Sherlock Holmes and the Servants of Hell

  Holmes staggered to his feet, attempting to trace where the voice was coming from. There were no men behind him, so he lurched to the door and out through it. He glimpsed a shadow moving through the shadows, exiting by means of another door. Holmes followed, finding a set of steps that he began up. “Wait!” he shouted after the vagabond, knowing how foolish he had been to let his quarry go like that; so focussed on the box was he.

  Rising, rising, thinking he would never reach the top – and then he did; falling out through a door and into the fading evening light.

  Into a deserted alleyway. Holmes stumbled, striking the opposite wall and almost losing his grasp on the box. “Wait!” he called out again. Then he saw the vagabond, heading towards the mouth of the street – blanket behind him still flapping like a cape – and, as best he could, Holmes gave chase.

  The man did not appear to be in a hurry, and the detective – carrying his precious charge in both hands so that he would not drop it – was beginning to catch up. So close, so close.

  Soon he was only inches away from him, near enough in fact for Holmes to take one hand off the box and reach out with it. There were more questions, things the box could not answer for him: like who was the Engineer? What did the Order have in mind for his city – for the world?

  Holmes’ fingers brushed against the blanket, almost upon the man... when suddenly he was a man no more. The cape spread wide, so that it more accurately resembled a pair of wings. In the blink of an eye, they had become wings; huge and leathery, with spines running the length of them between flaps. Holmes stopped in his tracks, falling backwards to the ground. He could do nothing as the vagabond that had been standing before him a few moments ago turned, and looked at him with the head of some kind of mythical beast. A dragon, just like those he’d seen painted on so many signs in this part of London – except there was not a scrap of flesh on the thing. Flapping and flapping, rising into the sky...

  The detective lay there and observed its passage into the darkening sky, into the clouds; understanding that what he had just witnessed could not be real. That it was a combination of whatever had been put in his food and drink, and the vagabond’s skilful hypnotism – yet quivering nonetheless.

  In any event, the keeper of the box had struck a bargain with him. Holmes looked down at what he was still holding so close to his body. The shiny box that was now his and his alone.

  A deal had indeed been brokered, and Holmes knew that he had another piece of the puzzle. That he had a new task now, a new search for secrets.

  And his work had only just begun.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Box. You Have Opened It...

  HOLMES DID NOT take the Lament Configuration away with him immediately to begin his labours.

  For one thing, he had to be certain that the effects of the drugs he’d been exposed to had worn off; no more dragons taking to the skies! (Although what was it Mrs Spencer had said? About the flapping of wings?). For another, he realised, as with any worthy undertaking, that preparation was all. The detective had already seen to his affairs – some time ago, actually; indeed, little had needed altering since he had disappeared the first time around. That was not the issue. He needed somewhere private to conduct his business, somewhere he absolutely would not be disturbed. That was clearly not Baker Street – for, apart from Mrs Hudson’s attentions, he was bound to have been contacted by Miss Summersby and probably also Watson, angry that he had not received further instructions... and was not likely to. Holmes hoped that, in the absence of a missive, Watson would return home in due course – by which time this episode would have reached a conclusion one way or another.

  Should he construct some sort of shrine, as Monroe had? It hardly seemed necessary given that he had been sought out by the Order for attention. Moreover, Holmes was not about to murder someone in a bizarre ritual just to aid in the solving of a puzzle. He still had no idea what would happen should he be successful, but he still felt sure it was connected with his amazing survival at the Falls. More certain than ever now, in fact, after the vagabond had forced him to relive those moments with Moriarty. He had seen these kinds of boxes before. Though obviously inspired by Chinese tradition, this one seemed unique: the Frenchman’s touch, probably. What lay inside such devices usually were messages, codes. A door, as Lemarchand’s ancestor had called it in his conversation with Watson – figuratively of course. Answers, definitely.

  Death?

  Well, there was only one way to know for certain, and he had drawn out the preamble long enough.

  No elaborate shrine then, so perhaps the candles – following Francis Cotton’s lead, as unsettling as that thought might be. It hadn’t taken any of those men long to complete their objective, so he did not anticipate it would be a lengthy process for him either. Certainly not as long as it did eventually take him in the end, sitting in that room he had paid a lot of money for – drawn from a private account only he knew about and had access to (not even Mycroft was aware of its existence).

  At no point in his history of drug and poison-taking, of sweat lodges and tests of endurance, did he lose track of time in the same way that he had when he was trying to solve the Lament Configuration: cross-legged and determined. He did not partake of food or drink; did not talk to another soul while he was concentrating all his efforts on the box. The only evidence of the passage of time was the thick candles slowly burning down.

  Yet it did not want to yield to him. As hard as he might try to crack the thing open, it appeared at certain points impenetrable, which frustrated him no end. Holmes had always prided himself on being able to see solutions to problems that others could not, but here was a puzzle that had been deciphered by a philanderer, a military man, a young hedonistic club owner (and murderer, let us not forget), a corrupt policeman and a reporter. All had died for their trouble, but far from deterring him this was just another spur. He had to discover the reason why, and how they could simply have vanished like that from locked rooms and in front of watchful eyes.

