Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone (28 page)

“Don’t play the fool with me! Where is she? She’s no business with you and you’ve no business with her, do you hear?”

I smirked and noted, “Look at that silly little top hat, Holmes. Don’t you hate it when country folk put on airs?”

“Don’t antagonize him, Watson!”

Yet Roylott was not antagonized; he was thrilled. Though most people shy from conflict, Grimesby Roylott seemed to draw a fierce glee from it. Striding into our sitting room, he looked around for a moment, then walked to the hearth. He drew our poker from its stand. At first I thought he meant to use it as a weapon, but instead he placed one hand at either end and twisted the iron rod into a perfect circle. Holmes squealed. Not content with this show of force, Roylott thrust the center of the new-made ring into his mouth and bit down until the two halves separated and fell, clanging, to the floor. He smiled at us, then turned to spit the section of iron rod that remained in his mouth into the fire and said, “If you come to Stoke Moran… If you come to my house—”

“I shall certainly endeavor to treat your possessions with more respect than you have shown mine,” I interjected.

“—you will not escape alive. We in my family do not tolerate interlopers. Is that clear?” He shook his fist at me. It was a monstrously large thing, with bulging veins and knotted knuckles. His hide was spattered with grotesque freckles from which grew tufts of curling red hair.

“Quite clear,” said I. “Now, is there something we may help you with, or will that be all?”

He turned on his heel, threw Mrs. Hudson onto our dinner table and strode out through the door. A moment later, we heard the door to Baker Street bang open and I knew he had gone. Mrs. Hudson was not injured (at least, not as much as I secretly hoped she might be), but Holmes seemed quite unhinged.

“Holmes! Cease that screaming, if you please. You’re giving me a headache.”

“I don’t like him, Watson!”

“Neither do I.”

“You cannot go to Stoke Moran,” Holmes insisted. “Not alone. He’ll kill you, Watson. Can’t you see? He isn’t… He’s not normal.”

I wanted to protest that all would be well, but the severed halves of our poker argued that Holmes might indeed have a point. If I were caught alone by Roylott, without witnesses and unprotected in his house, what hope would I have?

“Still… I must go,” I decided.

“Perhaps we will discuss it further when Mrs. Hudson has gone,” Holmes suggested.

A moment later, he suggested again, louder this time, “
When Mrs. Hudson has gone!
”

She gave him a bitter glance, brushed a few pieces of rubble off her dressing gown, then mumbled something rude about the quality of our guests as it compared with the state of her doors and tottered out.

“Really, Watson, you mustn’t go alone,” Holmes insisted. “I don’t know what sort of medicine he has been studying, but he has the marks of a man who has made one or two mystical modifications to himself. Such treatments often result in less than beneficial effects to the psyche. If you wish for a second opinion, go to Charing Cross Hospital and consult with my friend Dr. Jekyll on the matter. He can tell you.”

“No. I believe you, Holmes. Yet, what choice is there? Miss Stoner will be in immediate danger in only a few hours and you are in no state to accompany me. There’s no way we’ll have you fit for an adventure in the time we have.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “But… try, won’t you? You’re a doctor, after all.”

I attempted to explain that there was no known procedure for rehabilitating victims of this sort of poisoning, since none had previously survived it. Yet Holmes would not listen and insisted that I endeavor to cure him. I began by flexing the affected limbs (so… all of them). He had no strength and no voluntary control. It was too late for ipecac, so I gave him great quantities of water to flush the toxins from his tissues as best I could. There was no sign of progress whatsoever.

“This isn’t working, Holmes.”

“No, it is,” said he. “Why,
by the boon that is owed to me by Kh’kath Harh Kugn
, I can feel my strength returning.”

Outside the wind rose to howling force and the horses on the street screamed out all at once.

“You just cast a spell!” I said.

“What? Me? No, no, no. There’s no such thing as spells—you said so yourself. Why, it is through the merit of your medical skill that I can now move my fingers again and no other reason.”

“Holmes, I have asked you not to use your powers! You yourself have told me how detrimental it is to our world every time you do.”

“Yes, but my sudden improvement is due to
your
powers, Watson, not mine. It’s not as if
I pledge my troth to the fires of Mekzahn Greh-degh for greater life!
That is not why I am suddenly able to stand. It’s because you are such a fine doctor. Shall we go?”

