Sherlock Holmes and the Red Demon (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Larry Millett

at the end of the "Priory School" case, Holmes even claimed to be a "poor man."

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"Minnesota," he said, taking a long draw on his pipe. "I rather like the name, don't you?" It was a sentiment he was never to voice again.

We reached New York on the early morning of August 21,

nonpareil,"

The landscape was desolation itself, and I doubt that even the moors of Devonshire could present a more bleak and melancholy appearance than these ravaged pineries. In every direction could be seen the work of the ax and the saw, and for mile after dreary mile we passed through the remains of a great dead forest. Indeed, I could not help but feel as though we had ventured into some vast burying ground, its memorials formed by huge stumps that, for as far as the eye could see, rose out of the withered earth like tombstones.

Holmes, of course, was a man of the city, used to the crowded pleasures of London, and he was inclined to view the countryside as an unfortunate mistake of nature. Villages of all sorts he found equally wanting, and under normal circumstances he would never have deigned to set foot in so rude a hamlet as Hinckley. But when he was engrossed in an investigation, all such prejudices vanished. In such a situation, the place where he happened to be was always the most interesting place in the world, and so he took in the sights of Hinckley, however uninspiring they might be, with a keen and probing eye.

ratiocination

mellifluous

etagere

opprobrium

lascivious

incarnadine

"Holmes," I said, "if this is the end, I only want to say that you are the finest man I have ever known and the best friend any man ever had."

Holmes was standing near a small night table by my bed as he spoke, and he suddenly wheeled around and pounded his fist on the table with such force that one leg broke off, sending the entire piece crashing to the floor. "I am supposed to be the violin player," he said in a fearsome voice, "but it is I who have been played. And I do not like it!" Following this uncharacteristic outburst, Holmes quickly regained control of himself and apologized for his behavior. "I am not myself," he said, picking up the broken table leg and then going over to the door. "I see that you are tired, and I will let you take your rest. We will talk again later."

There were few people about at this hour-it was now after nine o'clock-for all the town's life seemed confined to the clamorous saloons that could be found on almost every block. Still, it was not an unpleasant walk. The smoke and heat of the afternoon had subsided, and the dark dome of the sky was aglitter with stars. Never in the murky atmosphere of London had I seen such a display of nature's infinite majesty, but when I remarked upon this fact to Holmes, he was unmoved. "Our business is not with the stars," he said brusquely

Holmes's gaunt face, caught in the flickering glow of the room's kerosene lamps, was a study in chiaroscuro, and the effect was almost diabolical. His words were equally eerie and ominous. "This is a most singular case," he began, gazing out into the black tide of darkness that now held sway outside the room's two large windows. "It is all silhouettes seen through a gauzy screen, forms and shadows whose movements are at once visible and yet indistinct. I believe I know who the actors are and how the drama has played out thus far. I see them, Watson, these shadowy figures, strutting behind their accursed screen, moving in and out of view. I hear the awful clanking of the stage machinery all around. I perceive the filaments that bind them together in their evil conspiracy. And yet, for the life of me, Watson, I cannot discern the dark heart of the matter, the thing that has set all of these shadows in motion."

The night was hot and breathless, and the famous mosquitos of the North Woods discovered us at once. I slapped at them as best I could, but Holmes stoically endured their attacks, as though the act of swatting them might somehow compromise his dignity.

I experienced now that intense and thrilling sense of apprehension that comes to every soldier on the brink of battle. Insensible to the roaring wind, the loud swaying trees, the gorgeous moon hanging in the heavens, I saw or heard nothing except the two men coming at us out of the gloom. And though my heart beat wildly in my chest, I felt supremely prepared for whatever the next moment would bring, for I was in the company of the most fearless man it had ever been my privilege to know. I glanced over at Holmes as he crouched behind the bushes, his lethal cane at the ready, and what I saw was at once wonderful and frightening. His long, thin hair blew about wildly, while the moonlight cast crooked shadows across his sharply etched features. He looked, I thought, magnificently untamed, and I could appreciate now, more than ever before, his own frequent observation that had he not devoted his life to solving crimes he might well have busied himself committing them. All the fierce power of his being was now concentrated upon the task at hand, his every nerve and sinew taut with anticipation, like a tiger ready to spring remorselessly upon its prey.

