Case One: The Adventure of the Centurion's Helm; Part the Second
Paper_mate_Pony
John Mason led us past a small threadbare mattress upon the floor, through a short passage and out into the main room of the stables. The roof was low, and it appeared as cavernous as the lobby. There were four horses in all, segregated to their own, simple pens. Each had a wooden feed bin—a halved barrel—and a shared trough of water. The citations for each were hung from the thick oak pillars that held the ceiling aloft, and it was therefore no issue guessing which stallion was Shoscombe’s prize winner. A deep black stallion, fifteen hands at best, nibbled at a deep pile of hay, nickering softly to the mice and the roosting owls.
“Shoscombe Prince!” Mason proudly proclaimed as we reached the furthest pen.
Holmes asked if it was admonishable to take a look at the horse from within the pen. Mason showed no contempt for him, and waved my partner through. For five minutes we watched the master at work, examining each hoof in turn. He then rifled through the hay, examining strands as a curious hound would. Mason, aware of his powers, and I remained quiet and contemplative, allowing Sherlock Holmes to continue his business. Hammersmith, however, gazed on as if he were a school boy attending a cock fight. He swooned whenever Holmes did something he had not, such as skimming the trough or cleaning out the hooves of the beast. Norberton remained quiet, curled up in his corner, contemplating his shoes.
Finally, Holmes was finished and we were led to the deep crimson patch upon the floor. “Have you touched nothing?” Holmes inquired, and Hammersmith decreed that he had not, and everything was as it had been. It was kidney shaped, roughly the size of a small child and the color of satin red turkish silk. Holmes scoured the area, a methodical repeat of his viewing of the stallion’s pen. We watched in silence, and it appeared all was normal. But, I could not help paying special attention to my friend’s manner, to purloin some suggestion of a connection to Mr Harrington's tale.
I was not one to be swayed by drunken wailings of an aging madman, but the sheer coincidence was chilling. What if such a creature did exist, and was stalking the hills at this moment? I personally thought that the old man’s narrative was full of holes, but one thing he had been very adamant of was its almost human qualities. The Hound of the Baskervilles, although not spectral nor demonic, was a living, breathing beast of the like we had never seen, so what then of the queer apparition of Mr Harrington?
He had appeared upon the cusp of sanity back in Baker Street, and although not in my field of expertise, the man exhibited the very definitions of a stress related disorder. It was not, therefore, off the cuff to assume that what he had seen was little more than an imagination losing grip of a very real situation.
Such was the position my thoughts had led me to as Sherlock Holmes rose, his face demure. “And the helm?” he asked Hammersmith, who lead us to the doors of the stable, where a battered-in Centurion’s helmet lay on its side. At this very moment, Stevens, the butler, rounded through the little door.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “A telegram has been received, addressed to your very self from the Charing Cross Telegram Office. Would you like to receive it now, or on the cessation of your investigation?”
“Why yes, thank you, Stevens. Now would be fine.” Sherlock Holmes was handed the short slip of card, and appeared to read it thrice; his keen gaze darted left and right. His face, I could see, took upon itself a whitish gloss, but his features remained demure as ever
“Gentlemen,” he announced, “It appears I must return to London at once.”
“Why, Mr Holmes, you have only just begun!” cried Hammersmith. Holmes nodded sagely in agreement.
“Indeed, but while I cannot continue this investigation, my methods surely will. Watson here can doubtlessly remain for the few days it shall take for me to sort through this slight indiscretion. Watson, what say you?”
I, of course, could not say no, but was furious with him all the same. Dr Cummings had his own practice to attend to, and on the occasions when Holmes left me unto my own devices I rarely made headway. Further still, Holmes had made it quite clear that he saw ill of Norberton, and I most certainly believed that his presence was making an impression on the baronet. But, once again, his gaze forced my hand, and I let slip a solemn nod. “Excellent! Watson, a report of your findings tomorrow morning, if you please. Stevens, would be so kind to call a cab?”
He left through the door he entered and I, for the third time in my career, was forced to become the very brilliance I endeavoured to record in these many diaries.
Hammersmith turned his eyes to me, and looked at my person through his whiskers. “Well, what do you think, Dr Watson?”
I grimaced, unsure of whether I should divulge my adolescent theories, or continue with Holmes’ examination of the Helmet.
