Chapter Thirteen
~~o~~
I found the front door of the great house unlocked, and wondered if it had been so when Holmes had arrived several minutes earlier, or if unlocking it had been his doing. Not knowing where he was within the house, I decided to make a circuit of the downstairs rooms and then head upstairs to the quarters of the late (or not so late, as the case was appearing to be) owner, where I knew Holmes would be searching to locate a container of water, trying to find it before Barbossa or Sparrow managed to get to it first and then slip away. Stealthily, I crept from room to room, holding firmly onto my old service revolver in the event it was not Holmes that I found first.
~~o~~
Lestrade, as a seasoned veteran of the Scotland Yard force, has accumulated stories of some queer goings- on in his day, but I would daresay that none are so remarkable and singular as those he experienced in the barn that evening.
After examining the peanut he had gathered up, and placing it in his pocket out of habit, several more shells near the door of the last stall caught his eye. Finding them incongruent with the sort of things one expects to find around horses, he entered the moonlit stall out of curiosity, discovering the remains of a handful more. Not being able to mark anything more significant than it being an odd finding in a stable, he decided to conclude his exploration of the barn and return to the house to catch up with the rest of us.
But, upon turning to exit the stall the way he entered, he came face to face with the last thing he probably ever expected to occupy a stable: a creature that appeared to be, in the shadows, a small monkey similar to those favoured by London street musicians to garner attention, wearing a tiny, colourful vest.
Lestrade told me that after jumping a little in surprise at seeing the unexpected creature, he chuckled to himself and spoke in a kindly manner.
"Well, aren't you a little out of place here," he said, crouching down to the monkey's level while it regarded him with dark eyes that shone out of the shadows. "How about a peanut?" he asked it, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the one he'd saved.
At that moment, when it saw what Lestrade held in his hand, the small simian launched itself enthusiastically closer, landing in the moonlight at Lestrade's feet. What the good inspector found himself handing the peanut to was a vision so fantastic and grotesque, that it would be difficult to say who was more startled, Lestrade, or the monkey when the poor inspector screamed.
~~o~~
Holmes and Lydia both watched the drop of water sliding down the neck of the old rum bottle for a few seconds more as the significance of Holmes's pronouncement sank in.
"But who?" Lydia asked in a choked whisper, the chill of apprehension crawling up her spine. "And where did they go?"
Holmes had opened his mouth to speak, but was saved the trouble of answering by the soft creak of a door behind them.
"The secret passage," he groaned belatedly, and gripped Lydia more firmly by the elbow, uttering words that froze her blood.
"Don't move."
"A sound bit of advice," came an unfamiliar voice behind them, and both Holmes and Lydia turned their heads very slowly to look at the speaker.
There behind them, holding the blade that he'd evidently torn from its place of honour over the mantel, was a man that none of us had ever expected to be standing on his own two feet again.
"Henry Matthews," Holmes said quietly, still unmoving, "or should I say Hector Barbossa?"
The man who'd stepped out of the open passageway to the roof looked surprised but not displeased.
"A disadvantage ye have me at, fer certain," he said, his manner somewhat amused as he strode a few paces closer. "Who might I have the pleasure of addressin'?"
"My name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Ah," Barbossa replied with a small, gracious nod of acknowledgement, "tis an honour to make yer acquaintance, Master Holmes. And who might the lady be?"
"This is Miss Lydia Hastings," Holmes answered for her, as Lydia was still too taken aback at seeing Barbossa anywhere but in the morgue to answer.
"A pleasure," Barbossa said to her, a less than appropriate look of appraisal sweeping her form before he then addressed my friend again. "And might I compliment you, Master Holmes, on the choice of company ye keep."
"I'm afraid that I cannot extend to you the same courtesy," Holmes replied grimly.
Barbossa merely laughed at Holmes's words.
"I would, however," Holmes said, "beg another from you."
"And what, mayhap, would that be?" the amused pirate asked.
"Tell me how you did it," Holmes replied calmly.
"Did what?" the older man asked, apparently interested in what Holmes wanted to know, but nonetheless keeping his guard up; he continued to brandish the aged but wicked-looking blade before him.
"Convinced so many people, the coroner and my friend Dr. Watson included, that you were dead," Holmes clarified.
