Sherlock Holmes: Zombies Over London by Stephen Mertz

Author:Stephen Mertz [Mertz, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Rough Edges Press
Published: 2015-08-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

As a civilian physician, I have brought new life into the world. I have many times seen life slip away before my eyes. But nothing had prepared me for my tours of duty as a field surgeon with a front-line combat regiment in Afghanistan. Combat does things to a man. After my discharge, I became a man with one foot firmly planted in the respectable civilian life of medical practitioner, blessed with a woman who wished only to love and domesticate me and bear my children.

A good life.

And yet ...

That other foot was equally rooted in a world of battle and hellfire where the naked sweat of fear and the savage thrill of survival thrived; it had swelled anew within me that night at Castle Moriarty, and those embers had now been reignited.

No wonder Mary and Holmes were so often at odds, even in their most banal encounters. Each represented my foothold in each of those opposing worlds.

The Surly Wench was a dreary little rat hole on a side street along the waterfront. Low ceiling. Rank with smoke and stale air. An atmosphere of quiet danger. A half-dozen patrons drinking, smoking. A couple of battered wooden tables, each occupied by working men conversing and sharing drinks with women whose frank manner labeled them as members of the world’s oldest profession. At either end of a bar sat a man hunched over his drink.

I sat at the bar stool midway between the two men. In the long mirror behind the bar, the reflection of a scar running across the lower face of the man seated several empty stools to my left was clear enough.

I had found Big Stan Auger.

He came as advertised. A muscular fellow of size and proportions similar to Nappy McGuire but with none of Nappy’s roughneck good humor. Big Stan had about him an aura of brooding menace.

This was not the first time I had undertaken the role of field investigator for Holmes, and my strategy generally varied depending on circumstance. There are those times when it’s best not to draw attention to oneself but rather to blend in and let the information come in piecemeal, overheard in snippets of conversation or in response to subtly phrased, innocent sounding queries. This job called for making things happen that could segue naturally into a conversation with Danielle’s boyfriend.

The fact that my appearance was of a more upper class sort than those around me seemed like something that I could work with.

A surly, mustached bartender wearing a dirty apron took his time about ambling over to me.

"Name it."

I affected my best Etonian accent.

"I believe I’ll have a glass of seltzer water. Oh, and kindly add a twist of lemon to take out the bite."

Snickers rippled around the tables behind me.

The bartender sniggered.

"Coming right up, princess."

Movement from my right.

The fellow, seated at the opposite end of the bar from Big Stan, left his bar stool. He ambled in my direction. Not quite as big as Big Stan but just as menacing because he held an ice pick.

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