Sherlock Holmes and the Swedish Enigma by Barry Grant

Author:Barry Grant [Barry Grant]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2012-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

Up From London’s Depths

Sherlock Holmes stepped off the grave mound on which he had been standing. He extended his slender hand. I shook it – amazed, as always, at the sinewy strength of it.

‘You cannot imagine how glad I am to see you,’ said I. ‘I have written report after report, made call after call, and you have responded with silence. Thank god you are all right.’

‘I hit a streak of bad luck, Wilson – my apologies. I lost my mobile phone in a storm sewer in Tottenham Court Road four days ago.’ He flung his hand in the air, in impatience. ‘Carelessness, pure careless! I was improvising a streetside drama involving soft-drink cans. I became overzealous, carried away – I confess it – by my own histrionics. I heard a beep. And the little silvery thing winked away into the gloom, not even touching the grate . . . and was gone.’

‘So for the last four days I’ve been texting the sewer,’ I said.

‘Alas,’ said Holmes, ‘that is true. And I was nowhere near a computer until late Sunday evening. Only then did I read your reports.’

A crow squawked raucously in a tree high overhead.

Another crow answered. The dusk was thick.

‘But why this masquerade, Holmes? That looks like the coat of Dr Cluj.’

‘It is,’ said he. ‘I have had some adventures, Wilson. Curious adventures.’

‘Stomping on a grave seems an adventure in itself.’

‘Come have a look.’

He led me to the grave where I had first seen him. The lichen-covered headstone, once doubtless the pride of a stonecutter, was now so misshapen by time and weather that it looked like something crudely hacked from granite with a flint chisel. The grave plot itself was outlined with a rectangular frame of moss-covered stone. Lying flat on the top of the mounded rectangle was a large cross of stone, also encrusted with moss. Holmes kicked at the cross.

‘Good heavens, Holmes!’ I cried.

His behaviour seemed a bit outré, even for him. I knew he was a sceptic with regard to religion, of course. But there are limits.

‘Never fear, Wilson!’ said he. ‘The gods will not be offended.’

‘You should say God, Holmes. This is not a Greek temple.’

‘It’s stuck.’ He kicked again. He stooped, pushed the small arm of the cross. He slipped his fingers under the edge, he lifted with both hands . . . a trap door in the top of the grave opened up. ‘Come look,’ he said.

I stepped forward with a feeling of revulsion, reluctant to look upon whatever loathsome sight awaited.

‘What do you think of that!’ cried Holmes.

I peered into the dim cavity. I couldn’t get a grip. I had trouble believing. ‘I’m stunned,’ I said.

‘You should be,’ he said.

‘Electrical switches?’ I said.

‘Precisely,’ he replied. ‘Instruments of torture, Wilson. They control the flow of electricity through the buried wire that encircles the hamlet. This is how Cluj keeps his victims at Kittle Mill with no likelihood of their slipping away. He fits them each with a collar which he assures them is a medical device to monitor their vital functions.

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