Barbossa's expression darkened perceptibly. "By takin' a calculated risk and a bullet between the eyes," he snarled back, clearly agitated.
"After you transferred the water to the bottle and then made a marked fuss about the other flask you filled with ordinary water, knowing that Sparrow had tracked you to the London area and would likely arrive under cover as a participant in the jubilee flotilla you saw the announcement for five weeks ago."
"Aye, that be true," Barbossa replied. "A lot ye've discovered about me business while I was indisposed, Master Holmes. Certainly yer reputation is a well-deserv'd one."
"As apparently is yours," Lydia finally said tersely, eyeing the weapon.
"True again," Barbossa replied, "and yeh'd best not be fergettin' that, Miss Hastings. Ye'll forgive me if I cut this conversation short, but I'm long overdue aboard me ship. If you would, m'lady, cap that flask and hand it over."
Lydia exchanged a concerned look with Holmes, who nodded in reassurance at her.
"Follow instructions," Holmes said to her, giving her a meaningful look that reiterated that he meant his own as well Barbossa's. She nodded, meeting his gaze briefly with a look that he hoped meant she understood, and he watched as she complied and reached out with trembling fingers to pick up the now-full flask. She seemed reluctant to even touch the vessel that held what we had all started to wonder about on some dark level, but managed to snugly fit the cap back in place.
The second the flask was sealed, Holmes cried out, "Run!" and snatched the empty rum bottle off the table, throwing it at Barbossa the same moment he lunged for the bolting Lydia, causing the pirate to have to duck. While the first stroke of his sword missed the fleeing naturalist because of Holmes's intervention, the blade nonetheless whistled through the air in front of her, causing her to veer away from not only the sword, but her bid for freedom out the sitting room door. The pirate regained his balance quickly for someone who had been lying on a cold stone slab for well over two days, and he snatched her by the arm, even as she screamed and tried to jump backwards.
Whether it was intentional or just panicked reflex, Holmes couldn't say, but he watched as a split second later, Lydia drove the hatpin she still held in her hand into that of Barbossa's on her arm, and the pirate roared in pain and let go. Spinning away from him and running for all she was worth, she headed for the one exit available to her at that point, up the stairs to the roof, the angry captain hot on her heels and after the flask still in her possession.
Holmes reacted immediately, unable to await reinforcements from myself or Lestrade, each of whom had a revolver, and he did the only thing he could do at that moment. Snatching another of the swords from Barbossa's collection off the wall, he dashed up the stairs to the roof, following the pirate in pursuit of our lovely assistant.
~~o~~
By the time I had completed my own inspection of the downstairs portion of the large, empty house and found myself contemplating the dark stairway, all hell seemed to break loose around me. For at that very moment there came a woman's scream and a thud somewhere from the floor above me, and then much more obvious commotion. Alarmed for Lydia's safety as well as that of my dear friend, I started quickly up the stairs, only making it to the third one when another cry, obviously of severe alarm, came from outside the house. It sounded like Lestrade and I hesitated, wondering what could have prompted the police inspector to have shouted in such a fashion, when the cry was followed by ungodly shrieking and screeching that I could only place in my nightmares.
Fearing for Lestrade's life, I would have headed back outside, had it not been for the fact that somewhere above me, Lydia screamed again. While I felt guilty about leaving Lestrade to face whatever had made that most dreadful noise, my chivalrous concern for the young naturalist overrode my guilt, and in truth, I feared that something might have happened to Holmes; I bolted up the stairs, gun in hand, rebounding off the wall as I made the turn for the hall that led to Matthews's private rooms.
Even as I flung myself into the sitting room and spied the open passageway to the roof, repeated gunshots echoed distantly from outside; I surmised they were far enough away that they must be from Lestrade's gun. He seemed to have missed whatever manner of man or beast he had encountered, for the ghastly screeching continued unabated, perhaps with even greater intensity and agitation than before. With some difficulty, I swallowed my guilt, and raced into the passageway, taking the stairs two at a time.
When I reached the French doors at the top, I plunged through and rounded the cupola, only to slide to a halt, aghast at what I could see well in the moonshine across the roof. It was easy enough for me to read the outrageous situation that had developed.
