Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell Read online

  Distracted, I barely avoided a left cross from our host, managing to pull back just at the last moment. Off balance, he plunged forward – helped on his way by a push from myself – and smacked into the floor, sliding across the slick blood and sending more of the jars flying. If the crime scene had been contaminated before, it was well on its way to becoming useless now.

  Holmes, for his part, was busy dodging a lumbering lunge – sidestepping the brute and striking him across the back with both parts of the broken stick he was still holding. The scarred man pulled over a candle, then fell sideways into the pillar at the head of the room.

  The column dropped heavily, cracking across the middle.

  A lot of what happened next is a bit of a blur, I’m afraid. It seemed to me that the pillar virtually exploded, bits of stone flying everywhere at once. But at the same time one of the candles connected with the preservative fluid seeping out of the organ jars, catching light with a mighty whoosh. I cannot say for certain, especially knowing what I know now, whether the sudden light that filled the place came from the fire or the pillar’s demise – or perhaps it was a combination of both? Either way, the sacrifice room was alight in seconds, engulfing the scarred man first, lapping over him like waves against the shore as he screamed and screamed. I remember thinking, even if he did survive, he would look even worse than his burned partner from the doorstep. Nevertheless, Holmes – having discarded his makeshift weapons – attempted to help him, only to be driven back by the flames.

  So, instead, he motioned for me to grab one of the unconscious Richard’s arms, taking the other himself. I was about to ask about the ‘sack’ Holmes had also dropped, then noted the flames had taken that as well. It was time to get out of there, and between us we did our best to wrestle our charge through the anteroom full of drawers and up along the corridors, towards the exit – all the while looking back to gauge the progress of the fire, which was rapidly gaining on us.

  After what felt like an eternity, we finally broke free of the corridor and virtually fell out into Monroe’s chambers. “Watson, we can’t afford to falter now,” Holmes shouted, nodding back down the shaft at the approaching blaze, which was stalking us as a hound chases the fox.

  We again took up the barman’s weight, pulling him past Monroe’s collection towards the door we’d unlocked not half an hour ago. Out onto the landing, where we saw smoke and flames affecting other areas of the house; it hadn’t gone unnoticed below either.

  “Fire!” barked my friend and we did our best to carry our unconscious load down the right-hand side of those curving stairs. “Everyone out!”

  But he needn’t have bothered. People were fleeing of their own accord, panicking and clambering for the exit: first those who’d been in the gambling section; then the half-naked pleasure-seekers who hadn’t bargained on their entertainment being curtailed in such a way. Those who couldn’t wait to see a break in the crowds were even smashing windows and jumping through them.

  Holmes and I kept our heads down and practically had to ram our way out, the host in tow. Once we got into the open air, we saw people scattering – many of them not wishing to be found on the premises in their current state. I couldn’t say I blamed them, after what they’d been up to. But at the very least it seemed like most of the inhabitants of the Vulcania managed to get out before the conflagration spread.

  A fire that only took the club building, and left its neighbours be.

  A fire that, looking back, was akin to those from the very pits of Hell itself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Order and Law

  WE MADE IT back to our lodgings in Baker Street in the wee small hours of the morning. After waiting for the fire brigade to arrive and ascertaining as best we could that nobody was still inside the burning wreck of the house, we were on our way before any untoward questions could be asked.

  The intense heat that had ravaged the club house burned itself out almost as quickly as it began, leaving our brave men from the brigade with little to do in the end. And leaving nothing by way of evidence.

  We removed our disguises en route, so that no-one would ever know it was us who’d been at the Vulcania, and after walking much of the way on foot we finally hailed a cab to ferry us the rest of the way home. A quick clean up, and I told Holmes that I was heading to bed, for the excitements of the evening had exhausted me.

  I rose late, oversleeping, having had terrible nightmares again – not of the fire, but of my time in Afghanistan, of Mary – and when I queried Mrs Hudson about the lateness of the hour she said, “Mr Holmes left specific instructions that I should let you rest.”

  “Left instructions? So Holmes is out, then?”

  She nodded. “Said he had some errands to run, and then he was off to see that brother of his.”

  No doubt reporting on the events of the previous evening. I discovered much later from Holmes that the conversation had essentially consisted of Mycroft saying, “When I asked for your help, Sherlock, I did not imagine your solution to our little problem would be so... extreme. Nevertheless, can I assume that our house is now in order?”

  It wasn’t clear to me whether by ‘house’ Mycroft meant the Vulcania building itself or Great Britain, but either way Holmes assured him that all was indeed in order. Only one body had been found in the burnt-out ruins, which we both took to be the scarred doorman – but which the police and rumour-mongers alike were assuming was James Philip Monroe. Two men – one chubby-cheeked and wearing a monocle, the other bearded with protruding teeth, according to the acting manager of the club, who was now recovering in hospital – were being sought in connection with the fire, which was believed to be arson.