The sky outside grew black as night. The streets filled with the panicked cries of those who rather wondered where the sun had gone off to all of a sudden. By the light of our fire, which flared first blue, then green, I could see Holmes standing by the sofa, looking at me expectantly.

“Holmes! Damn it!”

“Think nothing of it, Watson. I have the feeling that compared to any mischief Roylott may work, such transgressions are slight.”

My protests continued, of course, but there was no sense in going without him. As we stepped out into Baker Street, the light of day was meekly returning as crowds of frantic Londoners ran this way and that.

* * *

Stoke Moran was not quite a castle. Dating from the period of the English Civil War, it was one of a particular breed of country homes that were constructed by people with guilty consciences or those who had reason to feel that if the war went one way rather than the other, they could expect a fairly large contingent of armed soldiers to come knocking at any hour. Thus, though it lacked an actual barracks, it did sport a high stone wall of some thickness, crenelated turrets and was positioned atop a high hill with a commanding view on all sides. It was a home, but it was a defensible one. Thus it did not surprise me that, as Holmes and I approached, Helen Stoner came out to meet us. Anybody watching the road from one of the turret rooms would see visitors more than a mile off.

“Don’t worry,” she called as she neared. “My stepfather has gone to the city this morning and has not returned. If he was not on your train, he cannot possibly return before the next. We have some time.”

“We shan’t need much, I warrant,” said I. “Chiefly, I wish to examine Julia’s room and that of Dr. Roylott. Or… I mean… Holmes wishes to examine them.”

I could have told her that Holmes and I knew perfectly well that Dr. Roylott had been in London, but chose not to alarm her. Holmes gave her a tired smile. Despite the invocations he had applied in our sitting room, he was still weak and unstable. I had allowed him to lean on my arm on the walk from the train station, but I practically had to drag him up the hill on the final approach to Stoke Moran.

Helen’s, Julia’s and Roylott’s rooms were on the second floor, overlooking the road. Roylott had the corner suite, next to him was Julia Stoner’s old room (where Miss Helen Stoner was supposed to now be lodging) and finally Miss Stoner’s own room, which did not look as if it were undergoing nearly enough work to render it uninhabitable. It was furnished in a manner that bespoke a country estate in decline, but we found no clue of worth.

Julia Stoner’s room was a different story. Even Holmes, lacking as he was in observational prowess, noted the difference immediately. “It’s a lot nicer than your room,” he said.

“Holmes! How rude!” I chided.

Miss Stoner waved me down and said, “Julia’s room was redecorated just after her engagement was announced. We supposed Dr. Roylott did it to curry her favor.”

“That is not what I suppose,” I mumbled, casting an eye over the room. There were a number of peculiarities, apparent at the most cursory examination. “Miss Stoner, I think you said that your sister complained of the smell of Dr. Roylott’s cigars. Can you see why she might?”

“Not offhand.”

“Holmes, can you?”

“She didn’t like cigars?”

“Look at the vent: it is of newer construction than the walls of the room—newer by far. It runs along the ceiling as vents often will, but do you note the peculiarity?”

“Do I ever?”

“It does not lead outside. It runs through the internal wall, towards Dr. Roylott’s room. Why would you vent one room into the next? It’s quite unaccountable. Not only that, but observe: the vent ends just touching this bell pull rope which in turn hangs down onto the bed, just beside the pillow. A strange proximity, I think.”

I gave the bell pull an experimental tug, but was rewarded with naught but silence for my effort.

“Oh, that…” Miss Stoner said, with a blush, “that is merely for show.”

“Show?”

“Yes. Dr. Roylott said we lacked the funds for a bell, but he did not wish us to live with the indignity of seeming unable to afford one. He therefore purchased a bell pull with the intent of purchasing a bell at a later date.”

“I can see why he may have told you so,” I harrumphed, “but I refuse to believe that such was his true motive. If it were so, he would not have gone to such extravagant measures to ensure this bed is never moved from below the bell pull.”

“What good is a bell pull that cannot be reached from one’s bed?” Miss Stoner asked. “I cannot think of a reason one would want to move the bed away.”

“And yet, if you ever did encounter a reason, it still would not furnish you with the ability. Did you note that this bed has been bolted to the floor?”

