On our return to our rooms, Holmes sat cross legged in his armchair, staring at the piece of glass in his hand, smoking. He looked at it so intently I wondered if it might come to life. After finishing his cigarette he leapt from the chair, and ran into his bedroom. He then began crashing around and the familiar scrape and clatter of glassware spewed forth. This was followed after two or three minutes by clouds of thick, acrid smoke.
"Holmes! What on Earth are you doing?" I called.
Holmes did not reply, but staggered from the room, closing the door behind him. He coughed and spluttered.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"Yes, quite right, Watson."
His eyes were bright indeed for a man filled with fumes.
"I trust there is a purpose to filling our rooms with noxious vapours?" I asked, irritated. I opened the window, which while it did release the smoke, also allowed in the frigid winter air.
"Come," said Holmes.
We went back into the room. Holmes had opened this window also, and the fumes had now disappeared. There lingered a burning smell, and I covered my face with my handkerchief. Holmes did not seem to mind. He fetched a Petri dish for me to examine. It contained some of the pieces of glass from Scotland Yard, and a pool of viscous liquid.
"It is not glass, Watson. It is a most remarkable substance."
"What is it?"
"I am not certain. But surely it is not glass. It is sharp, transparent and shatters much as glass does. But it melts after only a few minutes over a flame, and burns shortly thereafter, producing thick smoke. When it cools, it reforms into a plain shape."
Sure enough, the viscous liquid began to harden before our eyes in the dish, forming a thin film. After a few minutes, Holmes removed it with a pair of fine tongs.
"Amazing," I said, for the material was now almost a perfect replica of the dish. Still liquid in parts, it began to drip and Holmes replaced it in the dish.
"I wonder," said Holmes. "Stand back, Watson."
Before I could enquire as to what he was doing, he drew a long taper from the table, lit it, and held it over the dish of liquid. It was all I could do to avoid falling over as the concoction exploded in a shower of sparks.
"Lord above!" I swore. "Do you mean to frighten me to death?"
Holmes look of interest gave way to one of shame. "My apologies, Watson. I was very inconsiderate." Despite his look, he spoke with little sincerity.
I brushed small pieces of Petri dish from my clothes and went to the other room for a glass of brandy.
"Good gracious! Whatever is going on?" Mrs Hudson ran, flustered, into the room.
"Mr Holmes is, experimenting," I said, my heart still fluttering.
"I was thinking that someone had fired a cannonade!" she squealed. "Mr Holmes, I would be most appreciative if you would inform me in future of any explosions that are likely to take place!"
Holmes ignored her, looking at the remnants of the material.
"Good day, Doctor!" said Mrs Hudson, and left smartly, wafting the air in front of her nose.
Our long suffering landlady was well used to both explosions and other violent outbursts of chemistry on the part of Sherlock Holmes.
"This is a most potent explosive!" said Holmes.
"Marvellous, Holmes," I said with false emphasis. "How does this help our situation?"
He did not answer, and instead regarded one of the other pieces of material. "Not flat, but curved, as if part of a sphere," said Holmes, quietly. "About two feet in diameter, perhaps less, eighteen inches. Yes." He measured the curvature with a rule.
He then whipped himself once more into a frenzy, pulling up piles of debris from around the room, and emerged with a notepad and pencil. He approached me, scribbling. He then handed me the pad.
Upon it was drawn a picture of a glass bowl, as one might keep fish.
"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.
He disappeared again and emerged with a tarred wooden box, full of papers. He tipped it out onto the floor, and the resulting tide caused me to stumble back. The pain in my leg returned with a vengeance.
Holmes went into the bathroom, and immediately out again. "Not deep enough!" said Holmes, excited. He took his box under arm, stuffed a blanket into it, grabbed his hat and coat and ran for the front door. I managed to put on mine in time to hear him yell, 'cab!' at street level. I hurried after him and joined him in the Hansom.
"Where are we going, Holmes?" I breathed, for I had been caught unprepared for the excitement.
"Lancaster Gate!" shouted Holmes, to the driver and to inform myself, and we set off.
"What on Earth for?" I asked, confused.
"An experiment," replied my friend. His gaze told me he would reveal no more.
The drive was short, and I was filled with nerves as we reached the North end of Hyde Park by the church at Lancaster gate. The air was once again very frigid indeed, and I limped after Holmes as he walked at some speed into the park. The beginnings of a snowfall commenced, with the tiny white wisps sticking to my overcoat, making it appear grey. We stopped at the Northern tip of the Serpentine, where small boats were moored to a pier that extended out into the water. It was frozen at the edges of the lake, but the boats were free of ice. I assumed we were going for a row for some reason. Holmes was a little ahead of me, and I could see him speaking to the young boat attendant. There were no others around; the cold weather would drive all but the most determined of pleasure boaters from the water.
The young man passed something to Holmes, and Holmes in turn handed over his coat. As I drew closer I could see that the item in question was an anchor, and drew in a sharp breath as I realised in horror what Holmes was about to do. I hurried to the end of the pier, but I was too late.