A Study In Ashes Part 41

This was the closest that Bancroft had ever come to real information about the Black Kingdom, and he leaned forward with curiosity. "I thought you had an understanding with the Blue Kingdom."

"Only insofar as the Blue King stored some of his weaponry underground for a price. A considerable price. That does not prevent us from making a deal elsewhere if we so choose."

"Then your reluctance to do business with me is based on the fact that I represent the rebels?"

There was a pause. "Yes."

Then it wasn't personal. Relief made Bancroft's limbs feel rubbery. At the same time, amba.s.sadorial instincts came awake. "Perhaps I can represent your interests to the prince."

Han Lo smiled, steepling his fingers. Bancroft noticed the nails were long and coated in gold. "Perhaps you can. But we are already cautious. The rain of explosives has crushed some of our tunnels. Your dead fall into the waterways and foul our underground s.p.a.ces. Worst of all, our king awakes."

"He awakes?" Bancroft was lost.

"He has been asleep for a century. When he is awake, he grows hungry and the darkness stirs."

"And what does that mean?" The conversation was sending a chill up Bancroft's spine, although he desperately wanted to believe the old man was speaking in metaphors.

"Let me say simply that the Black Kingdom is the receptacle of all things the daylight world abhors. Centuries ago, before the Empire and before gunpowder came west, your king demanded that magic users cleanse the land of black sorcery. And so everything that dwelled in the dark-the revenants and beast-men, necromancers and shades-were banished beneath the earth by powerful spells."

Bancroft gaped, unsure how to respond. He knew all too well that sorcery was real, but he'd never heard any of this before. "Are you telling me there are monsters imprisoned beneath the streets?"

"It is not so simple as that. Spells fade and the Black Kingdom wanes. Our king no longer desires to rule. It is custom more than force that keeps the dark gates closed."

"And your king sleeps?"

"Just so. The kingdom is not so much ruled as maintained through the administration of men like myself. It is in everyone's interest that we succeed."

Bancroft had to ask. "And if you don't succeed?"

"If the Black Kingdom fails, all those horrors would have no place to go but aboveground." Han Lo gave a faint smile, but it wasn't a happy one. "Trust me on this, Lord Bancroft. What is below the earth should stay there. It should not stir."

Frustration heated Bancroft's face. He wasn't sure what to believe, and this tale of buried horrors and sleeping monarchs had no bearing on his very real problems in the here and now. He shoved Han Lo's story aside. "Sell me the coal I require, and I will do my utmost to supply the kingdom with whatever it needs to remain in good health. And asleep, if necessary."

Han Lo's eyebrows quirked. "Do you give us your word on this?"

A thread of caution tugged in Bancroft's gut. "If it is within my power to achieve, yes."

"Then consider our bargain made." Han Lo held out his hand. "And the scales will be balanced."

Bancroft took it, feeling the papery dryness of the man's skin. "I am not certain what scales you mean, but I'm glad we could do business."

The old man rose to show Bancroft out. "Indeed, my lord, justice is the nature of the Black Kingdom. Unlike the other members of the Steam Council, the Black Kingdom is ancient and has its counterparts throughout the world. In my own language it is called the Kingdom of Ashes, in others the Kingdom of Alchemy. Though mortal, my family has served the underground for time immemorial."

Mortal? Bancroft's mind reeled as they pa.s.sed through the curtain to the front of the shop. After their conversation, the tiny s.p.a.ce seemed even more tawdry and cramped than before. Ashes? Alchemy? "Where does the alchemy come in?"

"The transformative nature of the underground journey. Some liken it to a rebirth, others to a chemical reaction. All is destroyed and reborn in harmony, a.s.suming whatever state is necessary to achieve balance."

"That is a very philosophical view." The only thing Bancroft had ever heard was that those caught wandering in the underground vanished, never to be seen again-transformative, yes, but not necessarily harmonious.

"It is also a historical one. Chemistry, law, and the realms of spirit and dreams were once its area of influence. Now most regard the Black Kingdom as the dustbin of the world's immortal community."

Bancroft had listened to enough. He just wanted to leave. "With a new heir to the throne, your lot will no doubt improve," he said heartily.

"Which throne would that be, Lord Bancroft?" Han Lo smiled. "There are more kingdoms than your daylight empires."

For a moment, Bancroft was lost for words. "I'll send a man around with instructions on quant.i.ty and distribution."

"Good day, Lord Bancroft." Han Lo bowed low and with a hint of mockery. "And good luck."

Dartmoor, October 10, 1889.

TAVERN AT THE EAST DART.

4:35 p.m. Thursday.

"I COULDN'T HELP but overhear that you fine gentlemen are staying at Baskerville Hall, where poor Sir Charles was frightened to death by a dog." So said the barkeep of the public house by the East Dart River. He was a young, dark-haired fellow with a quick, sly smile.

