“I know all that,” said Soap. “Kindly take hold of the top end. I had it giving a little.”
“Not me,” said Jim, folding his arms.
“Jim,” said John. “Do you know the way back?”
“That way.” Pooley pointed variously about.
“I see. And do you think that Soap will guide us if we do not assist him?”
“Well, I…”
“Top end,” said Soap. “I had it giving a little.”
The three men applied themselves to the lid of the glistening cylinder, and amidst much grunting, puffing, and cursing, there was a sharp click, a sudden rushing of air, and a metallic clang as the object of their efforts tumbled aside to fall upon the marble flooring of the outré construction. Three faces appeared once more over the rim of the metal sarcophagus.
The gaunt man lay corpse-like but for his gently-heaving chest; his face was placid and without expression. Then suddenly the eyelids snapped wide, the lips opened to draw in a great gulp of air and the chest rose higher than before. A cry arose from his mouth and three faces ducked away to reappear as a trinity of Chads, noses crooked above the coffin’s edge. The occupant stretched up his arms and yawned loudly. His eyes flickered wildly about. He snatched at the coffin’s side, and drew himself up.
He caught sight of the three now-cowering men, and a look of perplexity clouded his face. “What year is this?” he demanded.
Omally volunteered the information.
“Too early, you have broken the seal.”
“Told you,” said Jim. “Leave well enough alone I said. But does anybody ever listen to me, do they…?”
“Shut up,” said Soap, “and kindly give me a hand.” With the aid of Omally he helped the bemused-looking man in the dressing-gown up from the steely cylinder and into the upright position. “Are you feeling yourself now?” The tall man, as now he revealed himself to be, did not reply, but simply stood stretching his limbs and shaking his head. “Come quickly now,” said Soap. “We must take him at once to Professor Slocombe.”
The journey back was to say the very least uneventful. The gaunt man in the dressing-gown sat staring into space while Omally, under Soap’s direction, applied himself to the oars. Pooley, who had by now given up the ghost, slept soundly; his dreams full of six-horse accumulators coming up at stupendous odds and rocketing him into the super-dooper tax bracket. Of a sudden, these dreams dissolved as Omally dug him firmly in the ribs and said, “We are going up.”
They made a strange procession through Brentford’s night-time streets. The pale ghost of a man, now once more clad in a cloak and hood, leading a striking figure in a silk dressing-gown, and followed by two stumbling, drunken bums. Vile Tony Watkins who ran the Nocturnal Street Cleaning truck watched them pass, and a few swear words of his own invention slipped from between his dumb lips.
As the four men entered the sweeping tree-lined drive which swept into the Butts Estate, one lone light glowed in the distance, shining from Professor Slocombe’s ever-open French windows.
The odd party finally paused before the Professor’s garden door and Omally pressed his hand to the bolt. Through the open windows all could view the venerable scholar as he bent low over the manuscripts and priceless books. As they drew nearer he set his quill pen aside and turned to greet them.
“So,” said he, rising with difficulty from his leather chair. “Visitors at such a late hour. And to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Sorry to interrupt your work,” said Omally, who was now at the vanguard. “But we have, well, how shall I put it…?”
The tall man in the dressing-gown thrust his way past Omally and stood framed in the doorway. A broad smile suddenly broke out upon his bleak countenance. “Professor,” said he. “We meet again.”
“My word,” said the other. “This is a most pleasant if unexpected surprise.”
The tall man stepped forward and wrung the ancient’s hand between his own.
“You mean you know who he is?” asked Omally incredulously. Pooley was supporting himself upon the door-frame.
“Have you not been formally introduced?” enquired the Professor. Omally shook his head.
“Then allow me to do the honours. Soap Distant, John Omally, Jim Pooley, gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present Mr Sherlock Holmes, formerly of 22b Baker Street.”
“Your servant,” said that very man.
9
Professor Slocombe closed and bolted the long shutters upon his French windows. When his guests had seated themselves, he moved amongst them, distributing drinks and cigarettes. Sherlock Holmes lounged in a high leather-backed fireside chair and accepted a Turkish cigarette. “My thanks, Professor,” said he. “I see that you still favour the same brand.”
The Professor smiled and seated himself. “I think that we have much to speak of, Sherlock. Your arrival here, although bringing me untold joy at the pleasure of meeting once more a noble friend, is, to say the least, a little perplexing.”
Holmes drew deeply upon his cigarette and blew out a plume of light blue smoke. “It is a singular business and no mistake.”
Pooley and Omally, who had been shaking their heads in disbelief and generally making with the rumbles of suspicion, gave the thing up and slumped in their seats sipping liquor.
“It all truly began,” said Holmes, “one foggy November night back in Eighteen-ninety. The previous month had been a successful one for me, having solved the remarkable case of the Naval Treaty and been more than adequately rewarded by Lord Holdhurst. I was experiencing a brief period of inactivity and as you will recall, such spells are no good to me. My soul as ever ached for the thrill of the chase, the challenge of pitting one’s wits against some diabolic adversary, the blood coursing through the temples, the rushing of…”
“Quite so,” said Professor Slocombe. “Your enthusiasm for your work is well-recorded. Upon this particular evening, however?”
“Yes, well, Watson and I had, I recall, just partaken of one of Mrs Hudson’s most palatable tables of roast beef, and were setting towards consuming the last of a fine bottle of Vamberry’s Port, when there came a violent knocking upon our chambers’ door.”
“Probably the raven,” said Omally sarcastically.
“Do you mind?” said Professor Slocombe.
Holmes continued. “I had heard no rappings upon the front door and knowing that Mrs Hudson was below in the kitchen was put immediately upon my guard. I had many enemies at that time you must understand. I counselled Watson to open the door whilst I remained at my chair, my revolver upon my knee, covered with a napkin.”
“Exciting so far isn’t it?” said Pooley, yawning loudly.
“Riveting,” said Omally.
Holmes continued once more. “The two figures who revealed themselves upon the door’s opening were quite unlike any I have before encountered. I pride myself that I can accurately deduce the background and occupations of any man set before me, but those two left me baffled. They were tall and angular with almond-shaped eyes and oriental features. When they spoke I found their accents totally alien. Watson permitted them ingress into our rooms and although they refused both food and drink, saying that such were impossible for them, what they had to say was precise and to the point. They had come from the future, they said, naming a year well in advance of this. The world they came from was vastly different from that I inhabited, but they were adamant in offering few details. They were perplexed by a problem of utmost import which required the deductive reasoning of a mind their century did not possess. They had read in their history books of my humble exploits and felt I was the man to tackle the task. Was I willing?