Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares (32 page)

“In the nick of time,” said Holmes, smoothing out a lapel.

“You’re welcome,” said Cauchemar.

His armour looked half wrecked. It was scorched in several places, dented in several others.

“I’m very glad you survived that explosion,” I said.

“It was touch and go, but this suit’s built to withstand plenty of punishment. Digging my way out of the wreckage took some time, though. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen...”

He swung round to confront the
Duc En Fer
.

“Ah-ha,” said de Villegrand, bringing his automaton ponderously about. “Baron Cauchemar, I presume. Finally we meet in person.”

“Meet again, you mean, Thibault,” said Cauchemar.

“Yes, Fred, meet again. Such a stickler for detail. You always were. I used to admire that about you, as an engineer, an inventor. You had an amazing capacity to consider the little things. The trouble was, it hindered you from thinking big.”

“Size isn’t everything.”

“It is when one of us dwarfs, in every sense, the other. How have you been doing,
mon ami
? I trust life has been treating you well since I – how to put this? – changed the way people look at you. But I suspect it has not.”

“You did me a favour when you disfigured me, actually, Thibault.”

“I did? How?”

“You stripped away from me any illusions I had about people. I saw the world for the false, superficial place it is. I understood about charlatans and liars and fanatics and corrupt evildoers, and I realised it was my duty to oppose them whenever and wherever they rear their heads. I have you to thank for that. In ruining me, you opened my eyes. You gave me a true purpose. You made me the man I have become.”

“How touching,” sneered de Villegrand. “Someone, I suppose, had to rid you of your loathsome dewy-eyed innocence, just as someone had to relieve your sainted Delphine of her virginity. Why not me?”

At the mention of Delphine, Cauchemar visibly bristled inside his armour. De Villegrand’s words had penetrated Fred Tilling’s metal carapace in a way that his rifle shots at the graveyard had failed to.

“You do not speak her name again,” said Cauchemar with cold fury. “You are not worthy. Goodness like hers does not belong on the tongue of a blackguard such as you.”

“My tongue and Delphine’s goodness were more than intimately acquainted. And as for
her
tongue...
Ooh-la-la!”

“Enough!” snapped Cauchemar. “This dream of yours ends today, Thibault. You and your fellow Hériteurs – your aspirations for a worldwide Third Republic will never be made real.”

“Will you stop me,
mon pauvre petit
Fred? When I am five times larger, five times as mighty?”

Baron Cauchemar planted his feet, his armour’s microfurnace pulsing with fire and power.

“It’s not the machine that counts,” he said, “it’s the man inside. And I
will
stop you, yes, or die trying.”

“Then die!” declared de Villegrand, and battle was joined.

It was a rerun of their duel in the Jardin du Luxembourg, only this time, in place of a sabre, each man was equipped with a sophisticated, steam-driven vehicle.

This time, too, it would be a fairer fight, for Cauchemar was not young, inexperienced Fred Tilling any more with just a week’s worth of fencing lessons to his name. He had full mastery of his armour and an array of weaponry to call upon.

And yet, the
Duc En Fer
was five times his size, constructed from a locomotive weighing several tons. Before de Villegrand’s towering android, Cauchemar looked like a pygmy.

Cauchemar launched himself upwards by means of his leg pistons. He struck a blow to the
Duc En Fer
’s midriff, staggering the iron giant, then fell back to earth.

De Villegrand retaliated with a side-swipe kick that sent Cauchemar flying.

Cauchemar rolled, recovered and went for the
Duc En Fer
’s foot. He grabbed it in a bear hug and strained. He was trying to lift the entire leg in order to throw de Villegrand’s creation over.

An immense arm shot down from above, a clenched fist striking Cauchemar on the head with a resounding
clang
. Cauchemar crumpled. Another blow flattened him all the way to the ground. A third came down, but the supine Cauchemar caught the fist with both hands and resisted. De Villegrand applied greater pressure. Cauchemar fought back, his micro-furnace roaring.

“Watson, we must find some way of helping him,” Holmes said.

“I agree, but how? In case you’ve failed to notice, both of them are piloting powerful machines. You and I are not. Even my revolver won’t make a jot of difference.”

