Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin

Author:P.C. Martin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: nautilus, sherlock holmes mystery detective montana history tammany marcus daly anaconda mining, verne, steampunk, steampunk new zealand adventure mystery gadgets mystical ministry of peculiar occurrences, jules verne, steampunk crime adventure, steampunk sciencefiction fantasy, sherlock, steampunk clockpunk alternate history fantasy science fiction sf sci fi victorian, sherlock holmes
Publisher: P.C. Martin

Chapter Five

Our ride through the darkened streets of London was rather a long one, fraught with all the customary dangers occasioned by Holmes' seemingly maniacal aversion to caution in his driving. Arriving in east Kent without mishap, we wended through tumbledown alleys and dark streets lined with deserted warehouses, in the direction of the river.

Presently Holmes slowed the Widowmak'r, and switched off the first stage of the motor, until the sound of the powerful twin cylinders died down, and we continued on in near silence, crawling to a halt at last in an alley as unwholesome as it was dark. A shadowy figure emerged and accosted the Widowmak'r on Holmes' side. I stiffened and braced myself in case of an attack, but Holmes, not in the least alarmed, dismounted and motioned to me to do likewise.

When I had extricated myself, Holmes whispered, “Wait here one moment, Watson, I shan't be long.” And, accompanied by the slight fellow who had met us upon our arrival, he guided the Widow into an unlit shed across the narrow alley.

I waited in silence for Holmes' return, stamping my feet against the damp chill, while the particularly foul pong in the air, like that of stale grease mingled with mold and rotten fish, made my nostrils curl in disgust. Holmes emerged presently and, taking my elbow, led me back down the alley, around the corner of a wooden building which appeared to be in the last stages of decay, and came to a stop before a nondescript door set in a squat brick building. Holmes knocked briskly with his cane.

The door opened, letting out a gush of harsh yellow light over the gray and black stones at our feet, and a surly keeper peered around the door suspiciously. He looked my companion and me up and down, and relented at last with a reluctant,

“Evening, Cap'n Basil, sir.”

“An' good-evening to you, too, my good man,” replied Holmes briskly in a guttural twang, exhibiting no surprise at the man's address. “Might I beg a table for my friend and myself? I assure you we would be no end grateful to exchange the raw damp of this evening for a few pints of your choice bitter.”

“Right, Cap'n, sir; this way, then.” The massive fellow bowed in a grotesque attempt at ceremoniousness, and shut out the cold air to our backs. While he was thus employed, I turned towards my companion, and suppressed with some difficulty an exclamation of surprise. For in the gas-lit passageway Holmes was utterly unrecognizable as the lean, ascetic consulting detective I knew so well. Indeed, his appearance was so altered, I believe I might have passed him by on the street without knowing him. It was not so much his actual features that were changed, except that he wore a captain's bonnet, a patch slung over one eye, and the neckerchief and collar of a sailor's pea jacket peeped out from his overcoat; his entire manner and bearing had become that of a stern, hardy young sea-captain, confident in his command, lacking neither in courage nor audacity.

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