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10 X 8: THE MATILDA BRIGGS MYSTERY Mulder and Scully meet Holmes and Watson and help run to ground a creature that's stalking London... |
"Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson," said Holmes
in a reminiscent voice. "It was a ship which is associated with the giant
rat of
---from the papers of Dr. John H. Watson, "The Sussex Vampire"
Holmes had no need to remind me of the Matilda Briggs. Indeed,
it is a case burned in such brightness upon my memory that even now, at a
distance of many years, my hand trembles still as I put down these words—words
which shall likely never see print, for they tell a tale too extraordinary
even for those fully versed in the incredible stories I have thus far been
permitted to share with the world, of my adventures with the world's greatest
consulting detective.
It was but a fortnight before Christmas, as I disembarked
from the train onto the
As I burst from the jostling crowd, two men at the far end caught my eye, no doubt by virtue of
| For more
about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes, see
The Chronicles of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
|
the flame-red hair upon the smaller of the two, a bright spot of
colour on a gray, dreary and smoky day. They stood close together,
huddled under the eaves to escape the lightly falling snow, and I next observed
their coats, while long and dark, did not seem adequate protection from the
elements. Neither wore a hat, and almost as strange as their attire was their
behavior. They did not speak to each other but rather, each held in one hand
a small flat box that barely filled the palm. They would poke at their respective
boxes with a thumb and hold them to their ears for a moment, then shake their
heads and commence poking again.
The smaller one suddenly looked up and although I immediately
ducked behind a pillar, I fear he had seen me staring. After several seconds
I peered round and was horrified to see them both coming toward me with rather
purposeful strides. Obliged to make my apologies for being so rude, I shifted
my portmanteau to my left hand, so that my right would be free for introductions.
"Excuse me," called the redheaded gentleman and I was stunned
anew to see, at this smaller distance, and hear, from the tone of voice, that
what I had taken for a man by virtue of his trousers and short hair, was
in fact a woman. A very beautiful woman, with large blue eyes and skin like
fine
Her companion towered over her by more than a foot, and
revealed a handsome face, rather large nose, and deep brown eyes, which I
could immediately see, were alert and curious. The lady seemed somewhat agitated,
but my initial impression of him was one of good humour
and anticipation.
I bowed to them slightly. "May I be of assistance to you?"
They reached my side and both began to speak at once, stopped,
and at a nod from the lady, the gentleman continued. "We're a bit confused,"
he began, and seemed to struggle for utterance before shrugging and blurting
out, "Where are we?"
"Paddington Station," I automatically replied. They seemed
to be paying rather close attention to my clothing, and the lady continued
to scrutinise those around us. She was in turn
now attracting some attention, no doubt due to her own appearance. I realized
that I needed to remove them from this public place, or there could be trouble.
"Please," I pointed to the wall against which they had been standing. "Let
us step over here where it is quieter."
When we were once again established in the shadows, I again
attempted to offer my services. "Are you ill?" I asked the lady, although
she seemed to be the picture of health.
She shook her head. "What day is it?"
I realized they were Americans, and my own confusion took
on an edge of excitement. My initial shock at her appearance was waning somewhat,
as I had of course encountered such a strangely attired woman before—you will
recall, of course, Miss Irene Adler, who continues to occupy a position of
some elevation in the esteem of my colleague, Mr. Holmes. They must be struggling
to adjust to the change in time between their land and ours. "December 10
th," said I.
"The year?"
"1895, of course."
The lady's expression immediately paled, while the gentleman
made a sort of noise, perhaps similar to that a cat might make if you trod
upon its tail.
"Please," I gestured with my umbrella at the stationhouse
door. "You seem in need of rest. I can take you to my rooms, where there is
someone who could perhaps be of assistance to you." I let my eyes rest a
moment on each of them. "May I, Mr --?"
He seemed to recover himself somewhat, and held out his
hand. "Fox Mulder, and this is Dr. Dana Scully."
I stammered. "Fox? As in—"
"And hounds," he finished for me, with a rather charming grin.
