Authors: Robert Ryan
Someone was coming up the tunnel to the outside world. And the moment they opened the hatch, they would see from the churned snow that he had been there.
From his table in the front corner of the working men’s café, Sherlock Holmes had a perfect view of the Knok bridge that spanned the Meuse. All he had to do was
casually wipe away the steam on the windowpane with his sleeve and there it was. The crossing was an ugly beast, he thought, practical but unlovely, with irregular and unharmonious metalwork,
hinged in the middle, supported by a four-square, plain slab of concrete that rose from mid-stream. Nobody had put any care or affection into it; he doubted those who had constructed it were
particularly proud of their handiwork or gave it a second thought.
During his coffee-fuelled shift in the café, Holmes had seen bankside activity on both sides of the span. A film crew checking angles and the light on the German side. Mrs Gregson
striding about, trying to look nonchalant and disinterested, yet clearly taking the measure of the location. With her a man he couldn’t place, but when he got out of the car to open the door,
he got a good look at him. Military, colonial, but not in uniform. One of Kell’s? What was that about? Mrs Gregson’s loyalties and affections were clear. But the man? A lover? No, they
were not familiar enough with each other. A suitor? Ah, now possibly. Was Mrs Gregson using her feminine charms on him? Shame on her! He laughed to himself, imagining her bluster when he accused
her of undermining her suffragette principles.
And what was he to make of the others who drove by three times in an hour in a Ford? Three men, one slouched in the rear as if trying to hide. Not Dutch, judging by the clothes. English, or at
least British. Civilians, but he could tell the pair in the front were servicemen in mufti, one a senior officer to the other, judging by the interactions he had witnessed.
And then there was the little tug that scooted up and down the German side of the river, back and forth, back and forth, never with a load in tow. What to make of its mindless wanderings? Or was
conjecture on that a step too far? Perhaps it had simply been a tug.
Where was Mycroft in all that activity? He was sure he would be in there somewhere. Because he would have found out that his brother had been less than forthright with him. And when he
discovered what he was planning, surely Mycroft would try to stop him sacrificing himself for his friend.
Is that what he was doing? After a fashion, he supposed. Von Bork and others would try to break him, that much was certain. But he doubted it would be purely physical coercion. That would be
counterproductive. Parading a broken, abused Holmes before the world, slack-jawed and dead-eyed, would have no currency whatsoever. They had to be cleverer than that. Which meant they had to be
cleverer than
he
.
Was this hubris? There was a time when he would have wagered his intellect against any man, saving perhaps Mycroft in his pomp. But he was well aware that his faculties had faded, although they
were sharper than they had been in those months of despair before Watson had diagnosed that there was a physical cause to his decline.
No, he was confident, but not over-confident, that he could if not best the Germans, then thwart them. And if not? He was prepared for that. Secreted about his body, in a manner that would fool
even the most fastidious of searchers, was the poison. To the casual observer it looked as if the toenails on his feet had coarsened, thickened, ridged and yellowed with age. But the nails of both
big toes were false, the cement holding them on impregnated with the poison itself. It would be like licking a stamp, albeit a rather unsavoury one, perhaps, but it would be quick and Hua, the
Chinese doctor and herbalist in Limehouse he met around the time of the ‘Twisted Lip’ adventure, had assured him it would be relatively painless. Although, as Hua admitted, he could
hardly guarantee that, and Holmes would be in no position to ask for a refund. He rather liked Hua’s sense of humour.
So, all was set. He had even clapped eyes on Von Bork, although as he had intended, the German had not recognized him. The man had filled out from the well-toned sportsman Holmes had known. But
his eyes were bright, alert and hungry. Hungry, Holmes appreciated, for revenge.
There was just one thing in this complex intermeshing of scenarios that puzzled him. One piece missing that was skewing the balance, the one that was at the very heart of all this activity.
Where on earth was Watson?
Watson scurried away from the panel as the voices approached it. He retreated seven or eight paces then flattened himself against the surface of the genuine rock face. The
snowfall was thick enough that he would be hard to spot, but the traces of his movement on the ground were unmistakable. He double-checked that the safety catch of the Luger was off.