Lydia, who had fled with the flask in her possession, had found herself at a dead end at the rail of the widow's walk, cornered by the pirate before she could flee. Apparently Barbossa had demanded the flask from her, menacing her with the wicked-looking blade he held, and threatening to use it in a poised yet clearly ruthless manner. That is until Sherlock Holmes quickly stepped between the seafaring ruffian and the lady, brandishing a sword of his own, clearly intent on defending the young naturalist who had inadvertently become entangled in one of our most bizarre adventures.
Barbossa, seeing that Holmes was intent on thwarting his malignant intimidation of the young woman, seemed amused that the famous detective would dare challenge him, and threw back his head and laughed a wicked and arrogant laugh.
"I thought ye'd be smarter than to cross blades with a pirate," Barbossa sneered, "especially one of the finest swordsmen to ever sail the Caribbean."
"But perhaps not in London," Holmes replied evenly, watching the pirate warily.
By this point I realised that the two opponents had not noticed my presence, and I raised my revolver, waiting for the precise moment when I felt I had a clear shot at Barbossa, without jeopardising Holmes or Lydia.
"I must admit I'm curious to see how ye'd fare, Master Holmes, "Barbossa said with a roguish grin, "unless, of course, the lady would be inclined to hand over the flask?"
"I'm afraid the lady is disinclined, and that you have an appointment in another department at Scotland Yard, " Holmes replied resolutely.
"Very well."
Barbossa sighed, feigning exasperation even as I cocked the trigger, but before Holmes or I could even move, the wily old rogue lunged at my companion in a manner much quicker than I'm sure either of us expected from a man of his age.
Then, instantly, a sharp pain bloomed across the back of my skull, and the last thing I saw was Holmes reacting in the nick of time, ducking and dodging Barbossa's strike as the blade whistled over his head, close enough that it caught his beloved deerstalker and sent it sailing over the railing into the night.
"Apologies, Doctor Watson," Jack Sparrow said regretfully from somewhere next to me, cavalierly tossing away the rock with which he'd hit me even as I crumpled to my knees. I felt him take the revolver from my helpless fingers, and then I slid to the roof in darkness.
When I began to come to, I had no idea how long I'd been out, but later I would estimate that it had fortunately been only a moment or two. My aching head throbbed with my pulse, and somewhere in the distance it seemed as though someone was determined to wake me by banging a pan with a very heavy spoon. As my vision slid back into focus, the first thing I saw was someone standing in front of me, and about the same time that my gaze travelled up to see that Jack Sparrow was standing there, facing away from me, I also recognised that the sound I was hearing was not that of a pan and a spoon, but that of the repeated clash of steel blades from the duel that had erupted on the widow's walk.
I managed to slowly prop myself into a half-sitting position, unnoticed by Sparrow and the two combatants. Mesmerised by what I was seeing as I tried to clear the fog from my head, I watched as Holmes endeavoured to hold his own against a man who I had recently read had lived by his cunning and his immense skill with a sword. By the manner in which he kept Holmes pinned in the corner with Lydia, I was actually beginning to believe that this man had used a sword for longer than just one lifetime. While it was true that Holmes possessed no small amount of skill when it came to the fencing arts, and was an expert singlestick enthusiast, no amount of training in those civilised gentleman's sports could have likely prepared him for an encounter with such a deadly opponent. Holmes appeared calm, but I could tell that all his vast concentration was focused on the duel. Blow after blow he parried, defending himself and Lydia behind him but, despite his best efforts, he could not seem to finagle enough of an opening that Lydia might be able to escape from the tight quarters they were in by the rail.
Meanwhile, Jack had raised my revolver and appeared to be preparing to take a shot at Barbossa, but I didn't care at all for the fact that he didn't seem to be taking into consideration the probable risk to my two friends that were caught up in such a small space with the other pirate at the moment. Surely the way Holmes and the old rogue lunged and riposted as they each sought the advantage might put Holmes at risk of being struck by a bullet.
Determined that Sherlock Holmes would not meet his end by way of my old service revolver, I managed to pull myself closer behind Jack Sparrow, despite the fact that my head was still swarming like a beehive from the blow he'd dealt me, and I grabbed his leg and yanked with all the leverage I could muster. Jack cursed as he lost his balance from my unanticipated attack, and he went down heavily like a sack of oats, hitting the roof hard enough to smack the side of his face and jar the gun free from his hand when his wrist slammed into the tile as well. A single shot blazed off into the night, startling all of us on the roof before the revolver skittered over the edge , and when the two duellists paused for a brief second during their energetic exchange to duck, the clever and observant young naturalist needed no amount of encouragement to decide to make her escape. Lydia managed to just bolt past Barbossa before the pirate could recover from the interruption, and she headed our way, only to charge in the direction of the north side of the roof when she saw Jack trying to climb to his feet in front of her.