And the lady was a doctor. How extraordinary. I couldn't help noticing her
grip, when she placed her hand in mine, was nearly as strong as his. "I am
Dr. John Watson," I told her, suddenly wanting to see a smile upon that wan
countenance. "Perhaps we will have some conversation in common."
"Wait a minute." Mulder interrupted me. "Dr.
John H. Watson, of Baker Street? No," he laughed softly. "It couldn't be."
"Why, yes, it is." I was dumbfounded. "You are familiar with my work?"
"Familiar with the work of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He seized my hand again
and began pumping it furiously. "I think it's safe to say that if it weren't
for your work, I might not be standing here." He rocked back on his heels
and looked around the station as if seeing it for the very first time. "No,
I might not."
This took me aback somewhat, for of course while my humble offerings of
my detective friend's skills had attracted some attention here at home, I
had not realized their influence had substantially spread to foreign shores.
"This is not happening," the lady murmured, in an undertone I suspect I
was not meant to hear.
"Your rooms, you said? Is that where Mr. Holmes is?"
"Of course."
Miss Scully moaned a bit, and I was now becoming somewhat concerned for
her. Again I pointed to the door.
"Let me take you to him, I insist."
Mulder reached out and clasped
Miss Scully's shoulder. "C'mon, Scully. When are we going to have another
chance like this?"
"Never, I hope." She rubbed her forehead. "Mulder
, this had better be another dream."
I listened to this odd usage of names in silence, but the lady at last eased
my concern by offering me an uncertain smile. "Thank you for your offer, Dr.
Watson. A place to rest would be nice."
"Excellent, excellent," I exclaimed, nearly babbling in my excitement. I
sensed that these two had quite a story to tell, and could easily anticipate
the eager response they would arouse in my esteemed investigative friend.
"Please, follow me."
I began to offer the lady my arm, then thought the better of it and chose instead to step slightly behind her in the hopes of protecting her against the stronger movement of the crowd without attracting too much attention to her sex. Behind me, I heard the voice of her companion as he said, with a low chuckle, "The game is afoot."
**
Strains of violin music reached our ears as I opened the door and ushered
Miss Scully inside. We were also greeted by a rather unpleasant smell, an
odorous combination of sulphur, iron shavings,
and another chemical I could not readily identify.
Mulder inhaled a deep lungful
of this as I closed the door. "Smell that, Scully? The scent of genius!"
"I'm terribly sorry," said I. "I'll have Mrs. Hudson open the window a bit."
"Mrs. Hudson!" Mulder exclaimed, with some glee.
"She's here too?"
The extent of his knowledge about myself and Mr. Holmes, coupled with their
reticence to discuss their own situation during the drive over, was beginning
to arouse both my curiousity and my alarm. But
in a moment all would become clear, of that I was certain. "This way," I said,
gesturing up the stairs after taking their coats. The material was very strange
in my hands, oddly stiff, and not readily identifiable as either wool or
oilcloth.
As we mounted the stairs, the violin music suddenly stopped, followed by
loud muttering and in a moment, Holmes, in dressing gown and slippers, threw
open the upper door.
We froze in our steps, as did he, his eyes upon Miss Scully. I fumbled for
something to say in this awkward circumstance, but as usual, Holmes saved
me by stepping back into the room and slamming the door in our faces.
Miss Scully's expression changed to one of puzzled surprise. "He won't be
a moment," I hurried to assure her. ""We can go on up."
We entered the sitting room to find it empty, the door to my friend's apartment
being closed. Mulder went immediately to the fireplace
and touched the tobacco-filled Persian slipper hanging there. "Right where
it should be," he said, turning to us with the smile of a child at Christmastime
upon his face.
I offered Miss Scully a chair and as she went to sit, the inner door opened
and Holmes strode forward as if the earlier embarrassment had never occurred.
"Who is this, Watson? Whom have you brought back from Hampshire?"
"From Paddington, actually," I hastened to note. "Mr. Fox
Mulder and Miss Dana Scully, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Miss Scully stood and offered her hand with a small nod.
Mulder stepped forward, taking my friend's hand in both of his and
making effusive greetings. "It's an honor, Mr. Holmes. Truly."