There came the squeak of wood moving over wood. The rotating pegs that held the panel – or some such device – were being turned. The top moved outwards, while the bottom stayed in
place. A thin light spilled out from the sides of the opening and he felt horribly exposed, but he couldn’t move now.
There came the sound of heavy, forced breathing and coughing.
‘Jesus Christ, I got a faceful of that.’ Another huge intake of breath. ‘I think I’ve burned my lungs.’
‘Go outside.’
‘Are you kidding? Have you seen it out there? Bloody snowing like Christmas. We need gas masks.’
‘Ach, no we don’t, we won’t be doing this much longer. As Link said, time to shut it down. Mustn’t get too greedy.’
A bitter laugh.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t think Link knew there was such a thing as too greedy.’ Another wheeze. ‘OK, let’s get this over with.’
The panel moved again, a few inches back towards closing. ‘Give me a hand here.’
‘No, leave it. Get some fresh air in the tunnels m’be. Ma eyes are stingin’ too. We’ll close it afterwards.’
Footsteps echoed off rock walls as the pair retreated. Watson couldn’t quite believe his ears. Boxhall, the man who made the coffins and had damaged his lungs, yes. But the other? The
accent was unmistakable. Hardie, the Scottish priest, had been in on it too.
Watson spent what seemed like a long time pondering his options, but in truth there was only one. With the Luger tucked in the top of his trousers – safety back on
– he approached the wooden entrance cover and levered it open, inch by careful inch, wincing at every squeak and groan it made. Eventually he had created enough of a gap for him to step
through into the dank chill of the old mine. He pulled the panel back up to roughly where it had been, the weight of snow at the base helping keep it in position.
He looked up the tunnel. This section was lit by a string of small electric bulbs, which gave a feeble illumination. He risked switching on his torch for a few seconds and was gratified to see a
curve to the walls, which meant he was probably invisible to Boxhall and Hardie for the moment, who were up around the bend. The floor was dusty but flat and quite even. The pattern of holes and
markings suggested there had once been a narrow-gauge railway running into the hillside, but that had probably been torn up for scrap or possibly reuse in a working seam.
He turned off the torch and pocketed it, then reactivated the Luger with a flick of his thumb. Quite what he intended to do he wasn’t sure but he was aware of one thing – the death
they had in store for Cocky, if he still lived, was hideous in the extreme. He couldn’t not act with the burden of that knowledge.
You are a good man, Watson.
Or a bloody fool.
The floor rose gently as he walked and he, too, felt something attack his eyes and sinuses. His tongue tasted metal in the air and prickled when he swallowed. Watson rummaged in his pockets and
found a handkerchief, which he tied around his face, like a highwayman of old. It wasn’t much, but it helped a little.
Oh, how he wished Holmes was with him. He would not only know what was ahead but would have worked out a strategy. Watson had no plan. He would have to decide moment by moment. But how many
people were up ahead in the gloom? How many would one old man with a pistol and a limp have to face down? He paused and the chill of the mine settled around him like a damp blanket. That was when
he noticed that he was shivering. And it wasn’t entirely due to the cold.
A cough and a few words spliced from a conversation rolled slowly down the mine workings towards him, growing fuzzy and incoherent as they came. How far around that bend? Ten yards? A hundred?
Perhaps more. He had no way of judging.
Watson waited until the worst of the shivers had subsided. If this was to be his end, then it would be death in a noble cause. Not a blaze of glory, perhaps, but a blaze of gunfire.
He took a deep breath and, crouched just below the string of lights, he started forward at a determined pace. The ground rose again, taking him closer to the surface but within a hundred yards
the slope had all but disappeared. He was moving over even ground as quietly as he could manage, but, careful of his knee, he was favouring one leg slightly and dragging the other. To his ears the
rhythm of his footfall sounded like the boom of a bass drum followed by the slide of cymbals. He only hoped the men ahead were too busy to notice they had a marching band coming their way.
On his right there was a series of side-tunnels, all dark, the blackness swirling within. He wondered where they led. Deeper into the earth, no doubt, as the miners struggled to extract more and
more gold as the gilded seams near the surface petered out.