  It did not matter that there was no audience to see the trick this time, he would know. He would have the satisfaction of knowing. And although he couldn’t help thinking about those who had been left behind, that they would never have an inkling about what had happened – and that included Watson – it would not stop him from getting to the truth.

  From finding out who the Order really were.

  Who the Engineer really was.

  So he continued. Drenched in sweat from his duel, watching the box slip through his fingers more than once – almost dropping it (though much later he was tempted to try to just smash open the thing to get to its marrow... what stopped him was the knowledge that very often puzzle boxes like these had mechanisms that would destroy what was inside if triggered by, say, a forced entry – besides, he was Sherlock Holmes! He shouldn’t need to break into it!).

  On and on, turning the box over in his fingers, even though a little voice in his head was screaming at him to put it down and step away. The longing he had felt to touch its surfaces gave way eventually to a sort of hatred that they would not co-operate with his explorations; the other side of love... not that Holmes was overly-familiar with these sorts of emotions. This was probably the closest he would ever come to being seduced by a wayward mistress – for, regardless of what others might think of his ‘relationship’ with Irene Adler, there had been nothing sexual about it at all. He would never have even entertained the notion... But here and now, this box, it was as tantalising a prospect as had ever entered his sphere of influence.

  Holmes twisted the thing, desperate for something to give – but nothing ever did. It was so infuriating, he thought at one point he might be going mad. He swore – something he was not prone to do – and it sounded incredibly odd inside that confined space, being thrown back at him with his own voice. He was beginning to think there actually was no way inside and all this had been for nothing. It wasn’t the box that was the key, but the man who had calle
d himself its protector – someone who could apparently move freely through walls, fly through closed windows without making a sound and kill indiscriminately.

  But surely, if he had wanted Holmes dead, wouldn’t the vagabond have murdered him back there in that alleyway, when he had the chance? There was nothing to stop him – indeed, Holmes was not in a fit state himself to prevent it. Where was the sport in that, though? Perhaps the real sport was this game of cat and mouse he’d allowed himself to be a part of, and the final insult: that there was no way inside the box! He refused to believe that and carried on; continued until his fingers and thumbs were sore with the rubbing. He would have carried on until they bled, he felt sure, yet in the end that was not called for and the chink in the armour of the thing had presented itself at last. Just as he was considering giving up.

  The click was just as loud as his curses had been. And it was only now that some part of his mind was vaguely aware of a bell tolling somewhere. Was it Sunday already? Had he been at this for so long? He brushed aside the thoughts and continued on with the box, now that he had been given a sign.

  Now that he had taken this first step.

  He concentrated on the ornate device, eyes straining, fingers working faster than ever, gambling over the exterior in an attempt to make that chink wider. There was another click, louder even than the first, and the tolling of the bell came closer – not that Holmes registered this fact. He was too consumed with finishing this, now that he had made such progress so quickly. Then –

  Nothing.

  If he had been expecting it to be easy from this point on then – as he had been from the beginning – Holmes would find himself very much mistaken. No more clicking, no mechanical whirring like he used to hear in those toys as a child. After waiting a moment or two, all the time he was willing to spare, he shook the box – immediately regretting it; hoping he hadn’t halted the process that had obviously commenced inside. To have come so far, only to have it snatched away – and know that it was your fault, as well – would be pure torture indeed.

  He was shocked, therefore, when the box tingled – and then moved. So shocked he almost dropped the thing. It appeared that the tipping point had been reached and the box was taking over, doing the rest of the work for him. A corner rose at the top, clanking round so that it was now at a peculiar angle, the edges of it so sharp that if he hadn’t withdrawn his fingers quickly, they would have been shredded.

  One of the golden wheels, the one he had spent so much time caressing with his thumb, tracing its circle over and over, was starting to spin of its own volition, slowly to begin with, then faster the closer it came to its zenith. More changes followed, so that the box no longer was a box; sides no longer what you could call square. Sections rising and falling in a way he would never have been able to calculate, let alone replicate. Each time they did, he was drawn in to the tantalising sights between the spaces, like a preview of events yet to unfold. Each one a glimpse into the object’s heart, revealing something much older than the box itself. Something that had existed forever, looking, searching – just as he had been on his travels. For a way out, a way through.

  Though Watson had not gone into vast amounts of detail in his telegram to Holmes, some of the words the madman Lemarchand had uttered now stood out:

  Great-grandfather. Tricked. Made the box. Made it easy for them. To control...

  To control what?

  But all thoughts about that vanished when he heard the music. A lyrical tinkling theme emanating from the Configuration, similar to the kind one might find in a jewellery box when opened – a ballerina rising to greet the owner and twirling for their amusement. No such dancer appeared here.

  Instead, the movements of the Configuration itself speeded up: contradicting the slow music that was being played. Holmes frowned, peering into the box once more. Then came the wind, a sudden gust in a place that had no windows; he’d made sure of that for privacy’s sake. It was so abrupt and so violent, it blew out all the candles. Yet he could still see...