Holmes cocked an eyebrow at me and returned to perusing his companion's
face. "You are American."
"Yeah, but I have a degree from Oxford."
"Fascinating." Holmes's grey eyes sharpened at once, and he rubbed his hands
together in that peculiar way he sometimes has. "And your field of study—"
"Psychology."
Holmes registered surprise. "Ah! Pursuing the new science."
I was watching my friend closely, looking for telltale signs of the scrutiny
that so often leads him to deduce such things for himself. Seeing none, I
myself became confused, until I realized our visitors were indeed two blank
slates. There were no marks upon their hands or persons, no stains or stresses
upon their clothing, to reveal the slightest information about either their
character or their professions. Indeed, they were becoming more of an enigma
with every passing moment.
He turned his attention to Miss Scully. "And you are a scientist as well."
With horror, I realised I had
falsely introduced the young doctor, and she had been so gracious
as to neglect to correct me in front of my colleague. I should have to thank
her for that, and apologise.
Miss Scully betrayed no surprise at Holmes' deduction, other than a quick
sideways glance at her companion. "Yes. A medical doctor."
"Mmm." Holmes gestured for them to sit, and
rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson. "Tea?"
"How did you know?" Mulder demanded, his ever-present
smile broadening even more. "How could you tell she's a scientist?"
"By her extreme interest in my chemistry table, of course," Holmes gestured
vaguely in its direction. "You are welcome to a closer look," said he to the
lady.
"That's all right." She perched on the edge of her chair. "To tell you the
truth, I'm still not sure why I'm here."
"Or how," said Mulder.
I could see that Holmes' interest was aroused, and my own about to burst
forth in a plea that they tell their tale without further ado. The door opened
to admit Mrs. Hudson, who was introduced around and given the same curious,
ecstatic greeting from Mulder that my friend and
I had thus far received. After a furtive yet concentrated study of Miss Scully's
attire she then withdrew, a look of distinct consternation plain upon her
face.
"While we await our tea, suppose you tell me why you are here," said Holmes.
The two of them looked at each other from their respective seats, and I
could sense an entire conversation being carried out between them, even though
neither spoke a word until Mulder said, "We came
to England on business."
"Mulder," the lady interrupted.
His eyes upon her turned pleading. "Scully, if these guys can't keep a secret,
who can? I mean, if the King of Bohemia can trust them—"
"There is no King of Bohemia."
"I beg your pardon?" Holmes turned upon the lady a look of great inscrutability.
He extended one languid finger in the direction of her chair. "He once occupied
the very spot you are occupying now."
"Scully, you're talking to one of the greatest scientific minds of all time.
If he can't help us himself, maybe he can at least introduce us to H.G. Wells
or something."
"Mulder, this isn't funny."
"Please," interrupted my friend. "The nature of the long association which
exists between you is none of my business, but your presence in my sitting
room most certainly is. Pray, tell me your story, and know that it will never
go beyond these four walls."
At that, a look of such exquisite tenderness passed over
Mulder's face as he gazed at Miss Scully, that it quite nearly took
my breath away. Holmes exhibited no such reaction, and I realized that he
had known from the moment they entered the room, what I had only now guessed:
that there was much more than mere business between our two companions.
"It's like this—" Mulder began.
For the next hour I sat spellbound, letting my tea grow cold in my hands,
as they unfolded a tale of such fantastic proportions that it made the very
hair stand up on the back of my neck. Only one other time in my life, as we
investigated the terrifying happenings at Baskerville Hall, have I been so
aghast.
They had come to England from America last week, Mulder
explained, looking for a man he did not identify by name. While awaiting
a train at Paddington Station they had suddenly found themselves—and this
was the point at which my ears began to ring and the room to grow dim before
my eyes, for, as fabulous as what he next related might sound, I did not
for a moment doubt his veracity. There was something about them that drove
me to believe, although to this day I do not think I could put a name to
what that something was, other than the extreme forthrightness of their character.
They produced for our study the small boxes I had observed them holding
at the station, and I watched in wonder as they lit from within at the push
of a button, and emitted strange mechanical beeping noises as boxlike numbers
appeared on their surfaces as if from nowhere.
