Read Online Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: P.C. Martin
Tags: Steampunk, sherlock holmes, steampunk clockpunk alternate history fantasy science fiction sf sci fi victorian, sherlock, jules verne, nautilus, sherlock holmes mystery detective montana history tammany marcus daly anaconda mining, verne, steampunk new zealand adventure mystery gadgets mystical ministry of peculiar occurrences, steampunk crime adventure, steampunk sciencefiction fantasy
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fear.
“My dear Watson,” said he when his mirth had somewhat expired, “you must forgive me. I am delighted, truly delighted, at your deficient knowledge of evil. It is a pleasure to me, who constantly find myself hobnobbing among the lowest dregs of morality, to be associated with a man possessed of such upstanding character, that he is unacquainted with certain knowledge considered elementary to the average criminal.”
Holmes, observing my blank incomprehension, grew grave as he continued.
“I happen to know that the 'Stinking Wharf', as it is styled in this short summons, is an unofficial term for the Foul Fish and Fowl club, in east Kent. The nickname is most appropriate, as the club itself is a converted fish warehouse, situated on an old wharf, right on the Thames, between a fetid fish oil refinery and a tumbledown boathouse. A more vile place one could hardly imagine, morally speaking; it is a nesting ground for all manner of wickedness, frequented by blackmailers, foreign spies and local; the unspoken gathering place of the scum of London's high society. You can write me down an ass, Watson, not to have guessed from the first that this club would be our mice's chosen place of rendezvous. I am glad to at last have an opportunity to bring the action of the law into this evil quarter.”
I had listened, fascinated, to Holmes' exposition, during which time my eggs and toast grew cold; I reluctantly returned my attention to these now-unpalatable viands while Holmes, who had consumed his breakfast as he talked, snatched up hat and overcoat, and headed toward the door.
“I shall make all the arrangements for this evening, Watson,” said he, pausing over the threshold. “See that you are ready for a great deal of action this evening. If you are inclined to be guided by my advice, I would suggest that you dedicate some few moments to testing the new gadgets in your arm—they may perhaps be wanted sometime during the next twenty-four hours. Good-bye!”
The door slammed companionably on my friend's heels.
Some months previously, Holmes, ever on the lookout for adequate places in which to test his dangerous explosive gadgets, had discovered a disused underground tunnel in the vicinity of a noisy underground construction site, and appropriated it as his private target range. I had accompanied him thither on one or two occasions, and it came now to mind as I pondered Holmes' parting suggestion; I resolved to go there after my breakfast and spend an hour or two mastering the mechanics of my new weapons.
Not, however, until our good landlady appeared to clear away the breakfast dishes, did the calamitous result of Holmes' maiden trial with the newly-installed weaponry return to my mind; my conscience constrained me to postpone my plans and devote my energies to repairing the unsightly breach lately added to our already pocked and bullet-marred wall.
Neither my appearance nor that of the wall was much improved when I finally put down my tools at half-past two that afternoon. Surveyed the result of my labors, I admitted to myself that my skills are less suited to repairing crumbling masonry than my fellow human beings; the wall's mien was still one of battle-scarred ill-use, but at least the gaping gash was sealed. Consoling myself with that thought, I brushed away the excess plaster from my hands and trouser knees, put a hasty sandwich into my pocket, and headed out in direction of the tunnel.
* * *
It was close upon seven o'clock when I returned to Baker Street, but I had scarce arrived when Holmes' step was heard upon the stair. He sauntered into the room, tossing hat and coat aside, and collapsed into his chair. There he sat in dreamy-eyed abstraction, humming snatches of a tune, lost in another dimension.
Not wishing to disturb his reverie, I lit my pipe and sat in my own chair, opposite the fire, and rested my feet atop the grate. The air was chilly that evening, for Spring had not yet peeped out amid the
“My dear Watson,” said he when his mirth had somewhat expired, “you must forgive me. I am delighted, truly delighted, at your deficient knowledge of evil. It is a pleasure to me, who constantly find myself hobnobbing among the lowest dregs of morality, to be associated with a man possessed of such upstanding character, that he is unacquainted with certain knowledge considered elementary to the average criminal.”
Holmes, observing my blank incomprehension, grew grave as he continued.
“I happen to know that the 'Stinking Wharf', as it is styled in this short summons, is an unofficial term for the Foul Fish and Fowl club, in east Kent. The nickname is most appropriate, as the club itself is a converted fish warehouse, situated on an old wharf, right on the Thames, between a fetid fish oil refinery and a tumbledown boathouse. A more vile place one could hardly imagine, morally speaking; it is a nesting ground for all manner of wickedness, frequented by blackmailers, foreign spies and local; the unspoken gathering place of the scum of London's high society. You can write me down an ass, Watson, not to have guessed from the first that this club would be our mice's chosen place of rendezvous. I am glad to at last have an opportunity to bring the action of the law into this evil quarter.”
I had listened, fascinated, to Holmes' exposition, during which time my eggs and toast grew cold; I reluctantly returned my attention to these now-unpalatable viands while Holmes, who had consumed his breakfast as he talked, snatched up hat and overcoat, and headed toward the door.
“I shall make all the arrangements for this evening, Watson,” said he, pausing over the threshold. “See that you are ready for a great deal of action this evening. If you are inclined to be guided by my advice, I would suggest that you dedicate some few moments to testing the new gadgets in your arm—they may perhaps be wanted sometime during the next twenty-four hours. Good-bye!”
The door slammed companionably on my friend's heels.
Some months previously, Holmes, ever on the lookout for adequate places in which to test his dangerous explosive gadgets, had discovered a disused underground tunnel in the vicinity of a noisy underground construction site, and appropriated it as his private target range. I had accompanied him thither on one or two occasions, and it came now to mind as I pondered Holmes' parting suggestion; I resolved to go there after my breakfast and spend an hour or two mastering the mechanics of my new weapons.
Not, however, until our good landlady appeared to clear away the breakfast dishes, did the calamitous result of Holmes' maiden trial with the newly-installed weaponry return to my mind; my conscience constrained me to postpone my plans and devote my energies to repairing the unsightly breach lately added to our already pocked and bullet-marred wall.
Neither my appearance nor that of the wall was much improved when I finally put down my tools at half-past two that afternoon. Surveyed the result of my labors, I admitted to myself that my skills are less suited to repairing crumbling masonry than my fellow human beings; the wall's mien was still one of battle-scarred ill-use, but at least the gaping gash was sealed. Consoling myself with that thought, I brushed away the excess plaster from my hands and trouser knees, put a hasty sandwich into my pocket, and headed out in direction of the tunnel.
* * *
It was close upon seven o'clock when I returned to Baker Street, but I had scarce arrived when Holmes' step was heard upon the stair. He sauntered into the room, tossing hat and coat aside, and collapsed into his chair. There he sat in dreamy-eyed abstraction, humming snatches of a tune, lost in another dimension.
Not wishing to disturb his reverie, I lit my pipe and sat in my own chair, opposite the fire, and rested my feet atop the grate. The air was chilly that evening, for Spring had not yet peeped out amid the
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