was able to make my way into the adjoining luggage or post rooms. My prospects for finding help in those areas were not great but the next section was the forward boiler room, where I was likely to find some very strong and hearty members of the crew. Then there was Futrelle to consider. What if he was not able to break free? I decided that he would be no worse off, and perhaps even safer if Brandon knew I was on my way to find help.
Swede was well below me, and about to step off the ladder onto the floor. I was not a young man, but I had always made time to exercise and keep healthy. After glancing upwards and seeing Futrelle in the hatchway, I let go of the ladder and jumped directly on top of Swede. He let out a startled cry and fell to the floor. I could hear the sound of his gun clanking on to the deck.
I too had fallen flat on my back and a sharp pain was penetrating my shoulder and arm. Fortunately, my legs felt fine and I was able to get to my feet. I was surprised to see that Futrelle had not moved. He was still in the hatchway, apparently under Brandon’s watchful eye. Brandon was not even calling to his companion. He apparently felt that Swede could handle any difficulties.
Brandon’s judgement proved to be correct. Swede, still on the floor, grabbed my leg just as I got to my feet. I heard the sound of metal sliding briefly along the deck and a moment later Swede was on top of me. I felt a stinging blow to the back of my head, and then drifted off into unconsciousness.
THE AFTERNOON OF SATURDAY 13 APRIL 1912
I followed the roar of the rushing water. The pathway was wet and my feet slipped as I ran. Sweat poured from my brow, yet the cold, damp air penetrated my clothing. I paused to button my coat to the collar but this was only for a moment. I continued even faster, mindful of the danger that awaited my friend.
After a time, the trail turned sharply towards the sound of the water. The path was level here and it was easier to keep my footing. I trudged along the wet ground until I reached a wooden bridge. It was there, in the mist, that I saw my friend, Sherlock Holmes, fighting hand to hand with a man dressed in a black cloak.
I stepped forward to join Holmes in the struggle but my foot broke through the planks as if they were paper. I saved myself from plunging into the falls below by grabbing the rail.
Ahead, Holmes and the cloaked figure continued their battle. For them, despite their chaotic movements, the planks held firm.
The cloaked figure raised his hand, which held a sturdy walking stick. As his arm moved back to strike a blow, his cloak fell away, uncovering the military uniform he wore underneath.
The stick swept downwards, but Holmes moved to the side and avoided what would have been a crushing blow to his head. His opponent, attempting to regain his balance, twisted around. Through the mist, I saw the face of Colonel James Moriarty. He was laughing at me, as his arms surrounded Holmes in a tight grasp.
Just then, the deck of the bridge fell through. I looked in horror as I saw my friend and the colonel, still in combat, plummet towards the raging water.
I stood there, looking down and listening to the steady roar of the falls. But then I heard another sound directly behind me — an animal. It was a deep, penetrating growl that developed a gurgling resonance as saliva filled the beast’s mouth.
I continued to look towards the falls, terrified that the slightest movement would invite an attack. Slowly, I turned my head, while grasping the end of the bridge railing. There, crouched on top of a boulder, was a beast of enormous proportions. Its black, moist coat shimmered in the faint rays of light that penetrated the mist. The hound’s eyes blazed with a yellow glow. Its huge white teeth were fully exposed behind its dripping jowls.
I tried to move, but I found that my arms and legs were frozen in place. I sensed that the creature knew this, and was waiting there, taking its time to strike. The wait was not long. With a sudden wail, it sprang forward, propelling its huge mass on to me. We crashed into the bridge rail, and then down, down towards the dark, rushing water.
I continued to fall, powerless to save myself. Suddenly, I heard someone calling my name. It was a calm voice, but not a friendly one. It repeated my name over and over again.
‘Doctor Watson, Doctor Watson... Good, I see you are coming round. I would never have forgiven myself if Swede had damaged you permanently.’
Brandon stood in front of me, holding a lamp beside his face. Swede was seated on a crate, fingering his open flask. Futrelle, sitting up and alert, was bound hand and foot. I tried to raise my arm to rub my throbbing head but discovered that I was bound as well.
We were in the ship’s hold, in an area used for storage of various odds and ends. Judging by the V shape of the room, we were in the forward-most area of the deck. I could hear a roaring sound through the heavy steel hull, as the ship cut its way through the water. Futrelle and I had been thrown on a pile of empty sacks, which were slightly moist. There was a chill in the air, and I longed for the warmth and comfort of my cabin.
‘How are you, Doctor? Is there anything I can do for you?’
I blinked, attempting to clear my vision. ‘You can call a steward. Ask him to send two aspirin and someone to untie these ropes.’
‘We will attend to the aspirin, but I am afraid I cannot help you with the other. By the way, Swede apologizes for hitting you with his gun but you should not have tried to escape.’
I turned to face my fellow prisoner. ‘How are you, Futrelle?’
‘As well as can be expected in the circumstances. I was just trying to get Brandon here to explain what this is all about. So far, no luck.’
Brandon smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll be happy to explain, although I am a bit surprised that the two of you have not been able to deduce it for yourselves.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Brandon put down the lamp and sat on a nearby crate. ‘Just that here, I have two of the most famous mystery writers of our time. Doctor Watson, you record the cases of Sherlock Holmes. And Mr Futrelle, you have your fictional detective, Professor Van Dusen, whom you call The Thinking Machine. Yet, neither of you have the slightest notion of what I have planned... But then, you have been investigating and asking a lot of questions. Perhaps you know more than you will admit to.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, doing my best to outbluff this old poker player. ‘But, for the sake of the details, pray start from the beginning.’
‘I would be glad to, Doctor. Well then, I suppose if you want me to give you the complete story, I should tell you about a boy growing up in London.
‘I had a comfortable upbringing, good parents, a fine education. I also had a great love of games — anything competitive. At the university, I excelled at football and cricket, but most of all I loved evening card games with the members of my teams. If someone outstripped me on the playing field, I knew it would not be long before I would be collecting their weekly allowance at the poker table.’
Truly, Brandon had a captive audience but I still had the freedom of protest. ‘This is all very fascinating, Brandon, but I do not see...’
‘Background, Doctor. I want you to understand today’s events in the light of what I have discovered in life. It is only then that you can understand, and perhaps accept, what is about to happen.’
‘Then please continue.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Well, life was good and I felt quite content with my studies and sport. Still, my existence appeared to lack meaning. I had no direction that would allow me to make my mark on the world. Ironically, it was a game of poker that helped me to find that direction.
‘I was playing with some of the older students and losing rather badly to a fellow named McKee. The rest of us looked on McKee as an odd sort, because he belonged to some peculiar political groups, and his bookshelves were filled with Marx, Engels and other socialist thinkers. But in his favour, he was a good card player and a congenial fellow, so we invited him into our games.
‘We were about to conclude for the night, with McKee holding most of the chips, when he offered a most interesting wager. He said he would bet all his winnings on one hand of poker. If he lost, we would recover our losses. But if he won, we would agree to accompany him to a meeting of the Marching Together League, a student socialist society. At first I refused, thinking that my evening’s losses were hardly worth diminishing my reputation,