"These are telephones?" Holmes enquired, turning Mulder's
machine delicately with his long fingers.
"They won't work without the ground technology that goes with them, or I'd
call your friend at Scotland Yard," Mulder said
with a smile.
An answering smile, the first I'd seen upon my friend's face since I appeared
in our apartment with my visitors, spread across Holmes' features. "That would
be a most splendid trick. What a pity." He handed the box back to
Mulder.
"So, you have come here from the future," he said. "One-hundred and seven
years in the future, to be precise."
"Well," Mulder shifted in his chair. "I'm not
sure. I'm thinking it's more like an alternate universe, maybe."
Holmes raised one eyebrow in that amused way of his. "Alternate universe?"
"It's an interpretation of quantum theory," Miss Scully spoke up for the
first time since Mulder had begun his tale. "Not
widely believed, but it has its followers. It posits that there are, in addition
to our own world, many parallel worlds, each as real as our own. In each of
those worlds, every action taken can cause events to unfold in a different
direction, which negates the issues usually raised by the problem of time
travel proper. For example, in another universe, maybe Cromwell stayed in
power."
Holmes shuddered. "Horrible thought."
"As I said, it's only theory—a theory I'm not ready to put a great deal
of stock in—but a handful of scientists, including David Deutsch at Oxford—
our Oxford—take it quite seriously."
"And this Albert Einstein suggested its existence as well, in addition to
his Theory of Relativity that he will produce in 1901?"
"Not directly. But other physicists, Roy Kerr, for example, are basing their
work on Einstein, especially his writings on black holes."
My friend turned to Mulder. "And why would you
be inclined to choose this Alternate Universe theory over Time Travel as an
explanation for your presence here?"
Mulder looked somewhat uncomfortable.
"Well—have you ever heard of a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"
Holmes pondered this a moment. "No. I'm sure I have not."
Mulder gave a little smile.
"Then we probably shouldn't go into that right now."
A loud knock suddenly exploded from the outer door, jolting all of us in
our seats. We had been so engrossed in our conversation, that the sound of
approaching footsteps had been lost to us. Judging from the expression upon
Holmes' face, even he had been insensible to the outside world. But he recovered
himself quickly enough, and loudly bade our guest entry.
The door opened to reveal of gentleman of fine appearance, medium in height
and somewhat portly. His expression was the same as I have seen upon the faces
of many of those who have crossed our threshold, seeking my friend's assistance
and skill in some grave matter or another.
He introduced himself to us each as Mr. Jackson Barnaby, of Barnaby and
Sons Tea Trading.
"Capital," Holmes exclaimed, showing him to a chair. "We were only just
partaking of some of your most excellent brew."
"Splendid, splendid," said Barnaby, sinking into the offered chair with
an expression reflecting little pleasure in my friend's compliment.
"And how may I help you?"
Our visitor glanced around the room, taking in our small party.
"Have no fear, Barnaby. I assure you, my colleagues are people of great
discretion. You may speak to them as you would speak to me."
Barnaby twirled his walking-stick nervously in his hands. "Very well, Mr.
Holmes. One of my ships, Matilda Briggs, has only just returned from
the East Indies. Mr. Holmes, a most ghastly horror has occurred upon her boards.
If word gets out, I shall be hard-pressed to keep her in circulation."
"What seems to be the trouble?"
Our visitor leaned forward and began to speak in low, hurried tones. "On
her last voyage she lost two crewmen to a most horrible fate. Three days apart,
each was found in his bunk—" he stopped, and looked rather pointedly at Miss
Scully.
"Go on," she said softly, "there aren't too many things you can tell me
that I haven't heard before."
I opened my mouth to make reply, for while it was true she had certainly
been through an ordeal the likes of which none of us could imagine, it didn't
necessarily follow that she was fully prepared to hear a rendering of the
terrors of our world, as we undoubtedly were about to, judging from the fear
in the eyes of Barnaby. However, Holmes caught my eye above our client's bowed
head and shook his own, very slightly, thus asking me to remain silent.
