Holmes nodded, and went back to staring into the fire.
I left in the early morning to fulfill an obligation to a sick friend. When I returned Holmes was scarcely in any better spirits. I found him on the doorstep, delivering instructions to a group of urchins who were gathered around him as he distributed pennies.
As I entered I saw Mrs. Hudson packing cleaning materials back into the cupboard.
“Please Doctor. Can you not get him to settle? He’ll be the death of me with all this commotion.”
Holmes seemed oblivious to his landlady’s protestations.
“We must be vigilant,” he said, as we once more sat by the fire. “As a doctor you well know the dangers of contagion re-emerging after a period of dormancy.”
I saw that a black mood had descended on my friend, one that only action might shift, but there was no news forthcoming. In the late afternoon I went to stoke the fire. I searched for the old pair of bellows I customarily used, but they were nowhere to be found, and Holmes merely smiled at my mention of them.
We sat in conversation as darkness started to fall once again, our discussions ranging wildly with much speculation as to the nature of the green organism. Despite our intellects, we were unable to come to any firm conclusions. And I disagreed vehemently with one proffered by Holmes.
“I suspect a rudimentary intelligence is at work,” Holmes said. “That much was obvious in the way you yourself were lured into the trap.”
I tried to argue the case for instinct, citing many examples in the animal world of trap setting, but by then Holmes was once again deep in thought. I contented myself with a fresh pipe of tobacco as I made some notes on the progress of the case so far.
Matters came to a head in the late evening.
“My eyes and ears are ready for anything out of the usual,” Holmes had said.
The news brought by the urchin who came to the door certainly qualified as
“It is on a boat?” he asked, even before the child had spoken.
The child smiled, showing more gaps than teeth.
“That it is Mr. Holmes sir. ‘Tis down at Vauxhall Bridge. They say ‘tis a
Holmes gave the lad a thrupenny bit and sent him on his way. I was dispatched to find a cab. Holmes himself went back inside and returned wearing a heavy coat. It seemed to bulge at the back, as if he carried something bulky underneath, but I knew from experience not to ask until he was ready for his revelation.
I only asked one question on the trip down to Vauxhall.
“How did you know about the boat Holmes?”
He smiled thinly.
“The boy had fresh pitch on his fingers. I smelled it even before I saw it. There is only one place you find tar of that sort — on the deck of a boat.”
He said no more as we bounced through the city, rattling like peas inside the cab. Holmes had requested speed and offered extra payment. The driver did not disappoint and had us at Vauxhall in record time, if a little shaken.
A small crowd had gathered on the bridge, looking down at a moored boat. Despite the fact it was not quite yet full dark, the luminescence was immediately apparent, a dancing green light that ran up the masts and along the rigging of the schooner. The gathered watchers had the good sense to stay well back.
The same could not be said of the two policemen down on the dock itself. Holmes shouted a warning, but they took no heed, stepping onto the boat while we were as yet too far away to go to their aid. By the time Holmes and I descended the steps to the dock the policemen had already gone aboard and disappeared down into the hold.
Holmes was in no mood to wait. He ran down the steps and I was hard pressed to keep up with him as he jumped on board the boat. I joined him at the hatchway leading to the hold. I realized we were already inside the glow of the luminescence, but I felt none of the compulsion I had undergone earlier. Nevertheless my heart beat a little faster as we went down in to the bowels of the vessel.
Screams rose from beneath us. Holmes shed his overcoat. I stood behind him so was not able to see the full scope of the apparatus, but he carried two metal tanks on his back, secured at the shoulders with thick canvas straps. The tanks looked heavy, but did not slow Holmes as he descended the steep steps to the hold. Saying a silent prayer I followed close behind.
At first it seemed we stood in impenetrable darkness but as my eyes adjusted I began to make out shape and shadow around us. The screams we had followed had already faded, replaced by the sound of piteous weeping to our left. I could make out Holmes ahead of me as we moved towards the wails.
We were too late to do anything for the poor policemen. One lay dead, green foam at lips and ears. The other would be following him soon. Most of his chest was a bubbling ruin. He tried to speak but green fluid poured from his mouth and even as I bent to his aid he fell back, eyes wide, staring, unseeing.
I realized I could see Holmes’ face, his pale features seemingly behind a green mask. I turned to see the source of this new light. The entire far end of the hold was an aurora, sickly green shot through with an oily sheen, which cast rainbows before it. Under other circumstances it might even be called beautiful.
Below the swirling lights lay a darker patch that seemed to
Holmes walked forward towards it. I saw he held his fire-bellows in hand. A soft hose led to the tank on his back. He pushed the bellows together and sent a spray of liquid ahead of him. I smelled bleach. The shimmering light flared then faded and the dark green mass retreated.
Holmes kept walking, close enough to reach out towards the green luminescence.
“Careful, Holmes,” I called.
“I must know,” he said, almost a whisper. “Is it an invader, or a missionary?”
Before I could stop him he stepped inside the glow. I was about to step up beside him, but he raised a hand. I heard his voice as if from a great distance.
“Stay back Watson,” he said. “This won’t take but a minute.”
The dancing light played around him and the green carpet at his feet seethed, but still Holmes stood perfectly still. I saw him reach forward with his free hand and play it through the light. A new rainbow followed his movements.
“Fascinating,” I heard him say, then he went completely quiet. The slime at his feet started to creep again, moving towards Holmes. He showed no sign of trying to avoid or avert it. I moved to one side to look at his face. He had a glazed, far off look, lost in reverie.
He had fallen into its snare.
With a yell I leapt forward, just as the slime surged. As he had done for me, I placed a hand on his shoulder. At once the spell was broken … and just in time. The light flared so bright as to be almost blinding. At the same moment the slime surged, again a wave flowing over Holmes’ feet and ankles. He pushed at the bellows, twice, spraying bleach around us. Once again I heard the high fluting screams, deafening in the confines of the hold, as pustules formed and burst all across the creeping carpet.
The slime retreated.
I pulled at Holmes’ shoulder.
“Quick Holmes, let us beat a retreat before it returns.”
“Not yet, Watson, there is something at the heart of this that bends its will against us. I would rather like to have a look at it.”
He projected more bleach in the direction of the slime and it fell back.
It was darker now, the luminescence having shrunk and faded until it ran in a layer less than an inch thick over the surface of the rolling slime. We followed its retreat across the hold until we stood before the burst and broken barrels. The remains of the slime had retreated to the shelter of a curved section that seemed nearly intact.
Holmes motioned me forward and we peered into the gloom.