“I am not prepared to stand idly by and let Cauchemar face de Villegrand alone. There is surely something round here we can use.”

I looked about. Nothing but bare farmland in all directions.

“It’s hopeless,” I said.

“It’s never hopeless. This way!”

Holmes set off in the direction of the barn. I followed.

The barn doors were secured by a loose length of chain which had enough slack in it that Holmes was able to prise them apart and create a gap we could squeeze through. The interior was musty and dark. I found and lit a lantern, and as our eyes adapted to its dimly flickering glow, Holmes let out a grunt of satisfaction.

“See, Watson? All is not lost.”

Before us lay a traction engine. It was rusty and mud-spattered, bearing all the hallmarks of heavy agricultural usage, but appeared to be in good working order. Its farmer owner would haul heavy wagonloads with it and set it up in fields with various attachments for threshing and sawing.

“No time to waste,” said Holmes. “Let us get it started.”

He alighted on the driver’s platform and opened up the firebox door.

“All laid with dry tinder and coal, just as I thought. It is harvest season, so the farmer needs the engine ready to go at a moment’s notice. Now, where are my matches?”

Outside, the clash between Cauchemar and de Villegrand continued, an earth-shaking ruckus. Inside, Holmes and I worked furiously to stoke a fire in the traction engine. Soon, water was boiling, a head of steam building, and Holmes set to familiarising himself with the controls.

“Should be straightforward enough,” he murmured. “If a horny-handed son of the soil can drive one of these things, I surely can. That lever looks to be the throttle. That must be the clutch, yes. The steering wheel steers, obviously. Pressure gauge, steam regulating valve, handbrake, gear selector...”

The barn wall erupted inwards. Cauchemar hurtled through with a snap and crunch of planks, crashing into an empty stable below the hayloft. He picked himself up, shrugging flinders of wood from his shoulders.

“I need to bring it down,” he said. “Once it’s down, there is a weak spot, I know it. Out of my reach unless...”

It was hard to tell whether he was talking to us or himself.

“We will help!” Holmes cried. “Just buy us a little more time.”

Cauchemar gave no sign of having heard. Head lowered like a bull’s, he charged back outside to resume the fight.

Now the traction engine was thrumming with power. I joined Holmes on the driver’s platform as he intrepidly engaged the clutch. A large flywheel began to spin and the traction engine gave a lurch. Holmes applied the throttle and the vehicle eased forward, its chunky wheels churning the earthen floor.

Holmes nosed the traction engine towards the doors.

“We can’t afford to be graceful about this,” he said, increasing speed.

The doors bowed outwards. The chain snapped. The doors burst apart. The traction engine trundled through.

Cauchemar was again assaulting the
Duc En Fer
’s legs, at the same time darting around trying to avoid those two huge swinging fists. His armour was in bad shape. One arm hung limp. Whether it was Fred Tilling’s arm that was broken or the armour’s, I could not tell. Either way, the limb was out of action. The rest of his metal shell was a mass of fractures and concavities, as cratered as the moon. He battled on regardless.

Holmes guided the traction engine out onto the field, shifting up through the gears. A slight downward gradient added to our rate of acceleration. He was steering us on course for a head-on collision with the
Duc En Fer
.

“When I say ‘jump’, Watson...”

“Have no fear, Holmes, I am more than ready.”

De Villegrand, up in his lofty perch, did not see us coming. He was too preoccupied with Cauchemar.

The traction engine rolled closer, wheels furrowing the turf. The roar of its boiler was tremendous. The driver’s platform was vibrating so hard beneath my feet, I had to cling to its framework to stay put.

“Jump now, Holmes?”

“Nearly. Nearly.”

“How about now?”

“We can’t afford to miss. There’ll be no second chance.”

“Now?”

“A moment more.”

The
Duc En Fer
’s left leg loomed immediately before us.

“Now!” said Holmes, and we both leapt off.

The traction engine was going flat out, which meant about as fast as a man can run. It rammed the leg with all of its considerable mass behind it.

The
Duc En Fer
staggered.

The traction engine’s boiler burst on impact. Metal shards flew like shrapnel.

The
Duc En Fer
teetered.