“Perhaps a tipple, Doctor?” asked Sir Robert, still brooding in his corner. Despite our mutual disdain, he raised a fair point. I had missed lunch in favor of last minute organisation, and it was already leaning toward seven in the evening. The faces on Mason and Hammersmith agreed, as they too had been wrenched from their meals, and so we resolved to return to the stables after dinner. Sir Robert offered to host me at the villa, but I declined, claiming that it would be easier for me to dine in the very building of the crime scene. He parted ways, and left us to our humble feast. A leg of mutton roasted over the fire that warmed us from the hearth; as Mason explained, he refused to leave the stables lest some untoward happenings befall his stallion.
We ate quickly, but once the leg had been consumed, Mason turned to me with the air of a concerned friend.
“So tell me, Doctor,” he asked, lowering his voice so that only I could hear, “Why did you come? I believe I expressly mentioned that you were in danger.”
“I saw not hide nor hair of your telegram until we were an hour out of Queen’s Park station,” I answered taking a precautionary glance at Hammersmith, who had drunk himself into a stupor. “Holmes is a considerate man in some respects, but given a case like this one, one must be prepared to drop everything.”
“Well have you protection, a stick, anything?” asked Mason leaning even closer; I could smell the brandy on his breath.
I pulled the handle of Holmes’ revolver from my side pocket, and Mason nodded, before leaning right into my ear. “Watch yourself, Doctor. You may see that you find need for it before tomorrow is through. I cannot vouch for my employer’s self-control, now that Mr Holmes has disappeared. Watch yourself.”
We were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Gentlemen, you should find that it is infact eight o’clock. Shall we continue with this investigation?” came Sir Robert’s baritone through the door.
We convened by the old helmet, and I tentatively began my own examination. It appeared to been a highly polished brass ornament, fit for a head two sizes smaller than mine. The plumage was a vibrant blue color, like indian silk and had the texture of a shoe brush. The exterior, apart from the dent, revealed nothing more to my eyes, other than the wearer had most definitely receiving a kick to the head. The interior was padded using a sort of miniature downy pillow with felt bands to keep the fit snug.
Again, there was nothing to be learned. I stood up, stroking my chin like Holmes did, and felt awfully inadequate. There was no blood within the helmet, and so the dent could not have come from the killing blow. It must, therefore, have been bashed while on the ground, but why? Plus, there was obviously some form of injury involved, as a patch of blood that large could not have come from a mere gash.
“‘Sat it?” wondered the Sergeant aloud.
“Perhaps we should call it a night, Dr Watson,” inclined Norberton, who had regained his composure during the absence of Sherlock Holmes. “The pony should be left till tomorrow. The good Sergeant has flagged its position well, have you not? Quite! So, shall I accompany you to your chambers?”
I shared a glance with Mason, who regarded the offer with caution, but his solemn nod gave me the freedom to enjoy the villa’s hospitality.
“Under the condition that I sleep in the servants quarters, Sir Robert,” I demanded, but added quickly, “I don’t wish to make a fuss, I am here on business after all.”
Mason smiled at me, and with one final glance at the surroundings we made our egress.
“Remember, doctor,” Mason whispered into my ear, “keep your pistol close, he is not to be trusted.”
I nodded without looking back, and followed the baronet through the threshold of the office doorway and into the steadily declining eve.
“I hope you aren’t suspicious of me, Dr Watson,” Sir Robert wrenched the door closed behind me. “You ruined me, it is true, but I am a fair man. What I did was wrong, no? You would agree, would you not?”
I treated his conversation with suspicion, and answered him a simple nod.
“Ah hah! I thought that was the case—well, I mustn’t say that there was ever any doubt, was there? All I did was rephrase the good Mr. Holmes’ words. You see, you are quite a predictable person—no offence intended of course, just an observation. But hullo, who’s that?”
His gaze had snapped toward the thicket, and mine was soon to follow. It may have been a trick of the eyes, but I would swear I saw a figure dive below the thick scrub. My heartbeat quickened, and I could tell that apprehension had struck the baronet.
It was almost pitch black, aside from the weak light that paved the way from the stable to the chapel, and the villa beyond. With a glance at Sir Robert, I ventured into the darkness. Through the downy snow fall, I could hear his footsteps behind me. I pulled Holmes’ pistol from my pocket, and holding it in front of me, I slowed to a crawl and moved toward what seemed like a small dip in the landscape.
“Anything?” asked Norberton as I mounted the dip.
Apparently, there was not. While I could hardly see through the evening gloom, what I could make out was not indicative of the silhouette I had spotted moments before.
“Aye, well, best not to let our nerves get the better of us, Dr Watson. Come, to your quarters if you please,” Norberton stood beside me, and although his frame didn’t show it, I could tell by his voice that he was as rattled by the apparition as I.
