Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [74]
This stung me, as of course it was meant to. I said, “Where you go, Holmes, so go I. Even if it be a fool’s errand.”
“Splendid!” And he gave one of his rare laughs. “Hand me the Bradshaw, if you will.”
Although the rain had mercifully eased, it was certainly chilly enough for us to don our ulsters for our trip to St. Pancras station. With a telegram dispatched via the boot-boy, we had ample time to hail a hansom; but the traffic in the Euston Road was, as usual, a disgrace — not helped by a brewer’s dray which had shed its load, adding the pungent odor of spilled beer to the usual city stinks. I wrinkled my nose.
“Sometimes I completely sympathize with your desire to retire, Holmes,” I said.
But his mind was elsewhere. “What do you suppose this curious sleep of Professor Westen’s might be?” he asked. “‘Like a man in a nightmare’ — and we may surmise it has lasted some two days or more. Even normal sleep goes through stages, Watson, does it not?”
“Mesmerism?”
“Hypnotism, I believe it is now more commonly termed. And yet he was alone within a locked room. Watson, there is more to this than a simple theft. I feel it! But here we are at St. Pancras.”
I confess that the thrill of the chase had thus far passed me by, but Holmes was evidently in his element, so I devoted some thought to Professor Westen’s plight. Without examining the gentleman I could only make educated guesses, and as Holmes had often said, it was a capital mistake to theorize without data. Nonetheless, when we were seated in our carriage and fairly on our way I hazarded a guess.
“Opium? Or some derivative thereof?”
Holmes shook his head. “Not if the subject is still unconscious. And his physician would have detected it.”
“Then some other poison, one a provincial doctor might not have encountered?”
“Poison seems likely, I agree. Yet my mind keeps circling back to the idea of hypnotism. Yes, Watson, I do believe we have an interesting case before us.”
His sudden eagerness caught my own fancy and swept aside my original misgivings. “The game’s afoot, Holmes!” I said, with a genuine smile.
“Indeed it is, Watson,” replied my friend. “Indeed it is.”
Grantchester, in pleasant contrast to London, was bathed in brilliant sunshine. The station was deserted, although we were not the only passengers to alight. A young man in, I judged, his early thirties also disembarked, and strode purposefully towards the exit, giving us a polite nod as he passed. I touched my hat in response.
“That gentleman was a merchant seaman until a few years ago,” remarked my companion in a conversational tone.
“Indeed? What makes you draw that conclusion? He is a long way from any port of significance.”
“His gait, mainly. The sailor never quite loses that nautical roll.”
“He might’ve been a Navy man.”
“No. That nod of the head was entirely too casual.”
We emerged from the station into a pretty English country lane, just behind the ex-seaman. A pony and trap stood outside, and he was endeavouring to persuade the driver to accommodate him.
I indicated the conveyance. “I fancy that he was sent to meet us.”
“Hush,” Holmes whispered and placed a finger to his lips. “Let us hear what our sailor has to say.”
“No, sir,” the driver was telling him. “I were sent to fetch those two gentleman to t’Abbey.”
“But we are all going to the same place — oh, never mind.” He turned to face us. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. As I too am going to Grantchester Abbey, would you be so kind as to let me accompany you?”
“Do you know Professor Westen?” Holmes enquired.
“I am … a friend of the family.”
“Mr. Thomas Carnacki, if I am not mistaken,” said Holmes.
“At your service, sir,” replied the other, his face taking on a bemused expression.
I shot an astonished glance at Holmes.
“Yes, a singular coincidence, Watson. Our ‘Occult Detective’ has an interest in this as well.” Then, ignoring the ex-mariner