Read Online Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin - Free Book Online Page A
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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droplets of melting snow, and though the Winter had not been a particularly cold one, my afternoon's exertions in a clammy underground tunnel with makeshift practice targets, and my long tramp home in the damp, smoggy dusk, had awakened in me the desire for warmer weather and fresh life among the stems and branches. Engaged in these thoughts, while the smoke curled pleasantly about my ears, I was disturbed by a vigorous resurgence of Holmes' humming, his fingers tapping noisily in beat to music conjured by his memory.
“I have been to see Brahms' Rinaldo this afternoon, Watson,” said he presently. “There is nothing so soothing and yet invigorating as a good cantata. Music refreshes the mind without detracting energy from the vital sources so elementary to the unraveling of mental complexities. We have much yet to discover, Watson, in this little problem so kindly extended to us by sister Mycroft; yet I believe that we are on the right track. There is, I think, much, much more beneath the surface of the plot than is apparently revealed in the bold features of this case.”
I pondered this statement while I tapped out my pipe ashes; hearing a throaty chuckle, I glanced up and observed Holmes' eyes alight with sardonic merriment, gazing at the glaring patch of uneven plaster which, rendered conspicuous in the gas-lit ambiance, marked my morning's attempts at masonry.
“You employed your time very kindly today, Watson,” said Holmes, still chuckling. “Although I cannot tell whether the good Mrs. Hudson will prefer your treatment of the poor wall to my own. ”
“Holmes!” said I, an acrimonious tirade on the subject of his dreadful recklessness and slovenly habits rising up in my throat. But Holmes' expression of abject contrition checked my reproaches, though his eyes still twinkled with a roguish merriment, and I retreated into silence with a shake of my head.
Holmes suddenly shook off his lethargy and catapulted out of his chair.
“It is nearly seven-thirty,” said he, “and Mycroft is expecting us at a quarter to ten. If you'll ring for our supper, I shall gather one or two things which I fancy may come in useful tonight.”
Chapter Five
Our ride through the darkened streets of London was rather a long one, fraught with all the customary dangers occasioned by Holmes' seemingly maniacal aversion to caution in his driving. Arriving in east Kent without mishap, we wended through tumbledown alleys and dark streets lined with deserted warehouses, in the direction of the river.
Presently Holmes slowed the Widowmak'r, and switched off the first stage of the motor, until the sound of the powerful twin cylinders died down, and we continued on in near silence, crawling to a halt at last in an alley as unwholesome as it was dark. A shadowy figure emerged and accosted the Widowmak'r on Holmes' side. I stiffened and braced myself in case of an attack, but Holmes, not in the least alarmed, dismounted and motioned to me to do likewise.
When I had extricated myself, Holmes whispered, “Wait here one moment, Watson, I shan't be long.” And, accompanied by the slight fellow who had met us upon our arrival, he guided the Widow into an unlit shed across the narrow alley.
I waited in silence for Holmes' return, stamping my feet against the damp chill, while the particularly foul pong in the air, like that of stale grease mingled with mold and rotten fish, made my nostrils curl in disgust. Holmes emerged presently and, taking my elbow, led me back down the alley, around the corner of a wooden building which appeared to be in the last stages of decay, and came to a stop before a nondescript door set in a squat brick building. Holmes knocked briskly with his cane.
The door opened, letting out a gush of harsh yellow light over the gray and black stones at our feet, and a surly keeper peered around the door suspiciously. He looked my companion and me up and down, and relented at last with a
“I have been to see Brahms' Rinaldo this afternoon, Watson,” said he presently. “There is nothing so soothing and yet invigorating as a good cantata. Music refreshes the mind without detracting energy from the vital sources so elementary to the unraveling of mental complexities. We have much yet to discover, Watson, in this little problem so kindly extended to us by sister Mycroft; yet I believe that we are on the right track. There is, I think, much, much more beneath the surface of the plot than is apparently revealed in the bold features of this case.”
I pondered this statement while I tapped out my pipe ashes; hearing a throaty chuckle, I glanced up and observed Holmes' eyes alight with sardonic merriment, gazing at the glaring patch of uneven plaster which, rendered conspicuous in the gas-lit ambiance, marked my morning's attempts at masonry.
“You employed your time very kindly today, Watson,” said Holmes, still chuckling. “Although I cannot tell whether the good Mrs. Hudson will prefer your treatment of the poor wall to my own. ”
“Holmes!” said I, an acrimonious tirade on the subject of his dreadful recklessness and slovenly habits rising up in my throat. But Holmes' expression of abject contrition checked my reproaches, though his eyes still twinkled with a roguish merriment, and I retreated into silence with a shake of my head.
Holmes suddenly shook off his lethargy and catapulted out of his chair.
“It is nearly seven-thirty,” said he, “and Mycroft is expecting us at a quarter to ten. If you'll ring for our supper, I shall gather one or two things which I fancy may come in useful tonight.”
Chapter Five
Our ride through the darkened streets of London was rather a long one, fraught with all the customary dangers occasioned by Holmes' seemingly maniacal aversion to caution in his driving. Arriving in east Kent without mishap, we wended through tumbledown alleys and dark streets lined with deserted warehouses, in the direction of the river.
Presently Holmes slowed the Widowmak'r, and switched off the first stage of the motor, until the sound of the powerful twin cylinders died down, and we continued on in near silence, crawling to a halt at last in an alley as unwholesome as it was dark. A shadowy figure emerged and accosted the Widowmak'r on Holmes' side. I stiffened and braced myself in case of an attack, but Holmes, not in the least alarmed, dismounted and motioned to me to do likewise.
When I had extricated myself, Holmes whispered, “Wait here one moment, Watson, I shan't be long.” And, accompanied by the slight fellow who had met us upon our arrival, he guided the Widow into an unlit shed across the narrow alley.
I waited in silence for Holmes' return, stamping my feet against the damp chill, while the particularly foul pong in the air, like that of stale grease mingled with mold and rotten fish, made my nostrils curl in disgust. Holmes emerged presently and, taking my elbow, led me back down the alley, around the corner of a wooden building which appeared to be in the last stages of decay, and came to a stop before a nondescript door set in a squat brick building. Holmes knocked briskly with his cane.
The door opened, letting out a gush of harsh yellow light over the gray and black stones at our feet, and a surly keeper peered around the door suspiciously. He looked my companion and me up and down, and relented at last with a
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