Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God (9 page)

“There is no help,” said the old minister, as if reading the words from his bible, “we’re all going to burn.”

“Let her die,” said the young couple, in impossible harmony, their eyes rolled up into their sockets, their mouths flapping open in perfect unison to let the words tumble out. “She is a harlot and not worth our attention, she deserves no more than the touch of hot pokers, the searing, cleansing fire on her diseased body.”

I continued to wrestle with the prostitute, made all the more determined by the callous words behind me.

“Oh God, John,” she said, and it was Mary’s voice, my poor dead Mary. “I can feel their hands, feel their black nails piercing the skin. Can nothing be done to save me?”

“Mary!” I cried, delirious now in the confined carriage that burrowed itself deeper and deeper into the ground.

“She’s ours,” said one of the young boys.

“We will play with her until she breaks,” agreed the other as they walked over to join us, “your little rag doll, your little Mary.”

The train shook violently and I lost my footing, letting go of the woman who had my deceased wife’s voice trapped inside her. I fell to the floor, rolling towards the far window as the carriage continued to buck and shake.

“Beware!” cried the old woman, unspooling great strands from her bonnet, strands I now realised were red and wet as she peeled herself like a Christmas orange. “Beware!”

Everyone on the carriage stood up, their mouths opening to reveal great black holes like the tunnels through which we travelled. Out of those tunnels a wind began to blow, whistling past teeth, billowing out cheeks, swelling their bodies to absurd, distorted balloons as it filled them.

The carriage filled with the unnatural wind, a wind that brought on its back the smell of the grave and of the bloodstained mud of the battlefields of my youth. It was the percussive wind of cannon fire, the raging storm pushed before the explosion of gunpowder, the storm of death, and I couldn’t bear the thought of inhaling it. If it entered me, contaminated my body with its funeral taint, I was convinced I would be forever lost.

I pulled myself to my feet, yanked down the window and breathed deep of the black smoke that flooded the carriage.

“’E’s gone mad!” someone shouted, and that was enough to bring me back to my senses. The hands of the young man yanked me back from the window even as the old minister pulled it closed, coughing in the clouds of smoke that I had allowed into the carriage from the confined tunnel outside.

It was one of the young lads who had spoken and I held my hands up, trying to reassure my travelling companions that I was now as restored to sanity as they clearly had been. But they knew nothing of my delusions, that much was clear from the startled looks on their faces. They were all sat as they had been before I had closed my eyes, looking on me with a mixture of terror and pity. My eyes met those of the prostitute and there was no trace of Mary in their open mockery.

“Could tell ’e weren’t right the minute I set eyes on ’im,” she said, looking me up and down with open contempt as the train slowed to pull into the next station. “’E’s like a man I used to know.” A client, I thought, perhaps uncharitably. “Used to scream the ’ouse down on a full moon so he did, right off his onion, mad as Swiss eggs.”

As the train came to a halt I grabbed my hat and cane and dismounted, unable to travel any further with them, too embarrassed to sit in their company. I pushed my way past the people wanting to get on and made a run for the surface. I still coughed, the sharp sting of blood at the back of my throat, the thick, poisonous smoke clinging to my insides.

I came up near Regent’s Park and I made my way there, to sit a while on one of the benches and regain my breath and composure.

Had I fallen asleep? No. I was sure I had not. Then what was the explanation for two such experiences in one day? What was happening to me? I was only too aware of the similarity between what I had experienced and the surreal visions described by Dr Silence. Had I been influenced by him somehow or – a much worse proposition and one that did not sit well with my rationalist beliefs – had we shared a similar visitation? I resolved to observe Dr Silence later that evening and try to make my mind up about him.

Eventually I walked through the park and along Baker Street. I would tell Holmes about what had happened – he would treat the account with utter scepticism, naturally, but I was hopeful that he might be able to present a logical solution. Try as I might, I certainly couldn’t.

On my return, it soon became clear that conversation with Holmes would have to wait. He had returned home while I was out, a note pinned to the mantelpiece with a blowdart: “Meet at the station, bring your revolver.”

Typically erudite, I thought, screwing the note up and casting it into the fire.

