“Undoubtedly,” said Holmes. “And more might have died if Lady Carthon had not discovered the creature’s weakness, and warned the whole town to always keep a light on.”
“How did it know to come to Inswich at all? And why did it take so long to get here?” I asked, trying to fit the remaining pieces of the puzzle together.
“No doubt it could sense where the stone was. But it seems it was only able to travel such a great distance in total darkness,” said Holmes.
“The eclipse,” I said, finally understanding everything.
“Correct,” said Holmes.
“So what will you do with the thing?” I asked. “Turn it over to the Royal Society?”
“No, Watson. That would be too dangerous. I’m afraid this is beyond our abilities to reason, beyond science’s understanding. I think perhaps that I must drop it in some deep well, and hope to never hear from it again.”
At the Black Hart, the innkeeper was asleep in her rocking chair, quietly snoring. We went to our rooms and collected our things, then left sovereigns on the counter as payment, without disturbing the good woman.
Outside, we found our chatty driver, asleep atop his transom. Holmes nudged him awake.
“Apologies, guv,” he said. “I musta dozed off.” Recognizing us, he added with surprise, “I see you’re safely back from Carthon. Where can I take you, gentlemen?”
“To the station at Barrington, my good man,” said Holmes, flipping him a sovereign. “And an extra guinea if you get us there before the nine o’clock to London leaves.”
He eagerly jumped down from his perch, taking our bags and securing them to the rear of the open carriage as we climbed up. In a moment we were off.
“Barrington’s a nice spot,” he said. “Me mother-in-law lives there.”
He continued talking the entire length of the ride back to town, but I was too lost in my own thoughts to pay him any heed. Upon our arrival, Holmes asked him to stop at the local constabulary.
“Has some crime been committed?” the man asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “Just an unfortunate accident.”
We found the constable, a short, stout man of fifty, quietly snoring away at his desk. Once he was sufficiently recovered from the embarrassment of being found asleep at his post, Holmes related to him the episode of the previous evening, carefully omitting the more fantastic elements, substituting a rabid dog for the otherworldly beast, and ending it all by explaining that there was a body to be found at Carthon House.
We made the nine o’clock train with time to spare and settled in for the long journey home. Later that day, Holmes would make arrangements for Lady Carthon to spend time convalescing at a sanitarium outside London. The unpleasant task of notifying Mashbourne’s next of kin he left to me.
As we departed the station, I turned to see my friend fast asleep, his arms crossed, his chin resting comfortably upon his chest, his breathing slow and measured. I envied him his quietude. After what I had seen at Carthon, it would be some time before I could sleep as soundly.
The Adventure of the Voorish Sign
RICHARD A. LUPOFF
It was by far the most severe winter London had known in human memory, perhaps since the Romans had founded their settlement of Londinium nearly two millennia ago. Storms had swept down from the North Sea, cutting off the Continent and blanketing the great metropolis with thick layers of snow that were quickly blackened by the choking fumes of ten thousand charcoal braziers, turning to a treacherous coating of ice when doused with only slightly warmer peltings of sleet.
Even so, Holmes and I were snug in our quarters at 221B Baker Street. The fire had been laid, we had consumed a splendid dinner of meat pasties and red cabbage served by the ever-reliable Mrs. Hudson, and I found myself dreaming over an aged brandy and a pipe while Holmes devoted himself to his newest passion.
He had raided our slim exchequer for sufficient funds to purchase one of Mr. Emile Berliner’s new gramophones, imported by Harrods of Brompton Road. He had placed one of Mr. Berliner’s new disk recordings on the machine, advertised as a marked improvement over the traditional wax cylinders. But the sounds that emerged from the horn were neither pleasant nor tuneful to my ears. Instead they were of a weird and disquieting nature, seemingly discordant yet suggestive of strange harmonies which it would be better not to understand.
As I was about to ask Holmes to shut off the contraption, the melody came to an end and Holmes removed the needle from its groove.
Holmes pressed an upraised finger against his thin lips and sharply uttered my name. “Watson!” he repeated as I lowered my pipe. The brandy snifter had very nearly slipped from my grasp, but I was able to catch it in time to prevent a disastrous spill.
“What is it, Holmes?” I inquired.
“Listen!”
He held one hand aloft, an expression of intense concentration upon his saturnine features. He nodded toward the shuttered windows which gave out upon Baker Street.
“I hear nothing except the whistle of the wind against the eaves,” I told him.
“Listen more closely.”
I tilted my head, straining to hear whatever it was that had caught Holmes’s attention. There was a creak from below, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing, and a rapping of knuckles against solid wood, the latter sound muffled as by thin cloth.
I looked at Holmes, who pressed a long finger against his lips, indicating that silence was required. He nodded toward our door, and in a few moments I heard the tread of Mrs. Hudson ascending to our lodging. Her sturdy pace was accompanied by another, light and tentative in nature.
Holmes drew back our front door to reveal our landlady, her hand raised to knock. “Mr. Holmes!” she gasped.
“Mrs. Hudson, I see that you have brought with you Lady Fairclough of Pontefract. Will you be so kind as to permit Lady Fairclough to enter, and would you be so good as to brew a hot cup of tea for my lady. She must be suffering from her trip through this wintry night.”
Mrs. Hudson turned away and made her way down the staircase while the slim young woman who had accompanied her entered our sitting room with a series of long, graceful strides. Behind her, Mrs. Hudson had carefully placed a carpetbag valise upon the floor.
“Lady Fairclough.” Holmes addressed the newcomer. “May I introduce my associate, Dr. Watson. Of course you know who I am, which is why you have come to seek my assistance. But first, please warm yourself by the fire. Dr. Watson will fetch a bottle of brandy with which we will fortify the hot tea that Mrs. Hudson is preparing.”
The newcomer had not said a word, but her face gave proof of her astonishment that Holmes had known her identity and home without being told. She wore a stylish hat trimmed in dark fur and a carefully tailored coat with matching decorations at collar and cuffs. Her feet were covered in boots that disappeared beneath the lower hem of her coat.
I helped her off with her outer garment. By the time I had placed it in our closet, Lady Fairclough was comfortably settled in our best chair, holding slim hands toward the cheerily dancing flames. She had removed her gloves and laid them with seemingly careless precision across the wooden arm of her chair.
“Mr. Holmes,” she said in a voice that spoke equally of cultured sensitivity and barely repressed terror, “I apologize for disturbing you and Dr. Watson at this late hour, but—”
“There is no need for apologies, Lady Fairclough. On the contrary, you are to be commended for having the courage to cross the Atlantic in the midst of winter, and the captain of the steamship Murania is to be congratulated for having negotiated the crossing successfully. It is unfortunate that our customs agents delayed your disembarkation as they did, but now that you are here, perhaps you will enlighten Dr. Watson and myself as to the problem which has beset your brother, Mr. Philip Llewellyn.”