  Shafts of blue light had found their way in from somewhere, spearing the room like a magician stabbing swords into a cabinet.

  The room was shaking, dislodging dust from the rafters and walls. Walls that were threatening to cave in and flatten him where he sat. The one behind Holmes shook the most forcefully. He could hear the brickwork parting, being rent asunder. But not until he heard the footsteps at his rear as well did he finally turn to see that gap in the wall, and what had issued forth from it.

  His mind was racing now. How could this be? He had examined every inch of this place, this room. There were no secret compartments, as in Monroe’s quarters. There was nothing on the other side of that wall, save for empty space, that looked down upon yet another quiet alleyway. It was the same as Cotton’s attic room, nothing there. Except there was now... Beyond the hole that had been created was something else; somewhere else. Dusty corridors that looked a little like those behind Monroe’s secret doorway, or in the underground tunnels he’d been taken to, but these shouldn’t – couldn’t possibly – exist.

  All he was doing was delaying taking in the quartet of figures he’d only glanced at briefly thus far. Delaying because of their strangeness, their hideousness if he was being truthful with himself. Regardless of the light, there were parts of them that were still in shadow, and for that Holmes was grateful. The first that he clapped eyes on was made of rotting flesh. No, more than that: diseased. Every inch of the ‘man’ that could be seen – for he was only wearing what appeared to be a dark loincloth, like some sort of savage abroad – was made up of yellow pustules and skin that was being eaten away to reveal the creamy bone beneath. His balding scalp – which was populated by tufts of hair – was stretched tight over his skull, so tight that the eyes bulged from their sockets, weeping thick, gelatinous liquid. He had no nose to speak of, just two ragged holes where one should have been – from which mucus bubbled and spilled as he breathed. He was thin, like some sort of plague victim – though unlike anything Holmes had ever exposed himself to – and when he coughed, blood appeared at the corners of his mouth. He saw Holmes pulling a face at this, and the man grinned, revealing two rows of stumpy yellow teeth.

  Next to him was a female, her skin as pale as corpse-flesh – all except for her mouth which was ruby red, and her eyes which were almost totally blue. At first glance it looked very much like her hair had been gathered up in the Victorian style, to a shock of curls on top of her head – running down the back in ringlets; but Holmes swiftly identified these as strips of that alabaster flesh, sheared from the top of her head and intermingled with razor-sharp metal coils. The necklace she was wearing was also made of metal, stitched into the skin and running down to a tight, black corset that was cinched in at the middle and laced up with what looked like pieces of red gut, the crimson tendrils poking out here and there. The bottom half of her attire was a flowing leather skirt – except there were ridged flaps running down the length of it that exposed the ruined skin of her legs, again woven into the material. She held something in her right hand, also coiled – until she let the majority of this fall, to reveal a long whip which snaked to the floor. Along its length were tiny fins of metal and it forked out into three ends, each of which had lethal-looked spikes attached – designed for raking the flesh – that incredibly moved of their own accord. This one, he could not help thinking as he gazed at her, would not have looked out of place at one of the Vulcania’s private parties...

  The third figure was larger, and well muscled – arms bared in the vest-like top he was wearing, which ran down to a pair of leather britches. There were slits in the vest, showing that the same kind of painful attention had been lavished upon his torso: sore-looking cuts, opened wider by metal stitches, skin peeled back to show the wet underside. In contrast to the other two his colouring was healthier, pinker, but with more than the usual dash of redness – blood being pumped around that huge body by thick, wormy veins. His hands were gloved, but
between each finger a blade had been inserted, which gave them the appearance of very short claws. It was the thing’s head that caused Holmes to inhale sharply, however, for it was simply a lump of bony flesh perched atop its neck. The creature had no features – no eyes, no nose or mouth – that he could discern, just something that looked like bent fingers and a thumb; it was almost as if the entire head had been squashed and then moulded to more closely resemble a fist. As if a potter had fashioned something monstrous out of the clay on his wheel.

  As much as the corridor behind them defied the laws of physics, so did these visions defy the laws of nature. Nothing could have survived the butchery that had been done to them and lived. Yet here they were, lingering, waiting for the last of their number to step forward. This was their leader, no doubt about it. For he had a commanding air about him, almost gliding forward as if on a cushion of air – his feet not visible beneath the long frock-like vestments that he wore. There was nothing effeminate about this; far from it. If anything, they looked like a priest’s cassock or a monk’s habit. Dark clothing covered him up to his neck and down along his arms. Apart from a ‘V’ shaped hole at the front baring his scarified chest, jagged cuts running this way and that. His head was the same, slashed at in every direction, yet he proudly wore the instruments that had almost certainly caused his wounds. His face and shaved head had shards of glass embedded in them at regular intervals: at his cheeks, his chin, his forehead – above eyes that were devoid of any whites – and at his temples, then all over his crown... Actually, it looked like he was wearing those triangular pieces of glass as some kind of crown; as if he was some sort of king of blood. Larger pieces of glass hung from a belt that encircled his waist, attached by more of that red gut used in the female’s corset.