"You must have read the account in the papers," replied Watson, who in accordance with Holmes's original plan was author of the report. As Holmes had said, there were stories about a savage dog roaming Dartmoor and there had been plenty of material to embellish. In particular, he was proud of the history he'd invented for the infamous Baskerville ancestors and their curse. With a little work-and perhaps a love interest for the heir?-it might even make a decent novel.

"I've seen the creature you speak of. Rumor has it that they made it in those laboratories and it got out from time to time."

"Indeed?" Holmes replied as he began packing his pipe. "I have managed to remain happily innocent of all of Dartmoor's canine peculiarities until now."

Watson frowned, his stomach cold at the thought of what had gone on in those labs. Holmes had given him an account of their destruction-or at least a partial one-but he'd gone to look at the wreckage himself. There had been corpses there that would give him nightmares to his grave.

The afternoon shadows were growing long, making a stark contrast to the slanting autumn sun that streamed in the open door. And that brilliant pa.s.sage of day into evening would be over soon.

Watson pushed his gla.s.s toward the barkeep. "Another, if you please."

The young man gave him that quick smile. "Ah, Doctor, you must try the scrumpy. It just begs to be drunk, it does. We make it local."

"Scrumpy?"

Holmes blew out a string of smoke circles. "Oh, yes, Watson, you must."

"You as well, Mr. Holmes?" asked the barkeep.

"Oh, no," said Holmes. "I've taken a fancy to this brown ale, but you, Doctor, go ahead."

Watson lifted the fresh mug to his lips, and then wished he would die. "Faugh!" He spat and slammed down the mug, slopping some of the cloudy yellow substance over the side. An indescribable miasma a.s.saulted his tongue that brought to mind the specimen library of his student days, the rows upon rows of jars filled with every permutation of tissue, tumor, bile, and excrescence pickled for his educational benefit in what looked and smelled like the vile putrescence in his mug. "What is in that?"

Holmes gave the mug a cool glance. "They tell me it has something to do with apples, but in my opinion the data is inconclusive."

"Good G.o.d." Watson wiped his mouth with his pocket handkerchief and gagged slightly. The barkeep had vanished, no doubt to indulge his hilarity in the back room.

Then the Schoolmaster walked in the door, wearing his usual green-tinted spectacles and long striped scarf. He carried a battered leather shoulder bag and a heavy walking stick. He spotted the barely touched mug and flashed a grin. "Been trying the local delicacies, Doctor?"

"For my sins." He still felt odd talking to this young prince in hiding. For practical reasons, Prince Edmond insisted on being treated as the Schoolmaster, with no ceremony or t.i.tles, but it grated on someone who'd been trained since boyhood to revere the Throne.

Holmes, however, was on his feet, clearly impatient. "Do you return alone?"

"Yes," the Schoolmaster replied. "Come into the back and I'll tell you all."

They followed him into the private room and he closed the door, standing against it. Watson thought, for a fleeting moment, just how young the Schoolmaster looked, but then he seemed to recover.

"My business in Bath went precisely as planned," said the Schoolmaster.

"I'm relieved to hear it," said Holmes. "How can we a.s.sist you now?"

A variety of emotions flickered across the man's face. "I'm about to begin an undertaking, for good or ill, that in some measure will figure in history. I would do so with as little doubt as it is humanly possible to achieve."

"Doubt about your cause?" Watson asked, concerned.

"No." The Schoolmaster gave a wry smile. "Not that. But there have been casualties I would lay to rest."

"Ah," said Holmes.

"Ah?" Watson was skilled at interpreting Holmesian monosyllables, but this one eluded him.

The Schoolmaster waved toward the table and chairs. "First, I must ask. Are you any closer to solving Sir Charles's death?"

Watson sat down opposite the Schoolmaster, Holmes at the head of the table.

"Yes, at least in part," Holmes replied. "As you know, there was every sign that his heart had failed due to an extreme fright."

"Which the good doctor has attributed in his official account to a family curse in the form of a giant hound," the Schoolmaster replied dryly. "How enormously Gothic."

"In any event," Holmes went on, "his death bore marked similarities to two others you have asked me to investigate."

"Who were they?" Watson asked.

"A year ago we had two individuals in custody at Loch Ness, a Mr. Elias Jones and Mr. Bingham," the Schoolmaster said. "They both perished before we were quite done extracting information from them."

Watson blinked, speaking before he could stop himself. "You tortured them?"

The Schoolmaster frowned. "No. That was never our method of operation, but still two healthy men died unexpectedly. At the time we suspected there was a turncoat in our midst, but an exhaustive review of everyone's quarters, whereabouts, history-none of it turned up a thing."