"Each was found in his bunk," Barnaby continued, "horr
—horribly mauled. Their faces were quite unrecognizable. They could be identified
only by their clothing and, in one case, the tattoo upon his hand. In the
other, the presence of a tattoo was no help, as his entire hand—"
"Was missing," Miss Scully interrupted.
A gasp of surprise emitted from Barnaby, and he sat back in his chair. "Why,
yes! How on earth—"
"Any other limbs unaccounted for?" Miss Scully asked.
After a moment's gaping. Barnaby continued. "The first man's left leg was
also taken, and a most ghastly trail of blood across the floor suggested it
had been—dragged—"
"Any other damage? Organs removed?"
At this question Barnaby's face went noticeably white, and I could see some
consternation upon the countenance of my friend Mr. Holmes as well.
"Ahh, claw marks of some sort across the belly,
but that was all."
Miss Scully stood. "Let's have a look."
"Excuse me," interjected Holmes, folding his arms.
"Scully?" said Mulder.
"Hm?"
He nodded in the direction of my friend. "I think the gentleman is here
to talk with Mr. Holmes."
Miss Scully paused for a moment, then gave a small wave of her hand that
the others were to continue, and leaned against the mantle as if to wait.
"You must forgive me," Holmes offered her a kindly smile. "I enjoy getting
the facts before I begin making plans of action." He returned his attention
to Barnaby. "There were no witnesses?"
A convulsive shudder passed through the frame of Barnaby, and he once again
dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. "None to the attacks themselves, but
there have been—rumours—among the men that they
have glimpsed, in the shadows—"
"A giant rat," Mulder offered, his earlier enthusiasm
now replaced by a languid certainty that reminded me of no one so much as
my own esteemed friend who now occupied the chair to his left. "'A story for
which the world is not yet prepared.'"
Holmes cleared his throat.
He glanced at Mr. Holmes. "Sorry."
But Barnaby was shaking his head. "Most extraordinary. Yes, that is exactly
what they have claimed to see. Scuttling along the ropes, hiding amid the
barrels in the dim light of the moon, blood glistening upon its fur."
"But you have found no such creature," said Holmes.
"No. Please, Mr. Holmes. Mr.—ahhh—Miss---" he
glanced at them in turn. "Please, I beg of you—"
Holmes clapped his hands together and leaped from his chair. "As Miss Scully said—what was it Miss Scully said? 'Let's have a look.'"
**
The docks were crowded, noisy, and a most extraordinary smell hung over
them, even in the cold air of a December day. I continued in my concerns
over Miss Scully's appearance and the attention she might draw, but Holmes,
with his usual lack of compunction, merely exhorted her to button up her
long coat. With a hat borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, she would hopefully pass
unnoticed in the dim light of evening. I was honoured
to provide a bowler of my own for Mulder, and
our journey to the shore was uneventful, save for the feelings of nervous
anticipation which Barnaby's story had placed upon us all.
Mulder and Miss Scully stood
at the edge of the wharf, solemnly regarding the Matilda Briggs. Miss
Scully sighed, and shook her head in what I was coming to realize was a rather
self-deprecating fashion. "Mulder," she said in
a low voice, sounding somewhat tired. "Why is it that whenever you time-travel,
it always involves a ship?"
"Just lucky, I guess," Mulder said, reaching
out and clasping her shoulder for a moment. "You aren't going to hit me again,
are you?"
"Come, come," Holmes exclaimed, waving at the small vessel.
A few men moved about on her deck, one of them busy with mop and bucket,
but she was certainly the least-occupied ship of those awaiting embarkation.
Barnaby explained that she was due to sail in two days, but if the creature
("the rat," Mulder insisted) were not found and
disposed of, he might find himself with no crew to lead her and thus be forced
to cancel. "Surely you can understand, Mr. Holmes, the dire situation this
places me in."
"Your situation would be less dire, Barnaby, had your crew been a little
less strict in their ablutions."
A look of extreme dismay passed over Barnaby's features, and he stepped
forward. "Shall I stop them?"
"No," said Holmes. "It is too late now. Undoubtedly some traces remain,
which should present no problem to a trained eye."