I went to pack.

With a small holdall packed (my old service revolver wrapped snugly in a clean shirt), I made my way to St Pancras and the rendez vous with Holmes and Silence. My experience on the Underground still fresh, I decided to forgo the saving to my purse and hire a cab.

The station was as busy as always. I dislike train stations, they are full of lost people, running here and there, fearful of missing their connections. It is a contagious atmosphere of confusion and dread and I’m always relieved when my train pulls away from the platform.

I stood in the queue to purchase my ticket. I had adequate time to reach the platform but the impatience bred of waiting soon affected me and I was tapping my foot as an elderly lady craned her neck so as to face her least defective ear towards the guard, all the better to hear him with.

“Inverness,” she shouted, so that none of us were in any doubt as to her destination. “I can’t manage all these bags though.”

“I’ll gladly help with your bags,” I insisted, if only to get things moving. The old lady looked at me and there was a distinct twinkle to her eye as she gently pressed her hands together as if in prayer.

“Such a kind gentleman,” she said and I couldn’t help but smile. I remembered the time when, running for our lives, Holmes and I had arranged to meet on the continental train from Victoria. I had believed my friend to be absent until an ageing cleric sat across from me revealed himself to be Holmes in disguise. I was certainly not to be fooled twice.

“When you’ve quite finished,” said a young man behind me. I turned to look at the fellow, immaculately dressed with hair so perfectly oiled he could have been sculpted. He checked his pocket watch, a gleaming half-hunter with an arcane-looking symbol etched onto the back. “She’s not the only one who would like to make the next train to Inverness.”

“Indeed not,” I replied, “I’m travelling there myself.”

“Such an optimist,” the young man replied holding out his watch for me to see, “it leaves in ten minutes. Do you think you and your lady friend may have concluded your business by then?”

“What’s he saying?” the old lady asked – if indeed she
was
an old lady.

“No matter,” I replied, eager to have the whole affair done with. “Could you please supply me with two tickets for Inverness?” I asked the guard. “One for this lady and one for myself.”

“Thank you,” said the old lady. “If you could bring my bags too, young man.”

With that she wandered off across the concourse leaving me stood face to face with the guard and in charge of one leather suitcase and three hatboxes. It
must
be Holmes, I thought, no-one else would have the damned gall to abandon me in such a manner.

“I say...” I called after the retreating old lady, but she was either too deaf or too content with her own good fortune to hear me.

It
must
be Holmes.

“Now nine minutes,” said the young man behind me.

“For goodness’ sake.” I paid for the tickets and gathered up the bags. If that wasn’t my friend then I was now sorely out of pocket and fast losing patience.

I shuffled after the elderly figure, managing to reach our platform after only dropping the hatboxes once.

Silence was hanging out of the window of one of the carriages, clearly convinced that neither Holmes nor I intended to keep the appointment.

“Dr Watson!” he called, opening the door and stepping down to help me with my burden. “I fear I may have packed too lightly,” he said, casting his eyes over the baggage.

“It’s not mine,” I insisted, calling to the elderly figure who was shuffling along to the far end of the train.

“We should sit near the front,” it called, “my grandson says that’s safest.”

“You know this lady?” Silence asked.

“I have a terrible suspicion I do,” I replied. “Come on, we’ll move up.”

Silence grabbed his overnight case and the hatboxes and we walked along the platform, breaking into a slight jog as the conductor whipped his flag in preparation for the train departing.

“Get on!” I shouted at the figure. “This is far enough, surely?”

“No need to shout, dear,” she replied, pulling at the door handle and struggling to clamber aboard. Just as it looked as though she was going to fall back onto the platform a pair of arms shot out of the open doorway and grasped her firmly.

“Holmes?” I asked, staring at the familiar figure helping the elderly lady aboard.

“Watson!” he replied, “I was beginning to fear you would miss the train, now I see that chivalry delayed you both.”

We all climbed aboard and I set to wedging the old lady’s belongings on the baggage rack.

“How on earth did you end up travelling en masse?” asked Holmes, taking a hatbox from me and putting it away.

