It was late in the afternoon before the pirates were admitted to see the King. While three of them had set out from the ship, for pirates always travel on land in threes, only two remained standing in the Great Hall. Shiverin’ Sam Chivers had gone back with the snooty noble to ransom his friend back. This left Jaques the Englishman and Mikael Bilge to deliver the other letter.
‘We be gettin’ the ransom already,’ said Mikael. ‘Why’re we hangin’ about?’
‘Because, you grog-snarfing swabbie, we were charged to do so and we’re men of honour,’ growled the Englishman.
‘I thought we be men of makin’ a quick krone.’
‘Aye, well, we’re that too. Now, you keep yer lice-ridden trap shut and leave the talking to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I know how to talk to yer genuine royalality and you are a festering little gobshite.’
‘Aye. Yer cuttin’, but yer right there. ‘Tain’t no denying me gobshiteiness. I-’ Mikael stopped as he was hit upside the head by his companion. ‘Ow.’
They were brought before the King. He was a small, weasely fellow with none of the regal bearing of his late brother. He scratched idly at his beard as they approached. Standing next to the throne was a sallow faced young man who looked quite upset about something, perhaps the intrusion of the pirates. Jaques bowed deeply and after a quick nudge to the ribs, so did Mikael.
‘My liege, I bring you tidings of your son,’ said Jaques as munificently as he could manage.
‘Son? We have no son,’ the King turned back to the angry youth beside him.
‘Good, my lord, I talk of the royal son.’
‘Not yer son, the other king’s son,’ shouted Mikael.
‘Sssshut it,’ Jaques hissed at his fellow.
The King blinked. ‘Oh. You have news about him?’
‘From him, your highness.’
‘From?’ the King’s voice was getting louder.
‘Aye. That is to say, yea, your worshipfulness,’ Jaques presented him with the letter they had been given.
‘“High and mighty, You shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange return. Hamlet.”’ The King read aloud slowly, stumbling over the words. He always had trouble reading. ‘So, you have Hamlet?’
‘He said you would buy his freedom,’ Jaques said.
‘But I thought-‘ Mikael had his foot trod on.
‘Hamlet said that?’ the King’s eyes darted accusingly to the man beside him.
‘He said you would give us what we deserved and then he laughed.’
The King began to laugh then. ‘Oh yes. You shall get what you deserve.’
The pirates laughed nervously, but graciously while their host had a carafe of wine sent for. Mikael turned and huddled with his companion. ‘So that’s what ya meant. Yer after another ransom.’
‘One we won’t share with the rest of the crew,’ Jaques smiled.
‘Ooh, yer a sly one Jaques. I’ve always said so.’ And they chuckled more heartily this time.
A servant brought the wine and while the pirates still had their backs turned, the King dropped what looked like a pearl into each of their goblets. ‘Friends, your wine has arrived. Drink richly and deeply, for we warrant you will never again have such finery.’
‘Yer right there, yer majesty,’ said Mikael.
‘I always am,’ said the King.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Play-Chronautic Fugue in D Minor
A pair of scenes from Chronautic Fugue in D Minor, performed by Hoopy Frood Productions, 2001.
Interlude Two
NARRATOR: I’m sorry. That was too far back, wasn’t it? Yes. That’s the thing with time travel, you’re never quite sure whether you’re coming or going. Perhaps I should explain, hmm? I am the world’s first time traveler, that I know of at any rate. We time travelers are a secretive bunch, or at least I am. (He giggles.) I was in that ill fated time machine. No-one thought it worked. But it did, oh it did. It worked, just not as they had expected. Only one man in the entire world knew the sort of thing I was going through. And he was a fictional character. Rather ironic seeing as how this will probably be marketed as fiction anyway. Ah well.
Scene Three
A Classroom
(There are half a dozen desks, arranged in two rows of three. While all the desks are occupied, only one student is actually awake: GRAHAM, who is now in high school. The teacher, one DR. BOWMAN, stands in front of a equation filled blackboard. His appearance strangely echoes that of the NARRATOR. He is not insane. Eccentric.. perhaps, but not insane.)
BOWMAN: Let us, for the moment, assume that time travel is possible. It doesn’t really matter how, it is just a given. Okay? Okay. Now, if we want to change historical events, there two theories as to what would happen if we did. Anyone know what they are?
(GRAHAM raises his hand.)
GRAHAM: Um, the Multiverse theory?
BOWMAN: Very good, (he looks at the role sheet) uh, Graham? Do you know the other?
GRAHAM: No.
BOWMAN: That’s alright. Anyone else? (Pause. Someone in the back snores.) I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then? The other is the self perpetuating timeline theory. Let’s start with that. This theory basically states that the timeline is basically predestined and you cannot do anything to change it drastically. For instance, that old classic about killing Hitler. If you succeed, when you return to your subjective present, you will have found that some chap named Rudi Gloder ran the Third Reich and did the exact same things as Hitler. The other, and far more interesting, theory is that of the Multiverse. For every choice we make, there is another, alternate universe in which you chose the other option. Now, the change might range from having cereal for breakfast instead of toast or it might be that you turn left instead of right and wind up becoming a mafia hitman. The very first alternate universe, as theorized, is one in which God woke up on the First Day and said to himself, ‘Sod this creation garbage, I’m going back to bed.’