  As far as I was concerned, however, matters were anything but in order. For one thing, when I entered the study, I found our table had been covered in my haul from the previous evening; that Holmes had fished it all out of my pockets and begun sifting through it (no doubt to satisfy his own curiosity that we had done the right thing in going to the club and inadvertently causing the fire). I had a cursory rummage through it myself, not really wanting to know more than I did already about the situation. Nevertheless, my eye was drawn to a handful of receipts I had gathered up in my haste. They apparently had nothing whatsoever to do with what had been going on at the Vulcania, but pertained to purchases Monroe had made for his collection. Sundry items, mostly, but one which was certainly of interest: a receipt for an ornate decorative pillar.

  I held it up and read the name of the shop out loud to myself. It was called simply, ‘The Gallery.’

  “Now then, Dr Watson,” said Mrs Hudson, who had appeared behind me while I was distracted by my thoughts. “Let’s clear some of this away, shall we, and get you fed.” She was carrying a tray of kippers and a fresh pot of tea, nodding at the papers on the table; I had to admit my hunger got the better of me, for it had been a long night and I hadn’t eaten since before we set out to see Mycroft. I doubted Holmes had, either, but that was out of our hands.

  I shoved the receipts into the pocket of my dressing gown and transferred handfuls of documents to the couch, careful not to let Mrs Hudson see any of the photographs, then sat down eagerly to her delicious meal.

  In fact, I wouldn’t see Holmes again for a day or so – when he glossed over his other so-called ‘errands’ – by which time the fire was all over London’s papers.

  But so was something else.

  “What did Mycroft say the name of that corrupt inspector was?” I asked Holmes, as he was flitting about looking for his Ship’s tobacco to fill his pipe.

  “Hmm?” he asked, not really paying any attention at all.

  “Mycroft. The other day...”

  “Oh, look at all this!” said Holmes suddenly, seeing the papers that I’d moved onto the couch. “It really must be disposed of, Watson!”

  “I wasn’t the one who left it lying about,” I retorted, as he began ripping up the items and putting them on the fire.

  “There!” h
e said when he was finished. “Consigned to the flames, just like its brethren. My brother will be able to sleep soundly. Now, what were you saying, Watson?” Holmes spied the tobacco finally, for once not in the toe-end of his Persian slipper, and proceeded to tip some into the end of his pipe.

  I walked over, showing him the page of the newspaper I was holding. “It’s right here, look – a piece by Summersby & Kline.”

  “The mark of quality,” said Holmes, and if he’d been referring to any other members of Fleet Street’s fraternity you would have heard the sarcasm in his tone. But the duo were fast becoming a name to be reckoned with in the field of investigative reporting. He peered at the piece I was pointing out, almost overshadowed by the Vulcania blaze.

  “It was Inspector Thorndyke, wasn’t it?” I asked. “The man in Monroe’s pocket?” Holmes said nothing, but read the article:

  Fears are growing for the officer, a family man with a wife and daughter, as his whereabouts still remain unknown. At the time of his disappearance, he was involved in several cases, one of which revolved around the hunt for a missing child – thought to have been abducted. Scotland Yard have yet to make an official statement, but it is believed they will be doing so in due course.

  “It surely can’t be a coincidence,” I said to Holmes. “Yet another person who has vanished from the face of the Earth – and a policeman this time, no less!”

  Holmes put his pipe down on the mantelpiece without even lighting it. “It definitely warrants further attention,” he told me. “Watson, let us pay our good friend Inspector Lestrade a visit.”

  WHEN HOLMES SAID ‘our good friend’ he was being generous indeed. Lestrade was an acquaintance, at best, and remained so up until his death a few years ago at the coast where he was living out his retirement years. Indeed, now I think of it, I never even learned his first name, just the initial ‘G.’

  I have described Lestrade before as being sallow, rat-faced and dark-eyed; unkind though this may have been, I nevertheless stand by my sketch of the man. For those characteristics also reflected his nature, devious and arrogant even though he remained on the right side of the law at all times. He thought nothing about taking credit for the crimes Holmes solved – in fact, I often thought that he somehow managed to convince himself he had cracked the cases, in spite of Holmes’ ‘interference.’ But had it not been for my friend, I doubt Lestrade would have retired with as many honours as he did.

  Of all the officers we encountered and dealt with on our cases, from Inspector Bradstreet – that tall, stout official – to Baynes of the Surrey police force, who Holmes congratulated on his methods, I believe my friend ‘liked’ (if I can use such a word), or perhaps favoured Inspector Gregson the most. Perhaps that goes back to him being the inspector assigned to our very first case together, but I believe it was more than that. Nevertheless, Lestrade was the inspector best-known for having worked alongside us – and definitely the man we worked with most often, for better or for worse.

  As I took a seat in the waiting area of Scotland Yard – or the relatively new building with that name, on the Embankment – and as Holmes joined me after telling the desk sergeant who we were here to see, I began to ponder the events that had led us here, and how they were apparently linked.

  There were the disappearances, all – from Cotton to Monroe – marked by that odd smell of vanilla at the scene. And the man Mrs Spencer had called a vagabond, with those hypnotic eyes. We’d even tracked his footprints into Monroe’s secret lair, where they seemingly began as abruptly as they ended; though admittedly we hadn’t had the time to examine the area properly. There, if Holmes’ theory was to be believed, to retrieve something every time – the murder weapon, except it hadn’t actually been used to kill, according to Holmes. And what had been inside that crevice in the pillar? None of it made any sense. But now here we were chasing up a lead on a policeman whom Monroe was paying to look after his interests.