nadir

"In my student days at Oxford, I had the misfortune to own a cat.' Or perhaps I should say, it owned me. This cat, whom I named Dupin, was a large black fellow of uncertain parentage.' Like most cats, he was lazy by nature and rather irascible by temperament, but he was undeniably a skilled mouser, and his technique was quite fascinating to observe." "No doubt," I muttered, earning a sharp look of rebuke from Holmes for my trouble. "As I was saying," he continued, "Dupin exhibited a distinctive method of hunting. Once he caught the scent of a mouse or some other rodent, he would become a model of patience and endurance, waiting hours on end as silently as could be for his prey to appear. Unlike a dog, which will react excitedly to a scent and move toward it unless trained to do otherwise, Dupin kept his distance, being careful to stay well back from the place where the mouse might be expected to emerge. In other words, he seemed to know instinctively that if he could smell the mouse, then the mouse could smell him as well. Yet he never moved so far away that he could not reach his target in a single, decisive leap. He was a very clever cat, that Dupin, and had he not been run over by a dray on High Street, I do not doubt that he would have had a long and successful career as a killer of rodents. "^

"Do not badger her, Holmes," I said. "She is but a child." "She is old enough to be a whore," Holmes replied with a cruelty that astonished me, "and she will answer my question or face the consequences." "She has answered to the best of her ability, and you will gain nothing by treating her so harshly," I said rather hotly. "You have gone beyond the bounds of decency, Holmes, and I will not tolerate it." Holmes reacted with biting sarcasm. "My lands, Watson, but you are in a paternal mood today. Had I known you harbored such deep feelings for this `child,' as you call her, I would not have interrupted your lovemaking some days ago."

Holmes's mind was a fine and intricate thing-a jeweled Swiss watch from the very hand of the God who created us yet on one or two occasions I had seen the machinery go awry, and when it did, the results were extremely peculiar.

The milk of human kindness, I must confess, has never flowed strongly within me, and that is one reason why I value your friendship, Watson. You are the guardian of my conscience, and I know that I can always count on you to rein in the darker impulses of my nati}re.

"My dear Watson," this strange visage said in a familiar voice. "I thought for a moment that I had lost you." "Holmes. It is you!" "Who did you think it was?" Holmes replied with a smile. "The devil," I admitted groggily, for my mind was still somewhat tangled in the cobwebs of sleep. Holmes, who obviously took my remark as a compliment, laughed and said: "I have always thought the devil must be a most interesting fellow, with a fine criminal type of mind, and perhaps one day I shall meet him. But I assure you, Watson, that when your time comes, it will be St. Peter and not the Prince of Darkness who shall greet you in the great beyond."

s I sit at my writing desk, a thick fog swirling outside the windows of 221 B Baker Street, I am haunted by fantastic images of that terrible day, September 1, 1894. These phantasms dance before me like the flames in a hearth, illuminating numerous incidents of heroism and disaster amid the cruel majesty of Nature's fury. I see a locomotive roaring through a deadly veil of black smoke, its occupants working feverishly to reach a doomed village ... I see the agonized faces fleeing before a whirlwind of fire ... I see Sherlock Holmes's look of astonishment as his deerstalker flies from his head and instantly ignites into flames ... I see two gaunt figures upon a great burning trestle, locked in mortal combat while all around the very air seems to be on fire ... But most of all, I see the twisted, charred bodies of the dead, lying like crushed black flowers in an eerie white wasteland of rubble and ash. And now, as I turn to the concluding chapters of this story, which is surely the most tragic adventure of Sherlock Holmes's career, I pray that I shall at last be able to exorcise these demons of memory which have plagued me for so long.

Best grinned and wiped a cinder from his begrimed face. I shall never forget his next words: "Well, then, you are in luck, Mr. Baker, for if you are looking to go to hell, then by God you've found the man to take you there! "

One question preoccupied me as I peered into the smoke and heard the roar of the fire and the agonized screams of those caught in its terrible grasp. Where was Holmes? I began to fear the worst. Was this, I wondered, to be the end after all? Was the indomitable Sherlock Holmes to perish in this godforsaken place? The thought was too painful to bear, and I decided that if Holmes was to die, then I should at least have the courtesy to die with him.

I now began to believe that we all might die in the conflagration, and though I did not wish to lose my life I also felt no fear at the prospect, as life without Holmes hardly seemed worth the endeavor.

And then I heard it-a long whistle blast, followed quickly by another. The train was leaving Sandstone, coming toward the bridge! My anxiety was now acute. Should I hold my position, as Holmes had told me, to warn the train crew of danger on the bridge? Or should I go to Holmes's aid, thereby jeopardizing the hundreds aboard the train? It was not a decision easily made, and the world may justly censor me for it, but I realized that, no matter what terrible fate might befall the train, I could not bear the thought of having failed my friend in a time of need. And so, I abandoned my post and walked out on the bridge.