We moved on board, and were led by Barnaby to the hold. There, at the top
of the ladder, he paused. "I don't know," he began, studying Miss Scully's
slight form.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," the lady exclaimed, and before anyone could detain
her, she flung herself onto the ladder and disappeared into the darkness.
Mulder gave a small grin and
followed. Holmes was next, and then myself, and we at last found ourselves
in the dank, putrid confines of the Matilda Briggs.
Miss Scully wore upon her face a look of extreme distaste, as she gazed
around the small, cramped space. "Where are they?"
"Who?" Barnaby enquired.
"The bodies."
"Heavens, no," he exclaimed, aghast. "They've been taken to the morgue."
Miss Scully frowned. "Well, then what are we doing here?"
"Perhaps I can answer that," came the smooth tones of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"In detective work, it is always wise to get as firm a grip upon 'the entire
picture,' as it were, as one can. I understand that in your capacity as a
medical doctor, you are no doubt most eager to observe the damage done to
our poor victims, but oftentimes a great deal can be learned at the scene
of the crime itself."
"You don't say," Miss Scully retorted.
"Scully," Mulder interjected.
I saw there pass between them another of those looks I had observed back
in our sitting room, this one ending in the apparently mutual decision that
they would say no more upon the subject.
My colleague seemed to take issue with this. "Am I mistaken?" he asked,
his voice suggesting to my ears alone, that feelings somewhat of an annoyed
nature might be creeping upon him. "Do the medical doctor and the psychologist
know something of detective work, of which I am not aware?"
They gazed at each other for a moment more, then both turned to Holmes.
"Nope," Mulder replied as Miss Scully shook
her head. "Not a thing." Mulder jammed his hands
into his pockets and again produced that smile to which I was already becoming
used. "I've just always wanted to chase monsters, that's all."
"Then let us do so."
For the next half-hour, I observed the three make a most minute dissection
of the ship, Mulder being the one to discover
the seemingly important fact of damage to the rigging above. They each spoke
with those crewmen aboard, who claimed to have seen nothing, save one.
He was a fellow of perhaps twenty-eight, broad of chest and cheeky of manner,
and throughout their interview he persisted in studying Miss Scully in a manner
which I, certainly, found highly distasteful.
"What, exactly, did you see?" Holmes enquired of him.
"A shadow, guv'nor, no more. A shape, all hunched-up
like, scrabblin' 'round in the barrels over there.
I 'eaded toward it and could 'ear a sort of crunching
sound, but by the time I got there it was gone. Must '
ave 'eard me comin
'."
"And this was before the crew learned of the death of Mr. Lawson?"
"Yup." He leered at Miss Scully. "I can guess what that
crunchin' sound were."
"Look here!" I blurted, but Miss Scully only met his look with a sally of
her own.
"It's too bad the victim hadn't had as much to drink as you have, or your
'shadow' might have fallen overboard and there would have been no second murder."
With that, she turned on her heel and headed for the shore. "I've seen enough.
We need to get to the morgue."
Mulder remained standing where
he was, clearly torn between following his companion and awaiting direction
from my colleague. Holmes, of course, rose graciously to the occasion.
"I agree with the lady. There is little to be done here on board. Let us
to the morgue, and see what the doctors have learned."
We were met at the doors by an orderly who considered a moment whether to
allow us entry, when his eye happened to fall upon Mr. Holmes and he made
way with many profuse apologies.
"I think it's your outfit, Scully," Mulder said
as we hurried down the dim hallway behind my friend's long-legged strides.
"We need to find you some long skirts and a corset. Get you looking like something
out of a Wharton novel."
Miss Scully betrayed no surprise at his mention of such delicate and offensive
matters as a lady's undergarments, and I wondered anew at this world from
which they had come. A barbaric place, surely, where women dressed as men
from their boots to their hair, and were treated as equal to men when all
the world knows their position is much more exalted. A strange country, indeed,
where getting messages from one to another was of such importance that they
carried a telephone with them at all times. Did no one write any more? Was
literacy dead?