  It was at that particular moment Lestrade chose to break into my thoughts. “Ah, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.” My friend rose and grudgingly shook the Inspector’s outstretched hand, as did I. “I was wondering when you might put in an appearance.”

  “You were?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said the man, with a considerable degree of certainty. He sniffed then, and apologised, telling us he was starting to come down with a cold. “Spring must be just around the corner, eh?”

  I smiled through gritted teeth, looking down at the hand I’d used to shake his. Holmes paid it no heed, but then he had been exposing himself to much worse of late.

  When I continued to look puzzled, the Inspector said, “The fire. I assume you’re here about that? I have to concede, I considered darkening your doorway yesterday but, well, you know how busy things get. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from this one, at any rate. Now, the two fellows we’re looking for go by the names of Cook and Gibb and –”

  Holmes held up a hand to stop him. “Inspector, Inspector. We’re here to offer our services with regards to a very different matter altogether.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The fire wasn’t arson, Lestrade – it was caused by someone knocking over a lit flame.”

  I looked at Holmes, thinking he’d gone mad and was about to confess. Was he trying to get us both thrown in jail? Meanwhile, Lestrade’s eyes were narrowing. “And how exactly would you know that, Mr Holmes?”

  “Elementary, Inspector,” said my friend. “For the fire to have spread so quickly, it must have bloomed outwards from the centre – from where the reports say you found the remains of Monroe’s body, am I correct?”

  Lestrade gazed at me then, sucking in a breath through his teeth – which made him cough – before saying, “In a terrible state he was as well, Doctor. Not even you could have done anything with him.”

  “But did your investigators find any candle holders at all?”

  “Well... I’ll have to check, but yes, I believe they might have come across something like that. It still doesn’t prove –”

  “Mr Monroe, known hellraiser that he was – perhaps entertaining someone of the opposite sex? A little alcohol involved as an accelerant... His employee covering for him by making up a pair of fictitious culprits. I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself.”

  Lestrade coughed again; actually it was more like a hack this time. “Yes, well, I’ll have someone look into all that. Give it some consideration.”

  “I’d be happy to talk to your… witness myself, get to the bottom of it,” said Holmes, the corners of his mouth rising, “if you so wish?”

  It was Lestrade’s turn to hold up his hand now. “No, no. That won’t be necessary, Mr Holmes. I know my job.” I almost broke into a grin myself at that; the clever way my friend had covered up our part in it all. “Now, you mentioned something about another case you might be able to assist us with...” Lestrade always put it like that, as if Holmes was merely a concerned citizen who could help with a little information – rather than the key person who would, more often than not, tie up the entire investigation with a bow.

  “Indeed. We have just read about Inspector Thorndyke in the paper, and –”

  The hand was up again. “Let me stop you right there, Mr Holmes. What the papers are reporting is nothing more than hearsay; rumour. There is nothing to substantiate it at all.”

  “But Inspector Thorndyke is missing, is he not?” I pressed.

  “Well... yes, technically, I suppose you could call him ‘missing.’ But then that is nothing unusual in itself. He tends to be a bit of a law unto himself, that one, if I’m honest with you.” I thought again about Holmes’ mysterious wanderings, his tendency to be gone for days on end. “Into some funny business, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever come into contact with Inspector Thorndyke,” Holmes mused.

  “I’m not at all surprised. He doesn’t tend to be offered the high-profile cases. Those are more my territory, as you know.” Lestrade�
�s capacity for blowing his own trumpet never did cease to amaze me.

  “What of this missing child that he was looking for? Might there be a connection there to his... absence?” I asked.

  Lestrade coughed again, took out a handkerchief and sneezed into it. “Oh, I really must apologise, gentlemen. No, I shouldn’t think there would be any correlation at all. From what I gather, the child was an orphan – he probably wandered off somewhere and got lost.”

  “Wandered off and –” This was a child, we were talking about; a missing child – and Lestrade was talking about him as though he was a pet that had run off and left its owner.

  “Would you have any objection to our looking into the issue?” Holmes got in before I could say anything more.

  Lestrade stared at him blankly. “It’s your own affair if you want to waste your time. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Thorndyke wasn’t to walk through that door at any moment, whistling and acting as if nothing had happened.”

  Holmes nodded slowly and touched the rim of his hat. “You’ve been most obliging, as always, Inspector. I won’t hold you up any longer. I know how busy you are.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. But never too busy for my old friends Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson.” He smiled, genuinely believing in that friendship, I think – and I felt quite sorry for the man, even though I knew relatively little about his private life. But then his capacity for self-delusion was incredible and I suppose that’s what buoyed him up.

  We left the inspector coughing and spluttering, and exited the premises. “Most enlightening,” said Holmes as we stepped out onto the street.

  “It was?”

  “Definitely,” stated Holmes. “Come along, Watson – I think our next port of call has to be the man’s family, don’t you? They must be worried sick about him!”