“Gentlemen, this is Jacob, John, Egerton and Berty, fellow comrades in arms and alcohol. Boys, this is John Watson, and his friend who I am not yet acquainted.”
“Sherlock Holmes, and thank you for welcoming us in to your home,” he gracefully responded.
The room of men perked up upon the name, clearly recognising it, Cyril himself turned and offered his hand to Holmes.
“I am honoured to have such a fine gentleman in my home sir!” Cyril said excitedly.
“And I thank you sir for your hospitality, however I must abruptly stop you and explain our purpose here, for it cannot wait,” Holmes replied.
“Then go on sir, for you have our full attention,” Cyril said confidently.
“England is currently under attack from a foe the likes none of us have seen before, nor would believe the existence of without seeing it with our own eyes. I therefore beg of you to take what we say under the strictest consideration and act accordingly, for proof will soon follow in a fashion which is most hideous.”
One of the men at the table, Jacob, spoke up.
“What possible threat could spark up that the militias and army could not suppress in such a short period and with ease?”
“I have no desire to make mysteries, but it is impossible at this moment in time to enter into long and complex explanations. This matter is much more urgent that you can appreciate, as you could well have a battle on your hands by morning,” Holmes said.
“Then be brief and speak up,” said Cyril.
Holmes explained as best he could, for articulating such a scenario which would both be understandable and believable at the same time would was no easy feat. Both Holmes and I believed that somehow, the villain Moriarty was turning the population against itself, turning average citizens in to blood thirsty monsters, we just did not know how.
What was quite clear was that the rapid increase in monsters suggested that new subjects were being created at a fairly regular basis. Moriarty was not in England to be doing this work and was using a scattergun approach with his use of the beasts. This pointed to the fact that the monsters themselves were somehow transforming humans into their kind, whether intentionally or not.
We had little evidence to support this theory, but it was the best we currently had. The incident on the platform in Newhaven rather did suggest that those who had been bitten by the creatures become them, or were they for some reason already becoming the beasts?
Holmes explained our journey to Switzerland and the purpose for it, whilst the card players listened intently, not knowing whether to laugh or gasp at the events being explained.
“I am rather sorry sir, but despite your fine reputation, I am finding it hard to fathom the situation, and am at odds between believing an upstanding gentleman and wondering whether you have gone quite mad,” Berty said.
Before either of us could respond to the man’s understandable questioning of our credibility, Cyril leapt in on our defence.
“As farfetched as this may sound to you and me, I would not ever doubt my friend Watson, who has never been anything but the most honest and
practical gentleman you can expect to find in this world. If he fully supports Holmes’ story, then so do I,” Cyril said.
This was exactly the sort of support I was hoping for; for few other men in the world would accept or believe the harsh realities we now faced without seeing them first hand.
“John, Holmes, you have my support, boys, who will rise to the occasion in this time of need?”
He looked around the table, all fine men, all contemplating the situation. Clearly the support of their natural leader and host was giving them cause for thought. Finally, Egerton spoke up.
“These are crazy and unbelievable events, but if you thoroughly believe what you are saying and have the support of Matthey, so shall you have mine,” he said.
Finally, Cyril was providing the anchor of support that we needed to convince such practical gentleman that we spoke the truth.
“All those willing to raise arms in support of these men and follow them, say aye,” Cyril said, as he gazed around the room, pointing his tumbler at each man in turn.
Each man, still slightly hesitantly spoke up, all agreed.
“Then let us lift one last glass to this new alliance before we must sober up and rise to the occasion!”
The men all stood, tumblers raised.
“For England and the Queen, may we be victorious!”
Glasses clashed and were as quickly emptied. Cyril thumped his glass to the table, becoming instantly more serious and determined.
“Gentleman, join me upstairs in the armoury.”
Cyril had always been a collector of all things military and had a love of both weapons past and present. We could not have hoped for a better colleague when far from home. Trundling upstairs with anticipation of not just seeing the fine collection but re-equipping, something we had desperately needed to do since leaving England. The band of us seven were walking with purpose, even if most of them were not in a fit state for war, only time could cure that. Still, I would rather have the support of drunken capable men than sober fools.
Cyril led us across the landing of his home and into a large room, bigger than the lounge we had left behind, and with a ceiling that must have been twelve feet high. Deep glass cabinets lined every wall, the glimmer of well kept wood and metal was clear for all to see. This was a man who was not just fond of his weapons, but obsessed with them. As we wandered around the room, browsing each cabinet, it was clear that a great deal of time had gone into the purchase, presentation and preservation of these fine implements, each displayed better than most museums.
At the bottom of each cabinet lay foot high drawers containing large quantitiesof ammunition for all weapons, a warming fact to the two of us that had faced the evil which these men were yet to experience.
Amongst the rather large and outstanding collection of firearms, one immediately caught my eye, a rifle I had read about but was yet to see or handle in person, the Schmidt-Rubin 1889. This was a rifle only months into military service. I was shocked to even see one in a private collection, though I should not have been, knowing the man who owned it. Noticing my interest in the fine piece Cyril moved over to open the cabinet.
“It is nice to see that you still have fine taste John,” Cyril happily said.
Opening the cabinet he handed me the Swiss repeating rifle, a truly magnificent feat of design and engineering. It was a long rifle, not really graceful, but beautiful in its concept and function, an engineering marvel. The large twelve round magazine was superior in capacity to almost every other weapon of its kind in the world. The straight pull mechanism made for rapid reloading in a mannerwhich was more natural than my British made Lee-Metford. The wood was unmarked from the factory and well polished, this was more like handling a piece of art than a weapon. Cyril handed me a box of ammunition for the rifle from the cabinet, opening it I saw the further magnificence that I had read about, copper jacketed rounds, revolutionary. The 7.5 x 53.5mm round with paper patch over the bullet was intriguing; this was a weapon that I could not resist using. Yet, I felt rude, for this was clearly a prized possession of my friend.