The Baker Street Translation by Michael Robertson

Author:Michael Robertson
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

21

Robert Buxton was conscious again.

The same stench from before was in his nostrils. He felt like it was permeating his sinuses; he was sure he would never get it out of his head. But this time, it was the voice that woke him. Still the most annoying voice he had ever heard.

“You are still alive, Mr. Buxton. You may wonder, given what you see and smell around you. Imagine, if you dare, what it is like to spend every waking day for years in such a place. But you are still alive, at least. For the moment. If Ms. Laura Rankin brings us the letters on time, perhaps you will stay that way.”

“What letters?”

“You bloody well know, Mr. Buxton.”

Buxton tried to think. He did not bloody well know.

His vision was clearing more than his head was, or at least that’s how it felt, but even so, he got only a general impression of the man’s face: very pale, and just barely illuminated by a single electric lantern several feet away.

The letters. Buxton tried to think.

“Hell,” he said after a moment. “You mean the letters to Sherlock Holmes?”

The pale-faced man just stared back at him.

“This is about the bequest, isn’t it?” said Buxton. “Are you from the States? You don’t sound like it. But if this is about that will—hell, that was just a joke. It didn’t mean anything. I was just playing a prank on Heath. That’s all it was. You sure as hell didn’t need to bring me here over that.”

The pale man still just stared and said nothing for a moment.

Then he said, “Is Ms. Rankin smarter than you? You may hope so. If she isn’t, you’ll never get out of here.”

“And just where the hell am I?” asked Buxton.

“You are about fifty meters north of the Albert Memorial. Several meters below a park that used to be a private hunting reserve for kings who would shoot deer for sport while the commoners starved. It was a bit of a slog getting you here, and I mean that literally. But if one is looking for symbols of British empire and decadence, and I am, this location will do.”

The pale man stood. He picked up the electric lantern and held it out at arm’s length to give Buxton a better look at his situation.

“Two hundred years ago, this little ledge was used by the sewer maintenance workers to assemble their equipment. See, right here is a little nook for you to put your lantern—if you had one. Now you can jump down from here if you like—the sewer water here is only about three feet deep at the moment; it’ll rise when it rains. But I’ve put new locks on both the exit grates, so you won’t get far, whatever the weather, and I’d advise you to stay put.

“But if you do decide to jump down anyway, do you know what you’d be standing in? I’ll bet you don’t. Well, maybe you do, in a general sort of way. You can’t see it in the dark, but I bet even you can smell it: the queen’s shit.

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