We pushed through the double doors into the morgue, our nostrils assaulted
by that potent brew which keeps a cadaver ready for the grisly work of determining
the reason for its demise. I was learning to curb my instincts, and did not
interfere when Miss Scully walked immediately over to the nearest table and
drew back the sheet.
We crowded around, Barnaby alone expressing dismay and horror at what lay
before us.
It had once been a man, of that much I was sure. The claw-marks Bannister
had mentioned were much in evidence, stretching across the man's flesh like
rents in a canvas marquee. Miss Scully bent forward until her nose was only
inches away from his bloody wrist, then turned toward the cabinets on the
far wall.
"Gloves?" said she.
The question puzzled me, for although the room was chill, I would have expected
her to feel the cold outside much more than this, and yet she had said nothing.
"Mine are rather large, but you're welcome—"
"No. I mean latex. Ummm—oh, sorry. Rubber? Rubber
gloves?"
"Whatever for?" Holmes wanted to know. He had been studying the poor man's
left leg with a familiar smile that suggested to me he might already know
the solution to poor Bannister's mystery.
"I want to examine him."
"But—" I offered, striving for diplomacy. "The man is dead. Your touching
him can cause no infection."
In response, she lifted one delicate eyebrow, much in the way Holmes does
when he asks a particularly pointed question. "Not for him. For me."
"Ah." Feeling the fool, I directed the orderly to fetch a pair of gloves
from the surgery. He returned with them shortly and Miss Scully pulled them
on, flexing her fingers, an odd expression on her face.
"Trouble?" Holmes asked. "Perhaps Dr. Watson could assist."
"Nope." She picked up a probe from the tray and bent over the corpse. "They're
just a little thicker than I'm used to."
Holmes met my eye over her scarlet head. "Fascinating, is it not, Watson?
The lady knows her tools, and sets to work with all the precision of the finest
surgeon. While she works, let me ask a few questions of our friend Bannister
here."
"At your service, Mr. Holmes."
"Splendid. Tell me, while in the East Indies, did you take on any native
sailors?"
"Yes. One from the island of Sumatra, and the other a native of Jakarta."
Holmes' eyes lit up. "As I expected. Tell me of the Sumatran sailor."
Bannister frowned. "I'm afraid I cannot tell much. He is a small man, like
much of their species, with dark, untamed hair and speaks little English,
but works hard enough. My Captain had no complaints of him. Why do you ask?
Could he have smuggled some sort of animal on board?"
"Not an animal," Holmes began. "Perhaps you are not aware, that among many
of the more remote tribes upon that and several other tropic isles, the practice
of ca—"
Miss Scully lifted her head and pointed at the corpse. "Those bite marks
are human."
Holmes' mouth snapped shut, and he slowly turned to look at Miss Scully.
"I was just getting to that."
"Human!" exclaimed Barnaby.
"Great Scott," I cried. "Are you certain?"
Miss Scully pointed with her probe to the jagged flesh in question. "
Anthropophagy, the custom of eating human flesh—"
"As I was about to say," Holmes continued, "cannibalism is still quite widespread
in those areas upon which civilisation has not
become fully established. Note the claw marks upon the belly," he pointed
with a slender finger, "observe the extension of the second claw—that would
be upon a man's middle finger. The other three fall in line around it, as
they would upon a human hand, and of course the thumb would not be used in
such an instance. I don't doubt he was interrupted in the very act of seeking
the organs, and had to make do with the limbs."
"But—" exclaimed Barnaby. "What of the creature's fur?"
"You mentioned his unkempt hair."
"The claws?"
"Check his fingernails. No doubt you will find them overly long."
"And bloodstained," interjected Mulder.
Barnaby reached out a hand to steady himself against the table as Miss Scully
replaced the sheet and moved to the other victim. In a moment our fears were
confirmed, for upon his upper arm was the perfect imprint of a mouth which
even a layman could see at a glance was that of a human. Or something akin
to a human, for while I can perhaps accept the notion of
travelling through time when evidence of it appears before my eyes,
I find my pen will not deign to call human the savage who would pursue such
heretic food.
