The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Martian Menace by Eric Brown

Author:Eric Brown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

Chapter Twenty

The Attractions of Woking

I must admit that, as our train pulled into Woking Station, I was feeling more than a little apprehensive at the thought of what lay ahead. We were entering enemy territory – an enemy that was not only merciless, but would not hesitate to bring about our end if our simulacra ruse was rumbled. Holmes had tried to reassure me that this was a reconnaissance mission only, but I was far from reassured as we stepped from the carriage and approached the ticket collector.

We passed through the barrier and entered the teeming concourse, and I stopped in my tracks and stared about me in wonder. All around were placards and notices advertising various attractions and exhibitions. One could visit Horsell Common, where the very first Martian cylinder had come to rest in ’94, and go on a walking tour of the still deserted villages, which the first wave of ravaging tripods had destroyed; one could take a guided tour of the Martian Museum in the town centre, where such artefacts as the Martian Handling-Machines were on display, or visit the tripod manufactory on the outskirts of town.

While I was goggling at these gaudy advertisements, Holmes was studying a map of Woking. “See here, Watson,” he said, pointing to a district to the south of the town centre. “This is the site of the tripod manufactory and the Martian Research Institute, situated in an old Victorian insane asylum. To the west is Horsell Common, and round about it the devastated villages.”

“That’s all very well,” I said, “but how on earth are we going to go about locating Moriarty and Miss Fairfield? They might be anywhere.”

Holmes turned and pointed. “We will begin our search with an enquiry – always, I find, an efficacious method of finding out what one wants.”

The glass-roofed area was chock-a-block with a hundred hurrying citizens. “And whom might we ask?” I said.

Holmes nodded across the concourse. “How about that worthy, yonder?”

“A Salvation Army collector?” I said.

“In my experience I have found them eagle-eyed, Watson – always on the lookout for souls in need of salvation. And our friend Moriarty, with his suspicious eyes and shifty deportment, would easily qualify as such. If I couch my enquiry in a way that would trigger her piety and professional interest…”

So saying, he led me across to the diminutive, grey-haired, rosy-cheeked woman and slipped a shilling into her collection box.

“Why, thank you, sir. Most generous.”

“Not at all,” said Holmes. “Always glad to assist a worthy cause. I was wondering if I might solicit the Army’s professional service?”

“We’re ever eager to help those in need, sir.”

“I happen to be searching for my daughter. Here is her photograph,” he said, passing the woman a portrait of Miss Fairfield.

As she screwed up her eyes and studied the photograph, I murmured to Holmes, “How the devil did you…?”

“I borrowed it from Miss Fairfield’s apartment yesterday,” he whispered in reply.

“Pretty little thing,” said the woman.

“A runaway,” Holmes said in woebegone tones, ever the thespian laying it on thick.

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