The night was spent in abject misery. It would seem that while happy to contend with my wishes, Sir Robert could not do so without spite. The mattress I had been given was stuffed with hay, and although deep in the confines of the villa, my room rather failed to maintain warmth. I therefore spent the majority of the night finding new and imaginative ways of keeping the chill away. By eleven, I had donned every layer of clothing in my night bag; by midnight I had begun to contemplate stuffing some of the extra pockets of my Westinghouse with straw from the mattress.
But upon the forefront of my mind were the ever present curiosities surrounding this case, and how I could in anyway re-create Holmes’ methods. Doubtless, in a similar position, he would have spent the next three days in a smoky haze, allowing his mind to continue where his body and the physical world could not. But then, Holmes would have exhausted every other available course before resorting to sloth. He would not have dismissed the silhouette as an apparition, and nor should I have done. He would have fought the bitter cold to find that pony’s corpse, before having even considered taking dinner.
I leapt to my feet, a not inconsiderable feat given my attire, and bashfully threw open the door to my humble room. I rustled like an oak in autumn, and running was certainly a difficult prospect. However, I made it through the lobby without waking a soul, and brushed through the great doors into the cold once more.
It was a still night, and I found that beneath my ridiculous attire it was rather comfortable. It took much longer to find the very place now than it had been a few hours earlier, doubtlessly because it was far, far darker at present. But, as one struck across the Downs, I was certain I had re-located the very same dip in the snow. Searching through my vast bulk, Holmes’ pistol found itself in my hands, and I very cautiously neared the dip.
Suddenly a broad, male figure burst from the thicket, and waved his arms above his head. The appearance of this apparition by my side forwent any pretence of balance I may have maintained otherwise. I toppled to my rear with a yell, flinging the snout of the pistol hither and thither.
“Hold it!” I yelled in the blind hope that the figure would listen. “Hold it, I’ll shoot otherwise!”
The figure started, and it’s arms flew up to protect its face, “Ahh! No, its me! Harrington! Don’t shoot, for Christ’s sake!”
I was still trapped upon the snow, a pretty detective I had turned out! “Harrington!” I cried, “You blackguard, why are you here!”
“With me, Watson. Mr Harrington is here with me. Now, if you don’t mind, I should think it bad form if you were to shoot me with my own pistol,” a smooth tenor from the patch of black thicket I had fallen in.
“Holmes! How... why are you here! What of business from Charing Cross?” I yelled manically.
“Hush, Watson, hush. The miscreant is close, very close,” Holmes’ soothing tones calmed me somewhat, but did nought to stifle the rage that swelled within.
“Who?” I asked in a harsh whisper, flailing my arms in a hopes the action might recover some of the balance and dignity I had irretrievably lost.
“Aha, but that is the question, is it not! Mr Harrington, if you might help me accomodate my friend here—on three. One, two... and three. Ah, charming outfit Watson—now, you will recall that Stevens came to me with a telegram, regarding happenings in Charing Cross. It was doubtlessly from Billy, as I’m sure you had guessed, but it is through this telegram that Mr Harrington and I have become intertwined. But I should think It would do us both a favor to hear the full tale from the lips of the very man himself. Mr Harrington, if you would.” Holmes gestured toward our present companion.
“Aye, sir, and what a tale I have for you,” said he in a rough tenor. “There is no shame for an elderly gentleman such as myself to see the err in his ways. I was drunk, and those images were perhaps simple hyperbole. But, of course, I have not lost my mind—I am most sure of this—and I doubt my own imagination, tortured or not, is capable of such abhorrent images. I must have seen something, or likely someone, who had set my mind into a maelstrom.
“And so, I recalled a most chilling sight. Upon the train that night, there was a man, you see, who sat two rows back from myself. He was very tall and thin, and his eyes were sunk deep into the back of his head, a great bulbous white thing it was too. But, never before was there a fellow who stared through his beady little eyes with so much hatred and contempt. Nary horns nor the tail of a snake, but the devil within no less. You see, perhaps that gentleman had some connection with what I had seen that night—or so my less than sober mind theorised.
“Shoscombe Old Place is well known for its racing prestige—I remembered hearing of it from liverpool, way back when. A horse robbery perhaps? I knew of Norberton’s ill repute with his debtors—as do most, Dr Watson. A showstopper like the Prince would undoubtedly attract attention from the vile creatures of the Devil, not to mention the subsidiaries one might come upon, if they were to deal with the right person. I pondered returning to Baker street at once, of course, but my musings had already dragged me half the way to Charing Cross.
