Black Cat Weekly #76

Chapter 5-1

byIt was an unusually hot day, and sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes had sought refuge from the July sun in the British Museum. There were few other visitors at this time of year; good weather being such a relatively fleeting phenomenon in the United Kingdom, anyone who could be outside made sure they were. Sherlock, therefore, had the museum largely to himself, which suited him.

Mycroft Holmes had invited his younger brother to London for the weekend. Mycroft had recently taken on new responsibilities in the British government but hadn’t made their exact nature clear to his sibling or their parents. All Sherlock knew was that his brother was held in high esteem by his superiors. Sherlock enjoyed spending time with his brother, but these days Mycroft was terribly busy with government work and had little time to spare.

“I know I promised to go to the museum with you,” he had said to Sherlock that morning, “but I have an important meeting with a foreign diplomat. I really can’t say more.”

“I understand,” said Sherlock, face solemn despite his amusement. Mycroft, averse as ever to any form of physical exertion, could not have been looking forward to visiting the British Museum merely to humor his younger brother’s peculiar whims. “I will see you this evening, then, at the Diogenes Club.”

“I promise you an excellent dinner,” Mycroft said, relief evident on his broad face. “And I further promise you I will tell you as much as I can about the meeting.” He picked up his hat, cane, and gloves from the side table by the door and took his leave.

Sherlock had been able to assist Mycroft in one or two small matters related to international diplomacy and had therefore won some approval from authorities—which, he knew, might be of value in the future. Mycroft had suggested more than once that Sherlock might himself pursue a government career.

Sherlock, however, wasn’t inclined to devote much thought to the future other than a more immediate one: he had turned seventeen in January, and as a special gift his parents had reserved a ricket for him to a concert in the Royal Albert Hall by the Spanish composer and virtuoso violinist Pablo de Sarasate. He has been looking forward to the show for months.

With considerable self-satisfaction, therefore, he ambled through the museum’s exhibits, taking his time as he examined this or that treasure of antiquity or of nature. It was just as well that Mycroft wasn’t accompanying him, grumbling and sighing. Sherlock had visited the museum several times before, but in the company of his parents, and he’d not been able to spend as much time as he’d wanted among the museum’s offerings. To an intellectually inclined youth from the provincial village of Little Buckewood in West Sussex, there was much to excite one’s curiosity.

Having a special interest in geology, he saved the museum’s collection of mineral and gems for the last. In a peaceful state of mind, pleasantly lulled by the museum’s quiet galleries, he made his way through rooms devoted to Egyptian artefacts, zoological specimens, and one housing a collection of dinosaur models created by the sculptor Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins for the life-size dinosaurs displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851, shortly before Sherlock’s birth. Holmes had seen those monsters in the Crystal Palace Park in south London and found them of passing interest. In truth, he was more interested in less fanciful things, such as actual mineral samples.

Looking forward to an enjoyable couple of hours among crystals and gemstones, he approached the hall of minerals in a mood of pleasant anticipation, even more so because there seemed to be no one else headed in that direction. As he was entering the room, however, something zipped by him so quickly, he could barely see it. For an instant he thought a bird might somehow have gotten into the old building—but it was too large. Then it came to a very brief halt in front of a display of gemstones.

somethingIt was no bird: rather, it was a young woman, outlandishly dressed in a close-fitting black costume consisting of a leather corset secured with brass buttons, a white shirt, long sturdy leather arm bands like a falconer’s gloves, and goggles over her eyes. She wore a short-brimmed flat-top black hat with her dark hair pulled back away from her face. Her mannish leather breeches were secured around her hips by a belt from which dangled a collection of implements including a magnifying glass, a knife, and what Holmes saw with widened eyes was a pistol. Altogether she looked like she was prepared for battle. All this he took in immediately, still too stunned to move.

Then, with her hands moving as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, she smashed the case’s glass top. Shards of glass almost magically appeared at the sides of the display case’s interior. Removing her gauntlet, she grabbed some of the gems. Then she blurred and accelerated again and rocketed out of the hall faster than any living thing he had ever seen.

Shocked into action at last, Sherlock pursued at a dead run. He pounded out of the museum, down the steps and across the court. Judging by wind-blown papers, she had turned left, heading west on Montague, toward Bloomsbury Square Garden—but when he followed, she was already out of sight. A disturbance among some leaves in the gutter, as though a strong wind had passed by, convinced him to turn right on Woburn Place.

He was still shaking his head in astonishment, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He almost stopped, thinking he had no hope of catching up. But then he noticed a red mark on a cobblestone. He leaned down.

Blood. He dipped a tentative finger in it.

She’s cut herself on the glass from the display case, he realized. Perhaps I can track her by finding more drops!

She’s cut herself on the glass from the display case,Perhaps I can track her by finding more drops!The blood-drip was elongated, as though falling from someone moving extraordinarily fast, smeared in the direction the speedy woman was going. He set out, keeping his gaze on the ground. A hundred or so meters further on he found another droplet, and then another.

