Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

Clapping thundered throughout the auditorium. Which is why I didn’t hear the shots. When I saw holes appear in a double bass, I knew Don Rafaele was displeased with this diversion from the libretto.

I shucked my burning cloak and dashed straight up the centre aisle, out through the foyer — barging past a couple of scene-shifters on sheer momentum — and out into Covent Garden, where Craigin awaited with the cab.

I tossed my mask and cowl out of the carriage as it rattled away.

Cradling the jewel-casket in my lap, I began to laugh. The sort of laugh you give out because otherwise you’d have to scream and scream.

That is how I made my debut at the Royal Opera.

XI

After such a day, with two coups to the credit, many a crook would feel entitled to a roistering celebration. It’s usually how they get nabbed. Your proud bandit swaggers into his local and buys everyone drinks. Asked how he comes to be suddenly in funds, he taps the side of his hooter and airily mentions a win on the dogs. No track in London pays out in crisp, freshly-stolen bank-notes. Every copper’s nark in the pub recalls a sick relative and dashes off into the fog to tap the plods ‘for a consideration’. So, in my case, no rest for the wicked.

However, before proceeding to the evening’s amusement, I had Craigin drive back to Conduit Street. I chalked off the latest item myself.

1: The Green Eye of the Yellow God

2: The Black Pearl of the Borgias

3: The Falcon of the Knights of St. John.

4: The Jewels of the Madonna of Naples

5: The Jewel of Seven Stars

6: The Eye of Balor

Moriarty emerged from his thinking room with sheets of paper covered in diagrams. Finding the celebrated circles and clown-smile squiggles named for the mathematician John Venn inadequate to the task, he had invented what he said — and I’ve no reason to doubt him — was an entirely new system for visually representing complex processes. He was delighted with his incomprehensible arrays of little ovals with symbols in them, stuck together by flowing lines interrupted by arrows. Indeed, the diagrams excited him more than his latest acquisition. He waved aside the casket of jewels in his eagerness to show off a form of cleverness I was incapable of making head or tail of. If he hadn’t been distracted, he might have taken steps to introduce his system to the wider world. Schoolboys destined for the dunce cap could curse him as the inventor of Moriarty Charts. As it is, Mr. Venn rests on his inky laurels.

Mrs. Halifax reported that Mad Carew was given to noisy spasms of terror. He was losing faith in the Professor’s ability to save his hide. She’d sent Lotus Lei to the basement with a sixpenny opium pipe which would cost the client seven shillings, in the hope that a puff might calm his nerves. However, at the sight of the celestial poppet, the loon took to gibbering. The brown-skin monks of Nepal have slant eyes. In the gloom of the basement, Lotus reminded him of the sect sworn to avenge the stolen eye.

“Funny thing is.” I remarked. “The chinks are about the only fanatic race we haven’t offended this week.”

“I considered adding the Sword of Genghis Khan to our shopping list,” said the Professor. “The hordes of Asia will rally to any who wield it. I know where it can be found. The Si-Fan would certainly view it falling into Western hands as sacrilege. But the tomb in Mongolia would take months to reach. For the moment, it can stay where it is.”

That was a relief. I’ve reasons for not wanting to go back to Mongolia. Under any circumstances. It’s a worse hole than Bognor Regis.

Discarded on the desk were the cartes de visite of Marshall Alaric Molina de Marnac, Don Rafaele Lupo-Ferrari and Tyrone Mountmain, Bart. A wavy Nepalese dagger lay beside them, gift of the priests of the Little Yellow God. The Creeper didn’t run to cards, but the broken-backed corpse left on our doorstep in a laundry basket probably served the same function. Runty Reg wouldn’t be at his post from now on. So, I gathered the interested parties all knew their most precious preciouses were arrayed on our sideboard.

“I trust we’ve reinforcements coming,” I said.

The Professor arched an eyebrow.

“This little lot don’t play tiddlywinks,” I continued. “Runty’s liable to be just the first casualty. Consider that stand which has just set up across the road. Feller who’s bawling ‘get-a ya tutsi-frutsi ice-a cream-a’ could be a certain opera lover dressed up in a white hat and apron. The monks soliciting alms for the poor on the corner creak under their robes. Steel jerkins and chain mail long-johns. The friends and relations of the Irishmen we handed over to the peelers this lunchtime are drunker and rowdier than usual in the Pillars of Hercules. It’ll be the Battle of Maiwand out there soon. I doubt that Mrs. Halifax standing on our doorstep looking stern will keep the blighters out long.”

Moriarty mused, making more calculations.

“Not quite yet, I think, Moran. Not quite yet. The constituent elements are volatile, but one more is required for combustion. Now, off with you to Kensington to fetch the Jewel of Seven Stars.”

He patted me warmly on the chest — a unique gesture from him, with which I was not entirely comfortable — and disappeared into his den.

As few men, I had his trust. Which was terrifying.

Outside, I found Craigin by his cab, just about to stick his tongue into an ice cornet freshly-purchased from the furious Don Rafaele.

“Don’t eat that,” I warned, dashing the cornet into the gutter. It fizzed surprisingly.

More than the usual amount of rubbish and rags were in the street. Some of the piles were shifting. I saw glittering eyes in the trash-heaps. Our original Nepalese admirers remained foremost among the array of annoyed maniacs which came along with our Crown Jewels.

I climbed into the cab, ignoring the gypsy death signs chalked on the doors, and we were away — for more larceny.

XII

The street-lamps were on, burning blue. Autumn fog gathered, swirling yellow. Craigin’s cab rattled down Kensington Palace Road, and drew up at a workman’s hut erected beside a grave-sized hole in the gutter. Signs warned of a gas-leak.

Simon Carne had watched Trelawny House all day from inside the hut. He wore another of his disguises, an old Irishman he called ‘Klimo’. Dialect humour was superfluous to the simple look-out job, but Carne was committed.

Other residences on the street had roaring stone lions flanking their driveways. Trelawny House favoured an Egyptian motif: sphinxes stood guard at the gate, the columns beside the front door were covered in hieroglyphs, and a pyramid topped the porch.

Carne gave a brief report. This evening, Margaret Trelawny was entertaining. Many carriages had come and gone, depositing well-dressed people who took care about not letting their faces be seen. Their coaches were of quality, many with black paper gummed over coats of arms on the sides. Vaguely musical sounds and rum, spicy smells emanated from the house.

“I have managed to secure an invitation,” Carne said.

He led me into the hut, where two of our associates sat on a large, purple-faced fellow who was securely bound and gagged.

“Isn’t that Henry Wilcox? The colossus of finance?”

At mention of his name, Wilcox writhed and purpled further, about to burst blood-vessels. Known for sailing close to the wind in his business and personal life, he had just capsized. I kicked him in the middle. When an opportunity to boot the goolies of capital presents itself, only a fool misses it. Karl Marx said that, and it is the only Socialist slogan which makes sense to me.

From their captive, Carne’s men had taken a gilt-edged card bearing the sign of the ram. Wilcox’s bag contained a long white robe and a golden mask with curly horns and a sheepish snout.