The Call of Distant Shores (20 page)

Let me begin by mentioning the most glaring oddity of all.
 
In this case, when my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes admitted his newest client to 221 Baker Street, it was none other than myself, half-crazed and shaking like a scared dog.

Upon my arrival, the clock in the church tower chimed eleven.
 
It was later than I had thought, and far too cold for a sane man to be about.
 
All but one light was out in Holmes' flat and I assumed him to be asleep.
 
It did not matter.
 
The burden of that night was too much to bear alone, and at the very least I needed the comfort of my old friend's solid intellect.

I paced, until my shoes threatened to wear ruts in the sidewalk.
 
I wanted desperately to turn around and return to my own home, have a brisk shot of brandy and slide between the cool sheets of my bed.
 
What I most emphatically did not want was to see my relationship with Holmes tainted by the appearance of insanity.
 
Still, there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead, and I finally dashed for the door in desperation, wanting to reach it before my traitorous feet turned away yet again.
 
Before I could raise my hand to the door knocker, the door swung inward, and I found myself stumbling to a clumsy halt, staring into the grinning countenance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Do come in, Watson," Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye that set my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
 
"Another few paces and you'll wear the leather from your soles."
 
As he took in my own expression, Holmes grew more serious, and he closed the door quickly behind us, taking my coat.

"I'm terribly sorry about the hour, Holmes," I blurted, "But the matter simply can't wait."

"I gathered from the odd slant of your hat and the mismatching of buttons that this was a matter of some importance," he replied.
 
He turned and disappeared into his study, and I hurried to catch up with him.
 
When I reached the dimly lit room, he was already in his chair, legs stretched out before him and his fingers pressed together under his chin.
 
"So tell me what brings you out so late on a cold night."

"I've come to offer you a new client, Holmes."

"But you've come alone.
 
Who, then, would your client be?"

I watched him for a moment, steepling his fingers and staring at me, eyes twinkling.
 
I knew he had already deduced my reply, but I made it anyway.
 
"It is I, Holmes.
 
This time, it is I who seeks your aid."

The skin around his eyes drew taut and his lips pursed.
 
"Very well, Watson.
 
Why don't you sit down, take a brandy, and tell me your story."

I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the events of the evening flow back into my consciousness, telling the tale as best I could.
 
I knew any detail I left out, or forgot, might prove the one thing Holmes needed to see through it all as nonsense, so I was careful.
 
The brandy helped.
 
This is the tale I told.

It was but a few hours ago when a knock came at my door.
 
It was later than I was accustomed to accepting callers.
 
I immediately assumed it to be you, Holmes.
 
Who else would call on me at such an hour?
 
My heart quickened at the thought of adventure, and I hastened to open the door.

The man who met my gaze was gaunt, tall and weathered as if he'd spent long years on the deck of a ship, or working a farm.
 
His complexion was dark, and his coat clung to him like a shroud.
 
I could make out two others standing directly behind him in the gloom.

"Dr. Watson," he asked, his voice sharp and edgy.

"You have me at a disadvantage," I countered.
 
"I'm Watson, and you are?
 
My God, man, do you know the time?"

"I am well aware of the time," the man answered.
 
"My business with you cannot wait."

The man held forth a sheet of paper, pressing it toward my nose as if I could read it in the dark.
 
"Did you sign this?" he asked sharply.

"I can't see what it is from here," I said. "Step inside
Mr
..."

"Jepson," he said, stepping hurriedly through the doorway.
 
"Aaron Jepson.
 
My companions are Mr. Sebastian Jeffries and ... well, read the paper, and you may see who else accompanies me."

I knew I should have told the man to return by daylight, but I'd invited them in, and the deed was done.
 
I glanced at the other two, who remained silent.
 
The first was a white-haired old chap with ruddy features and wide, bulging eyes.
 
His cheeks were overly full, making his lip drape oddly downward.
 
I didn't know him.
 
The third wore a dark coat, as did Jepson, and a hat pulled down to hide the features of his face.

I glanced back to the paper and began to read.
 
It was a death certificate.
 
I had signed it only a week before, pronouncing one Michael
Adcott
dead of a knife to the back.
 
Mr.
Adcott
had been out too late in the wrong part of town, and apparently someone had fancied his wallet a bit more than he himself.

"What has this to do with any of you?"
 
I asked bluntly.

"Mr. Jeffries," the first man explained, "is my solicitor.
 
I should say, he is my cousin's solicitor.
 
I'm not certain if you would have been told, but there was a sizeable investment – a tontine – involved in the death.
 
Michael was one of only two surviving members of the tontine, and upon the declaration of his death, the courts moved to deliver the tontine's assets to a Mr. Emil
Laroche
."

"I knew of no tontine," I said, "but I see no way I can help you in such a matter.
 
Mr.
Adcott
died, and as I understand such arrangements, that would indicate that the courts were in the right."

"So you say," Jepson said, "and yet, you would be – for the second time this week – mistaken."

I blinked at him.
 
"Mistaken?
 
How ..."

Jepson held up a hand, then turned to his third companion.

"Michael?"

My heart nearly stopped.
 
The man removed his hat slowly, staring at me through eyes I'd seen glazed and closed so few days in the past.
 