Cauchemar came in from the side, rugby-tackling the other leg, applying a counter force.

The
Duc En Fer
began to topple.

Holmes and I scrambled out of the way as the manmade titan descended like a redwood felled by the lumberjack’s axe.

The
Duc En Fer
slammed to earth.

Cauchemar sprang on top of it, raised a gauntleted fist, and drove it hard into the behemoth’s chest.

Its furnace.

Its heart.

The weak spot he had spoken of.

There was a sound, an explosion so enormous, so all-consuming, it overloaded my every sense. The world went bright, then dark.

For a time afterwards I could only lie still on the cold, clean ground, face pressed to the grass, and wonder that I was not dead.

When I finally managed to raise my head, I blinked dirt out of my eyes and stared at what was left of de Villegrand’s machine.

It wasn’t much, just a skeleton of burning, tormented metal sprawled on a quarter-acre of charred turf. Dark smoke poured up from it into the twilight sky, thinning and dispersing into the atmosphere.

Holmes, beside me, sat with his elbows on his knees, surveying the carnage. His aquiline profile was limned by the blaze, his eyes reflecting the leap and flicker of the flames.

“De Villegrand?” I said.

My friend shook his head. He gestured to a blackened corpse lying half in, half out of what was left of the cab. Enough of its face remained uncharred for it to be clearly identifiable as the vicomte’s.

I scanned around. “And Cauchemar?”

“I do not see him,” Holmes said, squinting.

“Do you think he...?” I said bleakly.

“It is possible he did not survive. Equally, he may be fine. His armour...”

We heard voices nearby, a clamour of alarm and curiosity. Locals, roused by the explosion, were making their way across the fields towards us.

“So what do we tell everyone?” I asked.

“The truth,” Holmes replied. “Varnished. With certain careful omissions. A terrorist conspiracy has been foiled. The royal family is unhurt.”

“Nothing about Cauchemar?”

“Assuming he is alive, he has fled the scene, and if he has done that, it is not without reason. He wishes to remain anonymous, to retain from others the secrets he has shared with us. We should respect that. He has gained recompense for the wrongs inflicted on him by the vicomte. Delphine Pelletier has been avenged. De Villegrand may not have had to suffer the shame and opprobrium he was due, but we can make sure that, posthumously, he gets everything he deserves.”

Holmes rose and helped me to my feet. We dusted ourselves down and smartened ourselves up as best we could. Dim figures moved in the gloaming.

A man called out in a thick rustic burr, “Hoy there, what be all this malarkey then? Train crash?”

Holmes flashed a sly grin at me. “Smile, Watson. Wits about you. Bring your novelist’s skill to bear. We have some highly selective explaining to do.”

Two days later, I called at Baker Street, where I found Holmes snug in his armchair with the
Times
open in front of him.

“Ah, Watson, here you are! I take it you’ve already seen this?” He brandished the newspaper.

The front-page headline said it all:

TERRORIST PLOT AGAINST ROYALS THWARTED

Mastermind Named – Queen Safe – A Nation Breathes Again – Prime Minister Composes Official Letter of Complaint to French Ambassador

“I have read it,” I said. “No mention of Cauchemar, of course. Nor,” I added, “of us.”

“Yes,” said my friend. “I decided that Special Branch should take the credit for the victory, rather than you and me.”

“Not that I mind, but any particular reason why?”

“First of all, it helps restore people’s faith in the forces of law and order, which after recent events is sorely needed. Mycroft concurs, and Melville, of course, is only too happy for his department to be covered in glory, even though his men did nothing. Secondly, I would prefer it if certain elements in France were unaware of my involvement.”

“Certain elements? You’re referring to the Hériteurs de Chauvin.”

“Indeed. You saw, I presume, the packed valise in the hallway.”

“I did. You are going on a trip?”

“Nothing gets past you, eh, Watson?” said Holmes. “Yes, I am proposing to take an impromptu holiday on the Continent. My first destination is Paris, and from there, who knows? France is a large country, with much natural beauty to recommend it, not to mention fine food and wine. I know of a pleasant auberge in the Dordogne region where I stayed during my travels after graduating. It would be nice to go back there, revisit old haunts. Perhaps I shall venture even further south.”