“God’s hand must have been present today, as I doubt that without it, such auspicious timing should not have been. It so happens that as I was walking through Charing Cross—for I fear my feelings for you had taken a bitter turn, I must admit—who should pass me but the very same gentleman from the train! Oh, he is not a very noticeable sort, and I believe my eyes just fell upon him. He obviously had a very good sense for these things; no sooner had I made eyes on him did he return my gaze. He stopped in the middle of the street and glared at me. Such hatred in those eyes, Mr Holmes. Yet, he smiled at me, in some twisted friendly greeting. So we stood for a moment, taking the other in. I, in my beggar’s rags, and he in a deep black frock-coat fading with age. He never blinked, nor did he fluster. Then, with a curt nod, he disappeared down a side alley—Blithen-Wells corner, or some such.
“I stood rooted on the spot, padding my forehead with my sleeves and feeling terrible emulsified. I had half a mind to chase the fellow down, until a troop of firemen came running up that very same street. I followed as best I could—this frame is as ancient as it is weak—and saw smoke billowing from the highest story of a block of offices, five high in all. How queer it is, Dr Watson, to witness a pyre burning through snow-locked eves. Men were being escorted from the flats, all of them covered in a thick veil of soot. Women shrieked and carried on, as women do, and all around a steady stream of onlookers stopped to gawk.
“I ,myself, got shouldered back, toward the far end of the growing crush, where the urchins and beggars collected.
“‘Whose offices?’ I asked aloud.
“‘Weww, sir, tha’ would be Geoffery’s, Geofferey’s and Jownses accounting furm’ said a small urchin fellow.
"I ignored the boy, but immediately knew that you must be notified—surely that bulbous-headed fellow was involved! So terribly estranged I had become, however, I lost my way completely. For hours, through the biting snow I searched for any sign of your apartment. Alas, It had well gone three by the time I reconnected with baker street, and your landlady informed me you had left hours before. But I knew where you would be headed, It must have been connected somehow, so I spent the final penny ‘pon my person on a train ticket back to Shoscombe.” He smiled, clasping his hands together in front of him.
“And so,” Holmes looked at me, “We arrive at our current situation. As you have no doubt guessed, Billy’s missive said little more than what the good Mr Harrington has witnessed. Through one of the many smiling dealings of fate, we crossed each other’s paths at the Shoscombe station, where Mr Harrington pitched his case once again, to the present effect.”
“But what of the accounting firm? Surely that is where this whole case impinges!” I stipulated.
“Upon what grounds, Watson? Do not believe, even for a moment, that these two cases are not inextricably linked. The gentleman upon the train, Watson. Very tall and thin, bulbous head, sunken eyes and perpetually ill tempered. Watson, you are my faithful boswell, surely you can remember such a striking resemblance as that!” He spoke like a man possessed, holding onto my collar.
“My dear Holmes, we have been in partnership for years, how could I possibly recall such features as those!”
“Ay, well, I suppose you never did have the pleasure of meeting the man in person. Worry not, friend Watson, you shall meet soon enough. A gentleman like he would never leave such blatant evidence, and once we catch him in the act, we are in a most favorable position to ensnare the lesser miscreant who did.”
“Holmes, you’re speaking in tongues! Who is this gentleman, and why does the description of this... elderly fellow hold so much weight to your investigation?”
“Because there is no blood sitting in yonder stables, friend Watson!” Sherlock Holmes shook his finger toward the soft glow of the stable’s window. I gave him a look of pure confusion, as if I had detected the foulest smell. He sunk his chin with a smile, “Ahh, but of course. The simplest way to explain is to show you the err of our ways. We, of course, assumed that the red patch upon the floor was blood. So, our minds immediately turned to the felled pony, yes?”
I nodded.
“Quite, but had you actually examined the poor fellow, you will have found no gash nor mangled limb. My, you came close, most certainly, but you never examined it, did you?”
“Why, Holmes I did not. How can you possibly—”
“Because, Watson, you never gave my silhouette more than perhaps a moment’s notice. If you had trusted your instinct instead of following that blackguard’s advice, you most certainly would have found this sitting below your nose.”
He pulled from the thicket a bundle of what I immediately thought was cloth. But as it fell at my feet with a thud its stubby limbs flailed. I jumped back, shocked at the sudden appearance of our miniature breed. I could see nought of its features through the dark, but rummaging through my notes, a brief estimate of it’s dimensions is not hard to conjure. Four feet from snout to rump, and from the tip of its bristly mane to its hooves I took it to stand perhaps as tall.
“Good God, Holmes, you found it!” I cried, to the reception of a violent hush.
“Indeed, as you dined with Mr Mason we climbed the fence, and Harrington and I spent the evening searching—”
“Aye, and I should swear he fits my premonition perfectly!” Mr Harrington cut through Holmes’ train of thought.