But that was the last. Judging by the smearing, the thief continued traveling along Theobald Road at an impossibly fast clip. Holmes slowed to a walk, then halted. He looked around. Either she has stopped bleeding, he thought, or else entered one of these nearby buildings. He spent a fruitless half-hour searching up and down the nearby streets, peering at the steps and doorways of all the buildings, to no avail.

Either she has stopped bleeding, , or else entered one of these nearby buildings.Sorely puzzled, he made his way back to Mycroft’s lodgings, where he sat slumped in an easy chair, smoking a cheroot and mulling over his encounter with the enigmatic female speedster. Eventually, noticing the sun was westering, he roused himself and went to meet his brother at the Diogenes Club across the street.

Knowing from past visits that talking was f*******n in the club except in the Stranger’s Room, once Sherlock arrived, he headed there immediately, where he dispatched a footman with a message for Mycroft, letting him know of his arrival.

Presently Mycroft entered and lowered himself into an armchair across from the one Sherlock had taken.

“Hello,” said Mycroft. “Would you care for some dinner?” He consulted a pocket watch. “It’s a bit late for tea, I fear.”

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. He told Mycroft of the bizarre occurrence at the British Museum. He finished with, “And that’s the truth of it. I don’t expect you to believe me.”

Mycroft was silent nearly a minute, his wide brow furrowed and his eyes veiled. At last, he heaved a huge sigh and said, “But I do believe you.”

do“Eh? You do?” Sherlock blinked, at a loss for words.

Mycroft pursed his lips. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was within earshot, he leaned closer to Sherlock and said, in a quiet voice, “Recently there have been some…outlandish reports to the intelligence service concerning people with peculiar, almost supernatural abilities. This young woman is clearly one of them. In fact, I can tell you she has struck before.”

“What? She has? She—”

What?“Please keep your voice down! Yes, not long ago she robbed the C. Hoare and Company Bank, from which she purloined certain historical documents.”

“But…this is incredible! You say there have been others? People like her?”

“Mmm. Yes, at least two, but not super-fast like this…accelerationist of yours. A pair of men displaying unearthly strength robbed another bank, at night about three weeks ago, smashing their way in through a wall and literally ripping the vault’s door off its hinges. One would have thought it couldn’t have been done with anything less than a steam engine of some sort, yet there were no signs of such a mechanism on the site. There were only human footprints.”

“Incredible!” Sherlock said again.

“It is all of that. I daresay the stolen gems will be recut and sold to provide funding for further developments of sensory augmentation. I have been tasked with discovering the truth behind these strange doings. You encountering one of these freaks—especially her—is a splendid coincidence.”

“I say, were you going to tell me about this, brother?”

“Oh, eventually, doubtless,” Mycroft said diffidently. “I never expected you to have a run-in with one of these people.”

“Run-in, indeed,” Sherlock sniffed. Then the light dawned. He shook a finger at his brother. “This is why you were so eager for me to come visit you.”

Run-inThisSherlock felt a bit miffed at his brother’s deviousness; but it was nothing new. Mycroft always played his cards close to his vest.

“All right,” Sherlock said. “I admit I’m intrigued. Which is, doubtless, what you’d hoped.”

“This is nothing we’ve had any experience with, Sherlock. Any help you could provide would be very much appreciated.”

After a substantial supper, the Holmes brothers returned to Mycroft’s lodgings. Upon entering, Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “You’ve been smoking in here,” he said in an accusing tone.

smoking“I opened the window,” Sherlock protested.

“It’s disgusting. Pray, don’t do it again!”

They spent an hour or so working on a descriptive sketch of the woman. Neither brother was a particularly gifted artist, but between them they managed to produce a workmanlike drawing of the enigmatic dark-haired suspect.

“Well,” said Mycroft when they were done, “this, together with your detailed description of her and your estimates of her height and weight, should help us in our search. Good work, brother.” He rolled up the drawing and secured it with a bit of string.

Sherlock nodded without replying. Thanks or praise meant little to him. What he really wanted was to find the woman and learn how she managed to run so quickly.

“Now, you’ve said there are other ‘augmented’ people, Mycroft. Are the super-strong pair of men the only ones?”

“The only ones we know about, yes,” Mycroft said. “There could well be others.”

“With…what abilities, do you think?”

Mycroft made a face. “Speculation is pointless, Sherlock, without evidence.”

“Yes, yes…true.”

“Please make yourself available for questioning by my superiors, should that be necessary.”

“Certainly. Of course.” His conscience was tweaking him a little because he had had an idea while working on the drawing. The woman had run off toward a particular area of the city. Unless she was deliberately trying to lead him (or any pursuer) astray, she probably had a bolt hole somewhere relatively nearby. By rights he should have shared his thinking with Mycroft, but he wanted to gather more evidence first.