, I think perhaps you had better be getting along," I said, still chortling, standing and setting the boy on his feet, "before Mr. Holmes has a heart attack."
I went over to my desk to grab some change for the lad as he said goodbye to Holmes, and while my back was turned I heard a low-voiced exchange that warmed my heart considerably.
"Mr. 'Olmes, yew better look after the Doctor – 'e don' look good ta me."
"I shall, Alfie, do not worry."
"Yew better, Mr. 'Olmes – you ain't gonna find 'nother bloke like 'im in an 'undred years!"
"I have come to realize that, lad, believe me," I heard Holmes say softly, and I smiled as I grabbed the change out of my wallet, noticing absently that my headache seemed to have subsided slightly.
Strange how the honesty of one little child could brighten up an otherwise irritating day.