“I...” I considered lying but decided against it, knowing Holmes would catch me out. “I thought she was you in disguise.”

Holmes erupted into laughter, clapping his hands and ushering Silence and I from the carriage. “If you need anything else, madam,” he told the lady, “don’t hesitate to call on my friend, we’ll be in the next carriage along.”

“Wait a moment,” I said, thinking of the rail fare.

“Don’t mind me,” the old lady said. “It’s most kind I’m sure, but I can’t have you pestering me all the way to Scotland, you get on with your business and leave me in peace.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded, before following a still-laughing Holmes out into the corridor and towards the next carriage.

“I’m flattered,” said Holmes, “that you think I could pull off such a convincing impersonation.”

“It has been a trying day.”

“The last few minutes seem to have been hard enough, poor chap. Let’s hope this interminable journey gives you adequate time to recover.”

“As long as there’s comfortable seats and a restaurant carriage, I assure you I will arrive north of the border in fine fettle.”

We sat down and Holmes filled his pipe.

“So,” he said, once relaxed and beginning to fill the carriage with the clouds of Turkish tobacco smoke, “perhaps we might best spend the time between now and dinner by catching up on what we’ve been up to since this morning.”

For Dr Silence’s benefit he then began to inform him of what we had learned at Ruthvney Hall, up to and including my “turn” in the forest.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly simple – and quite benign – medical explanation for it,” I said, aware even as I spoke of how pompous and silly I sounded. In truth I felt even more foolish now it was being discussed in front of Silence. I felt like the weak heroine of a pulp tale fainting at suitably dramatic points within the narrative.

“Well then perhaps we could avail ourselves of an expert opinion?” asked Holmes. “In fact a qualified second opinion.” He looked to Silence.

The man, no doubt sensing my discomfort, attempted to back away from the challenge. “I’m quite sure that if Dr Watson, as a medical man himself, is at ease with what happened...”

“Oh come now!” said Holmes. “You’re a doctor, you must have met countless intelligent patients who attempt to dismiss important symptoms through a misguided sense of embarrassment?”

“I am sat here you know, Holmes,” I muttered, irritated as ever by my friend’s inability to consider the feelings of others.

“Indeed you are,” he replied, utterly unabashed, “and not denying a word. Has something similar happened since?”

“It was nothing, Holmes, I...” But that had done it hadn’t it? And indeed it was stupid to remain silent, as foolish as I might have felt, the truth was that I had now twice suffered from a delusional blackout. Both times preyed upon by the most insidious and terrifying visions. That was just the sort of thing, speaking as a medical man, that was not to be lightly dismissed. “It happened again while travelling on the Underground,” I admitted, proceeding to tell them, in as much detail as I could remember, what I had seen and heard.

Holmes, for all his bluster and insensitivity, had the grace to look ashamed when I recounted how I had heard my dead wife’s voice. Though his sense of shame was swiftly eradicated by interest when I had passed on the message I had been given.

“Fascinating!” he said. “A story which bears no small similarity to the one you told us only a couple of days ago,” he said to Silence.

“Indeed,” agreed Silence, “it would be my opinion that the Doctor was prey to a visitation of spirits.”

“Oh, rubbish,” I insisted. “It was no such thing, it was simply a delusion brought about by... by...” But in my defence, I could come up with no solution. Which made me angrier still. I felt I was being backed into a corner.

“Well,” said Holmes, “whatever it was remains to be seen, but we would be foolish to ignore the information passed on. After all,” he glanced at Silence, “what the voices chose to impart to you was of great relevance.”

“But surely there was nothing of the remotest use,” I said, still wishing we could drop the subject.

“Very little,” Holmes agreed, “which strikes me as exceedingly interesting...”

As the afternoon faded to evening outside the window of our compartment, my thoughts turned once more to the dining carriage. In truth it was as much to get some fresh air as it was to eat – Holmes kept the windows closed while he smoked, insisting the dense atmosphere helped him to concentrate. Medically speaking it helped me do nothing but cough, so it was with some relief that, when I suggested we take a stroll, Silence agreed to accompany me while Holmes remained.