He didn't seem to see me, not really, and yet he reacted to Jepson's words with perfect understanding. The dazed, haunted expression of those eyes burned into my mind, and I had to shake my head to clear the sensation of – something – something dark and deep.
 
Something wrong.

"This is quite impossible," I stated.
 
"There is no way this can be the same Michael
Adcott
that I examined earlier in the week.
 
That man had sustained a direct stab wound to the back, penetrating a lung, and he lay dead in the street at least an hour before I arrived on the scene.
 
There was a constable on the spot, Johnston was his name."

"And yet," Jepson said, holding up one hand to silence me, "Michael
Adcott
stands and breathes before you, a very alive, and suddenly destitute man.
 
Only your intervention, Dr. Watson, can prevent a horrid miscarriage of justice."

This was a strange situation, to be certain, but I fancy that I've acquitted myself well in any number of odd happenings over the years.
 
Without hesitation, I stepped closer and stared at the man before me.
 
He wavered back and forth, as if his legs barely held him upright, and I squinted, trying to find some fault between my memory of the dead man, and he who'd disturbed my evening.

"Impossible," I muttered, stepping back.
 
"Preposterous."

Jepson eyed me coldly.
 
"And yet, a fact that is difficult to deny, I suspect," he said shortly.

At this, the plump man, who'd remained silent until that moment, stepped forward, fumbling a monocle from his breast pocket and perching it on the bridge of his nose with a palsied hand.
 
The lens teetered, and I was nearly certain it would drop from its perch before he could steady it, but miraculously the man got it under control.
 
He lifted a small sheaf of papers, bringing them closer so he could glance at them through the lens.

"It would seem," he spoke, the words slow and forced, "that we have a situation before us requiring the utmost in haste and discretion."

"You would be Mr. Jeffries," I stated, not waiting for an answer.
 
"I would expect, sir, that of all gathered here you would be first to note the absurdity of the claim lain before me.
 
Dead men do not pry themselves from the grave, no matter the fiscal windfall it might provide themselves or others.
 
This man cannot be Michael
Adcott
."

Jeffries glanced up from his papers quickly, nearly sending the monocle flying.
 
"I assure you, Dr. Watson, that he is.
 
I have served the
Adcotts
for the past twenty years as solicitor, and I know my client when he stands before me."

"Which would lead me to believe, sir, that you have mistakenly pronounced Mr.
Adcott
dead."
 
Jepson folded his hands in front of him and peered down his nose at me.

I must say that I would rather admit to an error in judgment than to the possibility of the walking dead.
 
All evidence and proof aside, I needed them gone just then.

"Return here tomorrow at four sharp and I'll have the answers you seek," I told them, shoving the papers at Jepson and marching them forward.

Holmes had grown contemplative, his eyes were focused, but not, I think, on any point in the reality we shared.
 
Leaning forward in my chair, hands on my knees, I gazed at him anxiously and finished.

"With the house again empty and my heart still beating a savage rhythm in my chest, I could think of only one thing to do, and that was to bring the matter to you."

Holmes eyes shifted, and he rose suddenly.
 
"And well you did, my dear Watson, well you did indeed."

He was already walking toward the door, wearing an uncharacteristically distracted expression.

"I must see to some things, Watson," he said suddenly.
 
"And you must rest, old friend.
 
When the sun has risen a little higher in the sky, we shall see what we can find."

"But, have you no thoughts on this matter?" I cried.

"Thoughts are often all that we have, Watson.
 
There is nothing that I can say for certain, but I do have – thoughts.
 
That is for tomorrow.
 
Go and get some rest."

With that, he opened the door, and I could think of nothing to say or do, other than to stumble out into the night and off toward home, wondering if my old friend now thought me daft.
 
The sky had already stained a deep, blood-red with the sunrise.

Jepson glanced furtively to either side, then slipped through a massive wooden door and into the depths of the squat, monolithic building beyond.
 
The exterior was dingy brick, even the soot and grime seemed soiled, and there was an oily sheen to the place, gleaming sickly in the early morning light.

He carried a case under one arm, and he'd come on foot.
 
No coach waited outside that door, nor did any spot his entry.
 
There had been precious little traffic through those doors in recent years, and what there was, men tended to ignore.
 
Such knowledge was best left to others, or to no one at all.
 
It was a dark place, and the screams of those who'd entered and never been freed echoed through the air surrounding the place like a hum of electricity.
 
So it seemed to some.

The Asylum of St. Elian had been closed for reasons never released to the public.
 
There were rumors of dark experiments, of torture and sin, but they were not often repeated, and usually died before reaching the level of a good story.
 
There was nothing good in the building, and if it hadn't required actual contact with the place, most would have been happy to wield one of the hammers that brought it down.

Jepson had found no trouble at all in renting a portion of the fading edifice, and with Jeffries handling the legalities and paperwork, had managed to do so with near anonymity, the solicitor having been granted the right to sign on Jepson's behalf.
 
The laboratory of St. Elian's, and the ward nearest that foul place, had come under Jepson's control easily and without contest.
 
Even the homeless and the drunks had avoided the place.
 
It was empty and lifeless as a tomb, and that suited Aaron Jepson just fine.