Gaslight Arcanum: Uncanny Tales of Sherlock Holmes

crook in the assembled masses, if only the second biggest on the street.

“Moran, do the honours of restitution.”

I was at sea. How was I to know which box went to which customer?

“Do you await a telegram from the Queen, perchance?” said Moriarty.

He was enjoying himself immensely. I wanted to kill him as badly as anyone else.

Without fuss, I took out a box.

“Ladies first,” I said, and shoved it at Margaret Trelawny. She tried to take it with the hand whose fingers wouldn’t close and it nearly fell, but then caught it with her remaining hand and clutched it to her ample chest.

“And you, big fellah,” I said, delivering a box to the Creeper. He considered it as an ape might consider a carriage clock.

“Malilella, grazie,” giving her a prize.

“The gentleman from Nepal,” to the little brown priest.

“Worthy Knight,” to the Templar.

“And you, Tyrone. Fresh from the pot at the end of the rainbow.”

Mountmain took his box.

Recipients examined their gifts and thought about trying to get into them. Suspecting trickery, not unreasonably, Tyrone handed his box to a follower and told him to open it with a cudgel.

Moriarty took a step backwards. I did too.

Eyes were on us again. I shot out a street-lamp, as a diversion, and we whipped inside. The door slammed shut. A Templar sword thudded against it, splitting wood and scratching steel.

From the hall, we heard the commotion outside.

We went back upstairs and took turns with the spy-glass. The Creeper had the wood off his box, but it was still shut. A long-fingered Camorra man worked with a set of picklocks. Tyrone’s cudgel man gave his box a good hammering.

“Let’s make it a little easier,” said the Professor.

He opened our front window a crack, sure to stay out of the line of fire, and tossed six loose keys into the street.

The brown priest was first to pick one up. And first to be disappointed. He was the new owner of the Black Pearl of the Borgias.

The Creeper, sensing this, threw his own box into the gutter and strode towards the little man, arms outstretched. Nepalese jugglers got in the giant’s way, but were tossed aside, twisted into shapes fatal even to a full-fledged fakir. Before the giant could get a grip on the pearl-clutching priest, another — larger — bundle of rags stirred. Something the acromegalic Neanderthal’s own size, red-eyed and white-furred where skin showed, barrelled across the road to protect its master. The Creeper and the mi-go locked arms in a wrestler’s grip, then rolled out of sight.

Other keys were found. Other discoveries made.

The knight was rewarded. He opened his box and actually found what he wanted. The Templar Falcon was at last restored to the Order of St. John! He was shot by a blind-drunk Irishman anyway, setting off a Fenian-Templar scrap. Cudgels against swords wasn’t an equal match, but when dynamite came into it, armor didn’t hold up. Tyrone tossed fizzing sticks at the monks, who were hampered by heavy armor and confining robes.

The Camorra pitched in with knives and garrottes. Mountmain and Don Rafaele tried to throttle each other over a prize neither of them wanted, the Jewel of Seven Stars. Malilella and Margaret Trelawny circled each other, stiletto against scimitar. Maniac Marge had surprising left-handed dexterity with the blade, but shocked the camorrista by lashing her across the face with her new, unyielding hand. Malilella responded with unkind words in Italian and a series of stabs which struck sparks off Tera’s serpent crown.

Blood ran in the gutters. It did my heart good. My nerves were back. We settled in to enjoy the show.

There were alarms and a great deal of smoke. A few fires started. Even the police would have to show up soon.

The Templars, who initially got the worst of it, threw over the hand-cart from which they had been soliciting alms to reveal one of Mr. Gatling’s mechanical guns. Evidently, the mediaeval order kept up with the times. Fire raked the pavement, throwing up chips of London stone. Irishmen, faux Egyptians, Neapolitans and Nepalese scattered. Dead bodies jittered back into a semblance of life as bullets tore into them.

Half of me wanted to be out in the street, stabbing and shooting and scything with the rest. A more cautious urge, carefully cultivated, was that I should stay well out of this. Still, it was a jolly show!

The barrel organ of death chattered for a long minute, until an asp-venom dart from an Egyptian blowpipe paralysed the gunner. Then, things quieted a little.

The fight wasn’t out of everyone, but few were in a condition to continue.

Moriarty took the speaking tube and ordered Mrs. Halifax to bring him his nightly cocoa.

I was not surprised he could sleep.

This time, he really had thrown all the pieces up in the air just to see where they’d come down.

XV

Most of the rest of it was in the newspapers. I can’t give you a thrilling first-hand account because I wasn’t there. However, here’s a run-down of the outrages.

In the next two days, fifty-seven people were murdered. Micks, wops, knights, innocent parties, Nepalese itinerants, well-regarded members of society with Masonic connections, scene-shifters, fences, fortune-hunters, policemen, a retired white hunter who set out to bag the mi-go for the Horniman Museum, and so on. Two members of the Castafiore clique fought a duel with antique pistols, and blew each other’s chests out — tricky shooting with unreliable weapons, considered a draw. A great many smiled the Italian smile. Not a few displayed the Killarney Cudgel Cavity in their skulls. Most expired from wounds unassociated with any particular region.

The ice cream parlour on Old Compton Street was destroyed by a supposed act of God. Don Rafaele returned to Naples an invalid, accompanied by Malilella — they came out of the wars with the best loot, though they didn’t get back the Jewels of the Madonna. These days, the virgin of Naples is paraded about with the Jewel of Seven Stars and the Eye of Balor. An influx of Irish and Anglo-Egyptian tourists might not let that situation continue.

The Hoxton Creeper had vitriol dashed at his chest. He was seen falling into the Thames, clutching the Templar Falcon. I knew better than to think him dead.

With the Falcon lost, reputedly in the mud with the Agra treasure, the party of the late Grand Master Alaric Molina de Marnac had to gouge out their own eyes and flagellate for six days and six nights to atone. Rumors persist that the black bird has turned up in Russia or China and the search goes on. There may be more than one flapping out on the market. The Templars aren’t the only interested party. Fat Kaspar, who had never heard of the rara avis before the Professor mentioned it, was struck queer by the curse of obsession and took off after the statue. He didn’t believe it was in the river. Another promising career ruined.

Margaret Trelawny’s house was blown up, supposedly due to a gas leak. Found barely alive in the ruins, she’s in hospital now, mummified in bandages and speaking a tongue not heard on the Earthly plane in thousands of years. The membership lists of Queen Tera’s Circle happened to be delivered to the Pall Mall Gazette with scandalous photographs. Resignations, retirements, suicides and scandal ensued.

Tyrone Mountmain expired from drinking poisoned ginger beer. His Auntie was hanged for it. There are more Mountmains, though — so the Struggle goes on. Eternally.

XVI

Early the next morning, the Professor had me roused from Lotus Lei’s bed — all that killing naturally had my blood up; and there was but one handy treatment for that — and insisted we take a promenade across the battlefield.

Conduit Street was strewn with debris. Bullet-pocks scarred walls and pavements. All the windows were broken. Don Rafaele’s stand smouldered. Other residents were appalled, and complaining. Not all the corpses had been carted off. A Templar was crucified across the doors of the Pillars of Hercules. A pile of rags lay on our front step, brown hands outstretched and empty. A policeman — one of ‘ours’ — shooed away busybodies.

The street was full of trash.