Sherlock Holmes ignored him. “—searching for this. No horrid gash across the temples, and so no head trauma. And we must ask ourselves what, indeed, has been spilled upon the floor of the stables if not blood? It is hard to see, but we need not sight for this examination—I’m bringing his mouth to you now—what do you smell, Watson?”
It was spicy and yet foul, like some rotted vegetable.
“Garlic?” I suggested.
“Arsenic, Watson. At least, in some unconventional form. Our devil must have carried it upon his person, in a powder or such, and reconstituted it over the fire on that very first evening. You will recall how I refused to allow you a tipple, Watson. Well, It was not hard to detect that very same odor in Mason’s hovel. At first I thought Norberton had some part to play, but upon examining the stain the facts lined up. Our devil must have used some form of pot or pan to dissolve his deadly mix, and my mind immediately fixated upon the tin mugs both men were using. One of those had the remnants of this deadly poison.”
I interrupted him with a wave of my hand. “You are talking as if this is a very different fellow to our arsonist from London. You mean to say there are two of them?”
The bright grin vanished from his face. “Watson, this is frustrating to no end. Please, assure me that you recognise the description of Mr Harrington here!”
I shook my head. Holmes’ chin sunk into his breast with a sigh.
“Well, you must take my word for it then. This man, this arsonist—and there is no doubt in my mind that he is both guilty of the fire and this poor fellow's passing—is a cunning fox, an eel or trout. Slippery and hidden behind the murky waters of his deceit. A master craftsman of crime. It has been long since this fellow has fought his war from the frontlines. Yet, he would not be so base, so inable of his own profession, to leave such blatant ties to himself just resting against the floor! Watson, this fellow is working with a whole army, the general of which has failed him, here at Shoscombe. Blatantly defied him, even. He shall be back to clean this general’s mess, and so we must be ready for him.” He grasped my collar again, as the spark in his eyes slowly returned.
“Holmes, I am truly sorry, but you simply aren't being logical! Firstly, what evidence do you have that suggests This 'arsonist' is even guilty? He could simply be another traveler, looking to settle his debts! Further, how do you even suggest that these cases are linked? It seems to me as though you are treating this bulbous headed man as the solution to every particular for these cases!”
Holmes sighed. "Watson, you well know that I am fond of taking liberties with you; I do not feel the need to elucidate, for I have often seen you as intellectually capable and not in need of a guiding hand. However, it seems that when you needed it most, a deeper explanation is simply something I cannot give, as I have told you everything that we need to know. This man is the solution to every particular!"
"In your eyes, perhaps. But I simply do not know a fellow alive who fits your criteria!"
“Pah, you aren’t thinking Watson. Of course there is no man alive such as this!”
His comment surely made me start.
“Pah? Holmes, listen to yourself! You mean to tell us that we have become prey to the undead?”
“Gentlemen, the case, if you please.” Mr Harrington brought his large hands down upon both our shoulders. We glared at him ruefully, and under our doubled gaze his good intentions were stayed. His hands lept off our shoulders and met in the center of his chest.
“Holmes, enough of this. You say this fellow has been poisoned by arsenic. Why?”
“I know not, Watson. These facts are all we have. This fellow here,” he motioned at the limp body of the pony, “has been poisoned by arsenic, and there is arsenic residue upon the floor of the stables and before the hearth. I believe our devil did his business by the fire upon the first evening when Mason returned to find his fire ablaze—which is also why Mason tasted garlic in his mutton—and then kept a vial of the substance upon his person. Horse thievery is a most likely cause. If he could not thieve the stallion, perhaps his potential buyers had grown cold feet,, then I believe that he decide that no one could, and wished to use his poison then. However, our fellow here must have consumed it instead, spilling much of it upon the floor there.
“Now, I do believe that Mr Harrington was right, and that this pony was infact sporting that brass Centurion’s helm. He was not, however, bucked in the head, nor did he suffer any serious trauma. The Prince had no brass filings in his iron shoes, as there should have been given the nature of the brass within the helm, so it was not Prince that killed our fellow here. So, upon consuming the poison our devil must have flung the helm to the side in a hopes to extract what he could from the mouth of our victim.
“With half of the poison in this fellow’s belly, and the other half dashed upon the floor, our miscreant must have panicked. He abandoned his pony to die in the thicket, and escaped, leaving all this manner of paraphernalia upon the floor.” Holmes completed his narrative with his normal air of certainty. Harrington was in awe of the man.
“My, it is as if you were there, Mr Holmes,” he cooed.