GRAHAM: With all due respect, sir, this isn’t a new theory.
BOWMAN: I never said it was. Do you know how it relates to time travel?
GRAHAM: Never gave it much thought.
BOWMAN: Yes, well, with this theory, if you change the past, it actually has an impact on the future. Just not your personal future. The moment you make that change, an alternate timeline springs up and when you return to your subjective present, it will be that of the alternate timeline.
GRAHAM: Would there be a way to cross back into your original timeline?
BOWMAN: What? By reversing the polarity of the neutron flow or some such? Possibly, but what would be the point? The change you made in the past wouldn’t apply to that timestream.
GRAHAM: But wouldn’t it just be enough to know that you made someone else’s life better?
BOWMAN: But is it? Really? Is it up to you to decide what is good and bad about the past? Do you have the right to play about in alternate happenings? Can you really say that this timeline you created is better than the original?
GRAHAM: I…I can’t sir. I don’t think anyone can.
BOWMAN: Some can and some can’t, and if you can’t, you shouldn’t be playing around with time. So then, if there is no point in changing the past, or indeed, the future, since the same laws apply, why should we bother? The answer is simple: exploration. Exploration drives the human spirit. It’s 1970. We’ve been to the moon twice and it’s already becoming passé. More Americans tuned in to your Super Bowl thing than to see Neil Armstrong land on the moon. Do you think we’re going to keep going to the moon and finally on to Mars and beyond? At this rate we aren’t. The taxpayers say to themselves, ‘We’re paying a billion dollars a rocket for something we’ve already done. Why should we bother to continue this?’ But what they don’t truly realize is that we’re expanding the limits of known territory. A hundred years ago people realized this. Manifest Destiny, they called it. America was going to rule from ‘sea to shining sea.’ It drove people to delve into the undiscovered country and forge new frontiers. Of course, these days, it can’t just be America. That was the Apollo Program’s fundamental flaw. In the end, it was just about beating the Soviets. No, in order to ‘boldly go’, as one TV show put it, we must all go together when we go. But, I digress. Time travel is just another form of exploration. Through it we can unlock the mysteries of the past and the delights of the future. Have you ever wondered how the pyramids were built or if eventually we’ll ride around in little flying cars? With time travel, we can find out.
(A STUDENT wearily raises her head and speaks.)
STUDENT: With all due respect Dr. Bowman, what does this have to do with A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
BOWMAN: Hm?
STUDENT: I know you’re a substitute teacher, and literature probably isn’t your main field of study, but I did sort of expect that we would at least touch upon the subject matter.
BOWMAN: Um, this isn’t Professor Chronotis’ temporal physics class?
STUDENT: There’s no Professor Chronotis at this school.
BOWMAN: So, this isn’t St. Cedd’s College, Cambridge?
STUDENT: This isn’t even England.
BOWMAN: I’d better be off then. Continue whatever it is you’re expected to have been doing. Byeee!
(He exits and the lights go out.)
Interlude Two
NARRATOR: I’m sorry. That was too far back, wasn’t it? Yes. That’s the thing with time travel, you’re never quite sure whether you’re coming or going. Perhaps I should explain, hmm? I am the world’s first time traveler, that I know of at any rate. We time travelers are a secretive bunch, or at least I am. (He giggles.) I was in that ill fated time machine. No-one thought it worked. But it did, oh it did. It worked, just not as they had expected. Only one man in the entire world knew the sort of thing I was going through. And he was a fictional character. Rather ironic seeing as how this will probably be marketed as fiction anyway. Ah well.
Scene Three
A Classroom
(There are half a dozen desks, arranged in two rows of three. While all the desks are occupied, only one student is actually awake: GRAHAM, who is now in high school. The teacher, one DR. BOWMAN, stands in front of a equation filled blackboard. His appearance strangely echoes that of the NARRATOR. He is not insane. Eccentric.. perhaps, but not insane.)
BOWMAN: Let us, for the moment, assume that time travel is possible. It doesn’t really matter how, it is just a given. Okay? Okay. Now, if we want to change historical events, there two theories as to what would happen if we did. Anyone know what they are?
(GRAHAM raises his hand.)
GRAHAM: Um, the Multiverse theory?
BOWMAN: Very good, (he looks at the role sheet) uh, Graham? Do you know the other?
GRAHAM: No.