As he rounded a sharp bend the fumes became stronger and he had to press the handkerchief to his mouth, although it could do little to help with the moisture streaming from his eyes. He fought
the urge to cough and splutter. Thanks to the occasional oil lamp the light was stronger here, and ahead, their outlines blurred by his tears, he could see Boxhall and Hardie, standing at the top
of another small rise, busy admiring their handiwork. They were alone. In the wall next to him he could see the metal rungs that led up to the isolation hut, but the hatch up there was closed. If
his calculations were correct, the two men were actually standing right under the graveyard.
Watson stood fully upright, pulled down the kerchief, puffed out his chest and hailed them with a confidence he did not feel.
‘Stay where you are and put your hands up.’
The two men turned and looked at him. Neither showed any inclination to raise his arms in the air.
‘Major Watson,’ said the priest with a little laugh. ‘Now, I didn’t expect—’
‘Move that trough. Now!’
‘Which is it to be? Not move and put up our hands or move that trough?’ asked Boxhall.
The trough in question was a large porcelain vessel, around twice the size and depth of a bathtub, and fitted with wheels. Twists of vapour were rising from it, the source of the burning fumes.
It was full of sulphuric acid, a chemical used in the processing of gold. Here, though, it was positioned under one of the false graves. It was intended that Captain Peacock would come down,
straight into a solution that would do its damnedest to dissolve any evidence of him.
‘Look, Major,’ began Boxhall, ‘it’s not at all what you think—’
The gunshot sounded like a thunderclap and for a moment Watson thought he had missed. Then a large patch of the porcelain, near the base, fell away, and the acid began to gush out.
‘Jesus Christ!’ shouted Boxhall, hopping on alternate legs as the fluid flowed towards him.
Father Hardie slipped behind the trough and pushed it, propelling it down the slope towards Watson. The metal wheels rumbled as it came at him, spewing its corrosive cargo. He sidestepped it,
but his face was enveloped in the fumes from the agitated liquid and he spun into the opposite wall, blinded, as the vat crashed to a standstill, its contents still gurgling and hissing out onto
the floor of the workings.
Watson wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and blinked. ‘Hold it!’
Hardie had picked up a length of wood and had taken several steps towards him.
‘Drop that.’ A wave of the Luger. ‘Now.’
Hardie looked down at it and opened his fingers. The timber clattered onto the floor. He took a step back away from it. The standoff resumed, Watson holding the gun, the two men, weaponless,
almost daring him to fire at them. Acid hissed around Watson’s feet. He was glad, once more, of his Trenchmasters.
‘What now?’ asked Boxhall. ‘We can’t stay here all night.’
Watson didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. The fumes from the spill were even stronger now and he felt his airways burning with them. They had to move soon.
Watson did not recognize the next sound to come down the tunnel but when Lincoln-Chance strode into view from behind Hardie and Boxhall he realized the man was clapping.
‘The great Dr Watson! Come to prevent more deaths. How? By shooting everyone?’
‘You’ll hang for this,’ said Watson.
‘Possibly,’ said Link, stopping the ironic applause. ‘But just as likely we’ll all disappear with a great deal of money to our name.’
‘Hardie, you are a man of God. How can you justify this? It’s barbaric.’
Hardie’s eyes flicked to the floor. ‘I was a man of God. I want no part of a deity that could create this war.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ sneered Watson. ‘I doubt He wants any part of you.’
‘So,’ asked Link, ‘what do you propose? I really don’t believe you are going to shoot all of us? I don’t believe killing is in your character, Major.’
‘Oh, I’ve done my share.’
‘On a battlefield, perhaps. But in cold blood?’ He took a pace forward.
‘Stay where you are,’ Watson warned, extending his gun arm further.
‘Or else?’ Lincoln-Chance was level with the other two now. He brushed his fringe back into place, ever conscious of his looks. ‘And how do you propose to get the three of us
back above ground without one of us taking that weapon from you?’
‘I’ll do my best. You aren’t armed.’
‘No, but I am,’ said the voice from behind.