The candles, the balloon, the straw framework-- all destroyed! Leaving nothing but dust... a dust of magnesium oxide.' He stroked his fingertip through the gray powder.
'It did not burn me,' Sir Arthur pointed out.
'It was not meant to burn you. It was meant to amaze you. Your abductors are neither malicious nor stupid.' Holmes brushed the dust from his hands. 'We were meant to imagine a craft that could fall from the sky, balance on its legs, and depart again, powered on flame, like a Chinese rocket! But it left the tracks of four legs, awkwardly spaced. I found this suspicious. Three legs, spaced regularly, would lead to more stability.'
'Very inventive, Mr. Holmes, but you fail to explain how the Martians transported me to their coracle, how the portholes sealed without a trace, how they spoke to me in my mind.'
'Sir Arthur,' Holmes said, 'are you familiar with the effects of cocaine?'
'In theory, of course,' said Sir Arthur. 'I'm a medical doctor, after all.'
'Personally familiar,' Holmes said.
'I've never had occasion to use it myself, nor to prescribe it,' Sir Arthur said. 'So, no, I am not personally familiar with the effects of cocaine.'
'I am,' Holmes said quietly. 'And you show every sign of having recently succumbed to its influence. Your eyes are glassy. Your imagination is heightened-- '
'Are you saying,' Sir Arthur said with disbelief, 'that the Martians drugged me with cocaine?'
'There are no Martians!' Holmes said, raising his voice for the first time. 'There are hoaxers, who created a clever illusion, dazzled you, drugged you, and took you to a hiding place-- a raft, no doubt, that would mimic the motions of a boat floating in the air. They disguised themselves, spoke from behind masks-- or behind a curtain!-- taking advantage of your distracted consciousness. You saw the needle yourself, the second needle that drugged you again, so they could place you where you would be safe, and soon found!'
Sir Arthur gazed at Holmes for a long moment, then chuckled softly.
'I understand,' he said softly. 'I do understand.'
'You understand that you have been tricked?' Holmes asked.
'I understand all. You need say no more. Some day, in the future, when you're persuaded of my complete goodwill, we'll have occasion to speak again.'
Sir Arthur rose, crossed the room, and opened his desk. He drew out a sheet of paper, returned, and presented the paper to Holmes.
'This is a letter of credit,' he said, 'in payment for your services. It's sufficient, I hope?'
Holmes barely glanced at the paper. 'More than sufficient,' he said. 'Most generous, I would say, from a client who believes I have been made a fool of by Martians.'
'Not at all, Mr. Holmes. I understand your reasoning. You are very subtle, sir, I admire you.'
'Then you accept-- '
'I accept your explanation as proof of my hypothesis,' Sir Arthur said. 'And I admire you beyond words.' He smiled. 'And now, we are all very tired. I must rest, and then-- to work! To introduce the
world to the wonders approaching us. I've taken the liberty of hiring a private train to return you to London. A token of my esteem.'
Speechless, Holmes rose.
'Your luggage is in the autocar. James will drive you to the station. The autocar will not misbehave, because our visitors have gone home for the moment. But-- they will return!'
Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle accompanied us to the drive, so graciously that I hardly felt we were being shown the door. I climbed into the motorcar, but Sir Arthur held Holmes back for a moment, speaking to him in a low voice, shaking his hand.
Holmes joined me, nonplussed, and James drove us away. The motorcar ran flawlessly. As we passed a field that yesterday had been a smooth swath of grain, but today was marked by a field theorem more complex than any before, we saw Robert and Little Robbie directing spectators around the crushed patterns in the field. They both had taken more care with their appearance than the previous day, and wore clothes without holes or patches.
His expression hidden in the shade of his new cap, Robert turned to watch us pass.
'Holmes-- ' I said.
Holmes gently silenced me with a gesture. He raised one hand in farewell to the farmer. Robert saluted him. A small smile played around Holmes's lips.
As soon as we were alone in the private train car, Holmes flung himself into a luxurious leather armchair and began to laugh. He laughed so hard, and so long, that I feared he was a candidate for Bedlam.
'Holmes!' I cried. 'Get hold of yourself, man!' I poured him a glass of brandy-- Napoleon, I noticed in passing.
His laughter faded slowly to an occasional chuckle, and he wiped tears from his eyes.
'That's better,' I said. 'What is so infernally funny?'
'Human beings,' Holmes said. 'Human beings, Watson, are an endless source of amusement.'
'I do not like leaving Sir Arthur with a misapprehension of events. Perhaps we should return-- seek out the raft on which he was held captive.'
'It has, no doubt, been sunk in the deepest part of the lake. We would never find it... unless we could engage the services of Mr. Verne's Captain Nemo.'
'I'm astonished that you've read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea,' I said.
'I have not. But you did, and you described it to me quite fully.' He sipped the brandy, and glanced at the glowing amber liquid in appreciation. 'Hmm. The last good year.'
I poured cognac for myself, warmed the balloon glass between my hands, and savored the sweet, intoxicating bite of its vapors. It was far too early in the day for spirits, but this one time I excused myself.
'When we return to Baker Street,' said Holmes, 'I might perhaps borrow your copy of War of the Worlds, if you would be so kind as to lend it to me.'
'I will,' I said, 'if you promise not to rip out its pages for your files. Bertie inscribed it to me personally.'
'I will guard its integrity with my life.'
I snorted. The train jerked, wheels squealing against the tracks, and gathered speed.
'What about Sir Arthur?' I asked, refusing to be put off again. 'He believes he's been visited by Martians!'
'Watson, old friend, Sir Arthur is a willing participant in the hoax.'
'You mean-- he engineered it himself? Then why engage your services?'
'An innocent, unconscious participant. He wants to believe. He has exchanged Occam's razor for Occam's kaleidoscope, complicating simple facts into explanations of impossible complexity. But he believes they are true, just as he believes spirits visit him, and Houdini possesses mediumistic powers, and I...' He started to chuckle again.
'I don't understand the purpose of this hoax!' I said, hoping to distract him before he erupted into another bout of hysteria. 'Nor who perpetrated it!' 'It is a difficult question. I despaired of solving it. I wondered if Sir Arthur wished to pit his intellect against mine. If the journalists and photographers conspired to create a story. If Constable Brown wished to draw more resources to his district-- and found he enjoyed the limelight!'
'Which of them was it, Holmes? Wait! It was the photographer-- only he has access to flash powder!'
'And an intimate knowledge of Surrey fields? No. The flash powder is easily purchased-- or purloined. It was no one you mention.'
'Then who?'
'Who benefits?'
I considered. If Sir Arthur wrote of the events, he might make a tidy sum from a book and lecture tour. But Holmes had already stated that Sir Arthur was innocent. Still, what benefited Sir Arthur would benefit his whole family...
'Not Lady Conan Doyle!' I exclaimed, aghast.
'Certainly not,' Holmes said.
'The butler? The driver? He would know how to sabotage the car-- '
'Robert Holder, Watson!' Holmes cried. 'Robert Holder! Perhaps-- indeed, certainly-- with help from James and the butler and other tenants in the neighborhood. But Robert was the mastermind, for all his rough appearance. A veritable Houdini of the countryside!' Holmes considered. 'Indeed, he used some of my own techniques. And he