Mulder fell into step beside
me as we exited the hospital. "I don't suppose you'll be writing about this
one any time soon."
"No, I should think not."
"For which reason?" he enquired, and his chuckle brought forth an answering
one from my own lips.
"It is indeed difficult to say."
"Your friend is really something."
"As is yours."
"They make a good team." He met my eyes and again we smiled. "Well, sort
of."
I suddenly realized that I liked him very much, and was thus emboldened
to ask a question that would have likely sounded quite foolish to anyone
else. "Tell me," I began and then paused, wondering how to continue. "What
news—can you give me—of myself? And Mr. Holmes?"
"Not much," said he, ambling along in that queer, gliding way of his. "You'll
publish a lot of stories, making Mr. Holmes a very famous man. You too. In
my day, your stuff is still considered some of the finest detective fiction
ever produced."
"Fiction!"
"Bad choice of words. There will be movies, television shows, clubs all
over the Internet. A museum there on Baker Street."
"How extraordinary. What is a 'movie?'"
"Umm—" he snapped his fingers. "Kinetoscope?"
"Oh, of course. Mr. Edison's invention. But, I meant—what of us? When will
I—succumb?"
He shrugged his shoulders elegantly. "Couldn't say. For all we know, Holmes
is still a beekeeper in Sussex."
"Beekeeper!" I exclaimed.
Miss Scully suddenly turned around to face us from her position beside Holmes.
"Beekeeper?" she repeated, looking alarmed.
Mulder shook his head. "Nothing
to worry about. I was just telling him about Mr. Holmes' retirement."
Holmes stopped at the door and faced us. "I have no intention of retiring.
I tried it once, and the reaction was most violent."
"Sometimes our intentions don't account for much," said Miss Scully softly,
and she turned and pushed open the door before any of us could open it for
her.
Once back on the street, we accepted the profuse thanks of Barnaby, who
was then sent off in the direction of Scotland Yard with instructions for
Lestrade to call on Holmes, whereupon he would
be given a full report.
We hailed two cabs and placed Mulder and Miss
Scully in the first. We followed in the second. Holmes was uncharacteristically
quiet on the way home, and I found my thoughts turning, in the resulting silence,
to the thorny problem presented by our guests. If they had no idea how they
came, how could they go? Would they be doomed to live out their days in this
world so unlike their own, far from the family and friendship they undoubtedly
had in their own time?
We arrived back at 221B to find the other driver standing beside his rig,
arms akimbo and a look of extreme puzzlement on his face. Scarcely had I paid
our driver when he was upon us, waving his whip and demanding to be paid.
"Of course we shall pay you," I retorted. "But where are your passengers?"
"'Ow the 'ell should I know?" he demanded in
return, his beady eyes scrunched up in an expression of great distrust. "I
climb down off me perch and the cab is empty! They run off!"
Holmes looked startled. "Which way did they go?"
"I don't know. I never had me eyes off the cab for a bloody instant. One
moment they was there, and then they wasn't! I'll not be stiffed for my fare,
now."
I shoved some money at him, grasping to understand what he had just informed
us.
"Let us hope they returned safely," Holmes stated in a low voice.
"Is there some reason to think they might not?"
"There is always a reason, Watson. That quantum theory they spoke of sounded
like a very random thing. I suppose the most we can hope for is that the hand
of God guided them safely back, for I do not think this was a job for science."
"Not a job for science! Really, Holmes, I believe this whole affair has
left you quite rattled."
He did not contradict me, which was in itself most astonishing. "I think
you're right, Watson. Though my 'rattling' as you put it, was more the lady's
work than anything else, I would say."
I turned to gaze after the departing cab. "She was most extraordinary, wasn't
she?"
Holmes smiled. "She will be."
"I'll not tell this story any time soon. Perhaps never."
"I heard you speaking of that to Mr. Mulder."
"It is too fantastic."
"Perhaps." We passed through the door into our sitting room. Everything
was as it had been when we left, and yet it all seemed somehow changed. "But
if you ever do, be sure to give the lady her due." He laid his hand upon the
back of the chair she had so recently occupied. "Extraordinary."