“Odd,” said Holmes. “Why would Roylott do that?”

“I suspect he wishes to ensure that whoever sleeps in this bed is forced to do so directly under that vent, with this bell pull coming down almost onto their pillow.”

“Why? What does it mean?” asked Miss Stoner.

“It means you are absolutely not to spend another night in this bed until this situation is understood and defused,” I replied. “I do not wish to be crude, Miss Stoner, but I think Holmes and I would very much like to rifle Dr. Roylott’s room now, if you please.”

“That may present some difficulty,” Miss Stoner said, fretting with her cuffs again. “My stepfather is intensively secretive. He maintains that room himself and allows nobody inside; I’ve never had so much as a peep through that door. He keeps it always locked and wears the key on a chain about his neck at all times.”

It seemed we were stuck, but Holmes—who had taken the opportunity to move down the hallway a few paces and examine the lock on his own initiative—reported, “Luck is with us! The door is unlocked.”

“But that is impossible!” Miss Stoner protested. “He always… What is that smell?”

I tested the air and replied, “That, Miss Stoner is the smell of…” and here I paused to regard Holmes with an accusatory glare, “…sulphur and burning iron.”

“By God!” Miss Stoner cried. “What is that dripping from the lock?”

“I suspect it is the inner workings of the lock itself,” I said, unable to think of a suitable lie.

“Oh, no. Oh, dear me,” said Holmes. “It seems as if this lock has been fiendishly booby-trapped to melt itself if someone should tamper with it. I’ve only just avoided being burned!”

“Nefarious! Ingenious!” Miss Stoner declared.

“I’m surprised to hear you think so,” I said, rolling my eyes at Holmes in a manner meant to convey that he had just been extremely lucky. “In any case, we are in. Let us see what secrets Dr. Roylott keeps.”

These secrets were of such quantity and clarity that even the unobservant Holmes spotted some the moment he pushed open the door. Before I had even the chance to look in, he asked, “I say, Watson, what do you suppose that pile of skulls is for?”

Pushing past him I entered into the lair of a mad fiend. Dr. Roylott did seem to have a penchant for bone-based décor, the walls being decked in shrines and ritualistic pictograms formed principally out of human bones. Several skulls had been set down into pelvises so that they looked as if they wore upturned collars of bone. The whole affair was decked in pale yellow bunting that draped the room from corner to corner along all four walls. Connecting this with the yellow scarf I had seen Roylott wearing and the fact he had held a medical practice in India, I made a connection.

“He’s a Thuggee,” I said.

“Hullo! I know those chaps,” said Holmes.

From the hallway, Miss Stoner said, “Thuggee? What are you speaking of? I don’t…”

She did not finish, for she rounded the doorway and encountered her stepfather’s true nature. She gasped and fell back against the wall. It took her some moments to control her breathing—that dashed whalebone corset again, I think—at which point she muttered, “All those bones… Do you suppose… Julia?”

“Oh, no. No, I am sure not. No man can offer such disrespect to the bones of his own family member,” I said, though in my heart I knew I was almost certainly lying. I further suspected that if Helen Stoner had not decided to hide in the pantry last night, her bones might now be here as well.

“I say, Watson, look over here!”

Holmes was bent over a table on which lay a number of instruments and concoctions that reminded me of his own alchemical workstation at 221B, though this one was more extravagant and possessed of a distinctly evil character. Curved knives and gleaming, silver-plated hypodermic needles lay in neat rows. Though this laboratory was of interest to me, there were two other matters of greater concern.

The first was the cobras. I found them in a glass terrarium by the window. They were sluggish in the cold, but gazed at me with all the malevolence their breed is known for.

The second was the vent, which ended just above Dr. Roylott’s alchemical workstation. Though it featured a curved downspout, I could just discern light at the end where it opened above the late Julia Stoner’s bed, some dozen feet away. It was certainly wide enough for a cobra—in fact I think all three could have slithered through abreast if they wished.

Turning to my compatriots, I said, “I have seen enough. I do not know exactly how Roylott has worked these crimes, but I am certain he is to blame. This is what I suggest: Miss Stoner, you are to give Dr. Roylott no indication that you have spoken with Holmes or me, or that you know his secret. I understand that this may be difficult, but it is of critical importance. Can you do it?”