“Perhaps,” Holmes smiled, “but we are only half finished. The rest of this case rests upon our capture of the arsonist, who will doubtless return to remove the evidence of his compatriot’s failure. Now, I do believe he intends to leave his expedition till the brink of dawn. Until then, we must remain warm—Watson appears to have already done so—and be ever vigilant.”
Over the years I have experienced many bleak vigils following my dear friend Holmes upon his escapades. None, however, were as deadly as this one. I myself was tortured by the cold, even through my many layers, and I cannot fathom the misery of my companions. Harrington, however, was a hardy fellow, and even through his relatively thin green trench coat appeared to remain steadfast. I can only guess that he had spent more nights upon the downs of Summerset than he was comfortable to admit. Holmes had never been one to suffer, as when his body was in strife his mind was most free. Steely concentration marked his eyes as we lay in snow, waiting for dusk to come.
Holmes had brought with him an iron pan covered with an iron lid of sorts, no doubt lifted from the stables, in which he explained were coals from the fire. I can only guess how he came upon such coals, but the warmth was well received, and most likely kept us going for the rest of the night.
From across the hills, we heard the Summerset clock tower chime thrice, then four times, then five as the morning grew even darker. The warmth from the pan had begun to fade, and Holmes and Harrington were now embraced, sharing what little warmth they could muster. I was within moments of calling off the vigil, as my fears for Sherlock Holmes’ health steadily outweighed my desire to see the case through. However, I sensed excitement from Holmes, whose slow and even breathing, despite the cold, halted with a sharp sniff.
“Watson,” he whispered so softly it could have been the wind, “By the line of oaks to the left of the stable. What do you see?”
My eyes panned to the designated spot. Very slowly, a tall figure was ghost stepping through the snow.
“Aye, I see him too,” came a whisper from behind.
“Let him get closer,” Holmes whispered again, “We must make chase, in any case, but we are in no condition to prolong it—hullo, what is that, next to him, do you see?”
The silhouette couldn’t have been further than fifty yards, and yet it was almost impossible to see what Holmes had through the gloom. But there, by the figure’s thin legs was another. It trotted on all fours, and I at first assumed it to be a hound of some form. But alas, it was too linear, too proud. It trotted with a bounce unlike I have ever seen, and its head was held tall and strong, not like some bull dog with it’s snout to the ground.
“Aha! I told you there were more of them, ten in all,” reprimanded Mr Harrington from behind us.
“You mean to say—”
“Yes, Watson, yes he does. Our victim here seems to be in good company.” Holmes, for the first time in his life, sounded as shocked as I.
We waited for the fellow to close upon the stable and his pony followed him diligently. Six struck across the downs, which meant that the brink of dawn could not have been more than a few heartbeats away away, and I could see the pair of figures start slightly. The human figure surreptitiously gestured, and fractions of words wafted towards us.
“...Hammer...discor...portal...somewhe...silent...n...witnesses...”
“My God, the man is insane!” Harrington voiced our collective thoughts.
“As were you, Mr Harrington,” Holmes said with an airy tone.
The silhouette of the pony made what appeared to be some form of bow, before trotting back to the line of oaks. The fellow cast a look around before he made for the stable doors, and disappeared behind the old cobbled building.
“Now!” Holmes yelled, and we rose from our fox hole as one. I sped ahead of Holmes, whose stiff legs hindered his speed. Harrington, falling victim to his age, fell behind immediately but his heavy breathing could be heard behind us all the same. It took us but moments to reach the heavy doors of the main stable. The figure had already taken hold of his prize, grasping the Helmet behind the folds of his deep green overcoat.
From his side, his other arm levelled with us, pistol in hand. He fired thrice while dashing off toward the oak trees, and I felt one bullet come whizzing past my shoulder. From behind me, there was a cry followed by the sound of deadweight collapsing into the snow. I turned, aghast.
“No!” Holmes cried, holding his shoulder, “After him Watson! After Him!” His eyes glinted, and I knew he trusted me. Harrington came puffing toward us, he eyes dancing between my expression and Holmes’ writhing figure in the snow. “Watson!” Holmes cried once more, and I darted off, following my prey’s footsteps in the snow.
I threw my Westinghouse off, which was followed by a colorful sweater of my wife’s creation, and compounded my speed after Holmes’s would be killer. His path lead me to the oaks, and a rustle ahead told me I was close. The branches were thick and knotted, thus it took me far longer than I wish to admit. Through the receding darkness, however, our figure’s silhouette dwindled. I made chase, confidence building now that day teetered upon the horizon.