"And their deaths were caused by a very particular substance," Holmes replied. "They were poisoned in a manner that induced heart failure, but I would postulate that the noxious formula also possessed a psychoactive property, as both the prisoners and Sir Charles retained the marks of severe terror above and beyond what one normally sees stamped on the features of such victims."

"Are you saying that Sir Charles died by the same hand as our prisoners?" The Schoolmaster fell back in his chair, his expression incredulous.

The detective's face was serious. "I am saying that circ.u.mstances point to the fact that at the time of the prisoners' deaths, someone was in our midst and pursuing his own agenda. Someone who did not desire the prisoners to reveal everything that they knew to us. And someone who then wished to determine what Sir Charles could tell. After all, Sir Charles had all your secrets."

Dr. Watson followed this exchange carefully, trying to remember Holmes's account of the bombing at Baker Street and all that followed. "Was there someone in particular who was in both places at the right time?"

"That would not be necessary," said Holmes. "All that would be required would be someone able to pull the right strings." Holmes turned to the Schoolmaster. "Do you recall accompanying me to the Blue King's court when I was searching for my niece?"

"Of course."

"At that time, King Coal suspected there was a traitor in his establishment. He wanted me to take that case, but circ.u.mstances changed and I never pursued it. However, the matter remained in my mind."

"Are you saying that his turncoat and ours are the same?" asked Watson.

"At the time, I thought it odd that both Jones and Bingham were double agents, playing Blue and Gold off against one another. Even more strange that orders were issuing from the Blue court that were not authorized by King Coal. At first I suspected the hand of my brother, Mycroft, but there were some things that happened I believe he simply would not do. Most significantly, while he might question Sir Charles, he would never kill him."

The Schoolmaster had that fixed expression so many got when trying to follow one of Holmes's chains of logic. "So your suspicions lean to a member of the Blue Court?"

"Yes, and for two reasons. One is the nature of the poison used. Sir Charles and the others weren't given a drug to keep them silent, it was to loosen their tongues."

Both Watson and the Schoolmaster jerked to attention. "There are drugs that lower inhibitions in that fas.h.i.+on," Watson said, "but they're not always reliable."

"And the most efficacious of those drugs are not available to the honest physician, but ..." Holmes trailed off, waving a hand carelessly. "They are excellent for extracting information. The subject remembers nothing of the incident, and if the dosage is correct, they die. Perfect if someone wanted to empty the brains of our two turncoats, and then stop their hearts."

"And Sir Charles?" Watson asked.

"He already had a weak heart. I do not think he was meant to die, but the strain on him was too much. Either he suffered a recurrence of the psychoactive effects of the drug, or perhaps he did see something that frightened him, as the local rumors would have it. Either way, it was too much."

"You said there were two reasons you believe the killer is the same," the Schoolmaster prompted, his expression grim.

"The other is more oblique," Holmes continued. "I think King Coal made the connection between Edmond Baskerville and the Schoolmaster long ago. One of his key advisors picked up the thread-I believe independently of his master-and deployed his own scoundrels to learn the truth of that and who knows what other secrets of the rebels, the Gold King, and anyone else. We are dealing with a villain intent on building his own empire."

"A villain who then came after Sir Charles?"

"But only after Mycroft came here first. The Steam Council has been watching my brother for some time. When he visited Sir Charles recently, the unusual break from his routine was noted. And then the killer struck."

The Schoolmaster's face had gone pale. "Who? Whose hand did these things?"

"We may never know who delivered the poison to Jones and Bingham, but I am convinced they received their orders from the same gentleman who visited Sir Charles on the twenty-ninth of September. I questioned your housekeeper, Mrs. Barrymore, on the matter of your guardian's visitors. Sir Charles had an unusually full schedule of late, but it seems he took the time for tea with a professor of Camelin University who was very interested in the local fauna. b.u.t.terflies, to be precise."

The news sent Watson spinning. "Camelin University is where Evelina-"

"Indeed," snapped Holmes. "And the notion that she has been resident near this individual turns my veins to ice."

"Who is it?" demanded the Schoolmaster.

"His name is Moriarty, but he goes by the name of Juniper."

"The Blue King's man of business?" the Schoolmaster exclaimed.

Holmes's lip curled into a snarl. "The more I learn about this individual, the more threads there seem to be to his web. We must have a care with this one, gentlemen. He is not the kind we take to trial, because for all the investigation I have done, there is not one sc.r.a.p of hard evidence." He slammed his hand on the table. "I can prove nothing."

The Schoolmaster pulled off his green-tinted gla.s.ses. His blue eyes were icy. "I am tired of hearing that we cannot prove such crimes. I've heard it all my life as prince and princess died of dubious causes, and court officials wrung their hands and said there was never enough evidence to point to the Steam Council. Perhaps the law as it stands cannot prosecute these wretches, but soon I will be the law. We will catch this Moriarty, and then you can ask him whatever you please."