Trying to buy her a few seconds, I grabbed Jack by the leg again, earning myself a kick to the shoulder and quite luckily not my face, before he could do more than make it to his hands and knees. Across the way, Holmes had lunged past Barbossa, now gracefully whirling and keeping the pirate pinned in the corner as he'd been a moment before, in an attempt to also let Lydia put some distance between the combatants as the clash of blades and the deadly dance between the two men resumed.
Again Sparrow kicked at me, making contact with my shoulder, causing the pain of my old injury to rear its ugly head enough that I was forced to let go of my grip on his ankle, and he managed to scamper to his feet and bolt across the roof towards Lydia. I dragged myself up off the roof, my head and shoulder both throbbing mercilessly, and trotted quickly, if not a little unevenly after him.
Lydia, having escaped for the moment from one pirate, thanks to Holmes, now saw the second bearing down on her, and she recognised, as I did, that Sparrow would get to her before I managed to close the distance enough to intervene.
"Dr. Watson!" she called out suddenly, and I realised there was less fear in her voice than authority. Glancing at her, I saw her draw back her arm, and instinctively I predicted what she was about to do a second before she heaved the flask she carried in an arc over Sparrow's head and into my waiting hands.
Thinking to possibly draw both pirates off with the one thing they each desired most, I made straight for the exit in the cupola, unfortunately not quite fast enough with the way I felt somewhat muddled still from the blow Sparrow had dealt to my head. It was therefore that the pirate was able to catch up with me before I could get the door leading off the open roof, and he tackled me bodily to the ground.
Holmes meanwhile, still engaged in quite probably the fiercest duel of his life, and continuing to trade blows with the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, apparently had noted my new predicament from the corner of his eye, and I'm sure that it was his concern for my welfare that caused him to lose a minute degree of his concentration. I heard the gasp of pain hiss between his teeth, and as he stepped back quickly away from Barbossa, I managed to see that the pirate's blade had slashed at his arm; blood now ran freely from the area of his left biceps down his arm, dripping off the ends of his long fingers.
A blow from Sparrow to my jaw instantly tore my attention away from Holmes, even as he was forced to parry another blow from Barbossa with a resounding clang.
"Payback for the one you delivered to me," Sparrow quipped, referring to the blow I'd dealt him before his escape from 221B, and then trying to wrest the flask in my grasp from me. I daresay I put up a decent enough resistance, and the two of us found ourselves rolling about on the roof, struggling for control of the flask.
Lydia, standing near the north side of the roof and seeing that Sparrow and I were at somewhat of a stalemate, raised her arms over her head to flag my attention, and called to me once again across the moonlit roof. "Dr. Watson!"
Finding myself pinned down by the pirate astride me, I recognised the fact that I could very probably loft the flask back in Lydia's direction, but that it would require me to abandon my defences to do so. Letting go of Sparrow with my left arm with which I struggled to keep him at bay, I hefted the flask towards Lydia with my right, taking another pummelling from the pirate as I did so. Miss Hastings peddled backward, astutely keeping her hands out and her eye on the flask in a manner worthy of any Blackheath fullback, but I am afraid that in my haste to put the flask in her possession, I overcompensated for the height I lacked at the moment since I was flat on my back.
"Bugger!" Sparrow swore softly as he saw I'd managed to rid myself of the prize, and we both watched as Lydia raised up her arms as she hurried backward in vain to catch it; it appeared that it would sail well over her head and into the night beyond.
Almost simultaneous with the swear loosed by Sparrow, came a curse from Holmes, followed instantly by the sound of metal clattering to the roof. Neither Jack nor I could keep ourselves from glancing in the direction of the duellists near the south end; there stood Holmes, sword at his feet and smarting right hand cradled against himself with the left which was already stained with the copious blood running down his arm from his wound.
Barbossa wore a triumphant grin, and levelled the point of his sword at Holmes's throat.
~~o~~
A/N: One more chapter to go! :)