He turned back, and I could see his face properly in the early dawn light. Two beady eyes, red with rage, stabbed at me from within a sunken forehead. His pistol rose again, but as far away as I was, his shots flung wide and were of no issue to me.
He mounted the hill, and started yelling like a man possesed. “Dawn Hammer! Dawn Hammer you filthy waste, we must fly! Open it! Open it you fool! We shall lose them through the streets!”
At the time, I admit his words paid little effect to me. So concentrated was I on keeping him within reach, that the sheer irrationality of the statement surprises me, even now.
Holmes, his shoulder slung over that of Harrington’s, burst through the thicket behind me. I hesitated momentarily, just to ensure he was not to die on me. His face was far from pale. In fact, this was one of the very few occasions I have seen it livid. “Watson, don’t you dare halt for us! After him!”
I mounted the rise myself seconds after the silhouette of our miscreant, he having half bounded, half rolled, down the other side, where a very nervous pony was fidgeting, entertaining some blue lantern before him.
I should point out now, that this pony was no contemporary breed of horse. The body in the thicket was undoubtedly of the same family; four feet tall, roughly the size of a well fed Great Dane. Its pupils, however, had a most human quality. Large, perhaps the size of my fist, and a similar satin blue to its mane. Such a queer sight, but under the circumstances inappropriate to halt and stare. As the fellow eyed his master bounding down the rise, and myself hot upon his heels, I am sure I observed his eyes grow.
Then, well, the most amazing thing occurred. A large ball of blue light sprung from nowhere, so bright that it outshone the impending dawn like the sun outshines all heaven’s stars in the sky. “That’s it! That’s exactly what I saw!” cried Harrington, having also mounted the rise, burdened by Sherlock Holmes.
“Onward Watson! After the man!” he cried. We closed upon the ever growing ball, and our devil knew I was at his heels. The pony looked to be in considerable anguish, his brow having furrowed as sweat dripped from his mane, even through the frigid air.
“Dawn Hammer! Now! Through!” cried the miscreant, and the pony followed his orders without delay. I could feel the energy of the pulsating ball shift as its creator passed through. Again, had I been of any other demeanor, I would have been stunned at its very existence. Alas, Holmes’ insistence, not to mention my own growing thrill, stayed such thoughts. I was working through instinct alone.
As we neared it, I could hear fizzles and snaps as if some great electric machine was powering the whole apparition. It also became apparent that the great ball was shrinking. I could even feel heat upon my face, as if through this great orb summer itself awaited us. The miscreant’s breathing quickened in desperation and I could sense that his only present goal was to enter this great glowing orb. He was to succeed, as even though I had made gains upon him, there remained a gap yards wide.
“Follow them, doctor!” cried Harrington, whose old frame lumbered down the rise, following a now sprinting Sherlock Holmes. The miscreant entered with a desperate yelp, and I was to follow. I let go a final cry before being engulfed by the dazzling blue sphere.
It was a singularly displeasing experience. My arms entered first, but they felt miles away at the very same instant, stretched to infinity. I felt my navel ram against the back of my skull, and then it too wrung itself into microscopic pieces. I felt a cold chill move down my spine as it twisted itself between one world and the next. What I saw was irrelevant, for I believe my eyes followed my navel and weathered the journey somewhere beneath my skull. I felt the totality of time wash across my back like dew rolls off an autumn leaf, and then pool at my feet. For a single moment, I was both master and servant, everything and nothing, and I can assure that for what little time I spent between worlds, it was far, far too long.
And suddenly, reality congealed before my eyes. High, dark walls stretching toward an infinite sky. Stars dotted the space between spaces, but what different stars they were. I should think that I know my way through the night sky, but never before had I seen constellations such as these.
Time briefly passed, and my mind told me I had landed in some form of alley. Cobbles beneath me, and brick walls to both sides. A great steel container sat to the side, and appeared to be piled high with black, shimmering bags. Between the two buildings, a thin alley stretched. I spun to the left and right, thoroughly disoriented. But there, down one side past the steel box, a shadow in the yellow light. A man was running, his silhouette growing as he disappeared.
Memories of Somerset came flooding back. I gave chase, but It seemed running had become rather harder then I recalled. Left foot, then right, I remember having to tell myself. Slowly, I regained feeling in my lower extremities, and picked up speed. By the time I reached the corner, however, he had gone.
I was met by another intersection. To my left, three yards away, a large chain link fence. To my right, the exit of this bricks-and-mortar maze. Assuming that there was simply nowhere else for our fiend to turn to, I made for it. Slowing to a walk I entered a small sort of square. Edwardian houses were packed in close, and I, for a moment, believed we had been taken back in time. No lights shone through the shuttered windows, but even still, the great moon above provided ample illumination.
Above the rooftops, great ivory towers rose into the starry sky, topped by gilded domes of deep purple. Never, in all my travels, have I seen such a place. Even the clouds seemed otherworldly, thick and white, not like our wispy, thin british clouds. They could have been painted onto the night sky.
“I’ve got you now, y’two legged freak!”
I had only time to glance at a blue sphere careering toward me before getting tossed to the floor. Whatever it was, it stung like a wasp. Yet, as I was brought to the unforgiving cobbles, I noticed how light it felt in my arms.
“Hey! Lemme’ go!” it squealed at me.
“Good Lord, it speaks!” I mumbled, throwing it as far from me as I could before crawling back.
A transformation occurred before my eyes. From lightning fast ball of fur, two wings emerged, a tail of marvellous colours and a neck, sporting a head with eyes of bright cerise. It was—quite infallibly, and rather unbelievably, but wholly the truth—a small, cyan pegasus.
“Ha, yeah, try and run, you hairless freak!” and she flew at me once again. One of her hooves landed in my spleen, and another right across where I had been assailed by a jezail bullet long ago.
“Rainbow Dash, no! That’s not the one!” a second, purer voice cried, out of view.
“What!” cried the blue pegasus—whom shall now be referred to by her true name, Miss Rainbow Dash, “As if this isn’t. C’mon, Twilight, it’s not like they grow on trees!”
“Be that as it may, Dash, I think we’re mistaken. Just look at it... or smell it, even.”
“Yeah, so? It could’a just grown or something, for all we know. C’mon, give me a break, will you? You’re just sore I caught it first!” Miss Dash jeered.
I groaned in pain, the throbbing of my shoulder combining with the dull ache of my torso. Through my bleary vision, a second of these queer ponies trotted up to my captor. Through Miss Dash’s legs, which straddled me like a cage, I guessed it might be the same size, and of similar gate. This new-comer however was a dull purple color, almost that of lavender, and spoke with an air of sophistication the likes of which was not dissimilar to that of a doctor or priest.
“Rainbow Dash,” Miss Twilight Sparkle—as was her own, queer, title—reprimanded, “leave it be. Does it look like that same beast to you? Oh goodness, it's bleeding... Rainbow Dash!”
“Bleeding? Guhhh! gedditoffgedditoffgedditoff!” Miss Dash squealed, taking to the skies like a scolded hound.
I was most confused. Aside from the thankfully subsiding pain in my shoulder and chest, I felt not the searing pain of a bullet wound or gash. I doubted that through my layers of clothes her hooves could have caused me much damage. I did nothing to check for myself, however. The sheer unbelievability of the situation left me without a tongue or single coherent thought in my head.
Images of Holmes' pistol, I must admit, seeped through the haze. However, I was too shocked and too bleached to fully command my body and retrieve it from a pocket two layers down. So I instead lay there numbly, possibly teetering on unconsciousness, and through bleary eyes, watched as Miss Sparkle saw to my apparent wound.
Her soft, purple muzzle twisted my head back a forth, examining the back of my neck. A short cry followed and she darted back, thin strands of crimson trickled down her nose.
“Rainbow! Gosh, you nearly killed it!” her ears were flat against her skull.
“Did not! You saw me, I didn’t even touch its stupid neck!” Miss Dash cried, flinging her forelegs wide.
“Well how do you explain this, hmm?” accused Miss Sparkle, eyeing crimson upon her snout.
Their argument dissolved into stalemate, but I for one was glad that they, at least, had my best interests at heart. Perhaps it was this sensation of gratitude for not striking me further, or simply because I was still too shocked to move for myself that I remained motionless. Even with a most ample window to escape through I did not take it. The exchange grew ever more heated, and both females were now muzzle to muzzle, gnarling through their teeth.
“She would not condone such a... such a weak course of action.” Miss Sparkle was balancing upon the tips of her hooves.
“Yeah, well I bet she would have expected more from her best student, than to drop the most apparent lead we ever had!” Miss Dash took flight, gaining two inches on her counterpart.
Miss Sparkle made a sound like that of a wronged woman. “Fine. See if I care! Its not like we’re the only ones looking or anything! Its not like it could be completely innocent or anything! Its not like we’re going to descend to his own level, or anything!”
“Yeah, well... fine! We won’t torture it! Maybe we’ll just let it go running about, without a care in the world!” Miss Dash squeaked.
A cool, collected male tenor cleared his throat from behind. “Indeed, I should think it very wise to unhand the good doctor this instant!”
Sherlock Holmes, it appeared, could command respect wherever he went.