BOWMAN: That’s alright. Anyone else? (Pause. Someone in the back snores.) I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then? The other is the self perpetuating timeline theory. Let’s start with that. This theory basically states that the timeline is basically predestined and you cannot do anything to change it drastically. For instance, that old classic about killing Hitler. If you succeed, when you return to your subjective present, you will have found that some chap named Rudi Gloder ran the Third Reich and did the exact same things as Hitler. The other, and far more interesting, theory is that of the Multiverse. For every choice we make, there is another, alternate universe in which you chose the other option. Now, the change might range from having cereal for breakfast instead of toast or it might be that you turn left instead of right and wind up becoming a mafia hitman. The very first alternate universe, as theorized, is one in which God woke up on the First Day and said to himself, ‘Sod this creation garbage, I’m going back to bed.’
GRAHAM: With all due respect, sir, this isn’t a new theory.
BOWMAN: I never said it was. Do you know how it relates to time travel?
GRAHAM: Never gave it much thought.
BOWMAN: Yes, well, with this theory, if you change the past, it actually has an impact on the future. Just not your personal future. The moment you make that change, an alternate timeline springs up and when you return to your subjective present, it will be that of the alternate timeline.
GRAHAM: Would there be a way to cross back into your original timeline?
BOWMAN: What? By reversing the polarity of the neutron flow or some such? Possibly, but what would be the point? The change you made in the past wouldn’t apply to that timestream.
GRAHAM: But wouldn’t it just be enough to know that you made someone else’s life better?
BOWMAN: But is it? Really? Is it up to you to decide what is good and bad about the past? Do you have the right to play about in alternate happenings? Can you really say that this timeline you created is better than the original?
GRAHAM: I…I can’t sir. I don’t think anyone can.
BOWMAN: Some can and some can’t, and if you can’t, you shouldn’t be playing around with time. So then, if there is no point in changing the past, or indeed, the future, since the same laws apply, why should we bother? The answer is simple: exploration. Exploration drives the human spirit. It’s 1970. We’ve been to the moon twice and it’s already becoming passé. More Americans tuned in to your Super Bowl thing than to see Neil Armstrong land on the moon. Do you think we’re going to keep going to the moon and finally on to Mars and beyond? At this rate we aren’t. The taxpayers say to themselves, ‘We’re paying a billion dollars a rocket for something we’ve already done. Why should we bother to continue this?’ But what they don’t truly realize is that we’re expanding the limits of known territory. A hundred years ago people realized this. Manifest Destiny, they called it. America was going to rule from ‘sea to shining sea.’ It drove people to delve into the undiscovered country and forge new frontiers. Of course, these days, it can’t just be America. That was the Apollo Program’s fundamental flaw. In the end, it was just about beating the Soviets. No, in order to ‘boldly go’, as one TV show put it, we must all go together when we go. But, I digress. Time travel is just another form of exploration. Through it we can unlock the mysteries of the past and the delights of the future. Have you ever wondered how the pyramids were built or if eventually we’ll ride around in little flying cars? With time travel, we can find out.
(A STUDENT wearily raises her head and speaks.)
STUDENT: With all due respect Dr. Bowman, what does this have to do with A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
BOWMAN: Hm?
STUDENT: I know you’re a substitute teacher, and literature probably isn’t your main field of study, but I did sort of expect that we would at least touch upon the subject matter.
BOWMAN: Um, this isn’t Professor Chronotis’ temporal physics class?
STUDENT: There’s no Professor Chronotis at this school.
BOWMAN: So, this isn’t St. Cedd’s College, Cambridge?
STUDENT: This isn’t even England.
BOWMAN: I’d better be off then. Continue whatever it is you’re expected to have been doing. Byeee!
(He exits and the lights go out.)
Play-The Magnificent Adventures of Mothman and Chrysalis
The first scene of The Magnificent Adventures of Mothman and Chrysalis, performed by Hoopy Frood Productions, 2004.
Scene One
The Charity Ball.
(Various socialites mill about the stage.)
ANNOUNCER: The Annual Aparo City Charity Ball always brings out the wealthiest citizens the city has to offer. Including millionaire playboy Drake Anderson and his youthful ward Julie Adams (DRAKE and JULIE are revealed), who are secretly the caped crime fighters Mothman and Chrysalis.
DRAKE: Well, Dixon, it certainly looks like a good turn out this year.
DIXON: Anything’s better than that fiasco we had last year with the Bee-Master.
JULIE: We-I mean-Mothman and Chrysalis sure put the whammy on him, though.
DRAKE: That they did, chum. That they did.
DIXON: If you’ll excuse me.
DRAKE: Of course.
(DIXON approaches a podium, which has been placed UR.)
DIXON: H-hello? Is this thing on? Of course it’s on, I can hear myself over the speakers. Thanks to your generous donations this evening, we’ve raised over fifty million dollars for the Aparo City Orphanarium!
(There is much applause. PIRATE 1 enters wearing an eyepatch on his right eye.)
PIRATE 1: Rrrr.
(PIRATE 2 enters wearing an eyepatch on his left eye.)
PIRATE 2: Rrrr.
(PIRATE 3 enters wearing an eyepatch on his both eyes.)
PIRATE 3: Ssss.
(PIRATES 1 & 2 stare at PIRATE 3 in disbelief.)
PIRATE 1: Rrrr.
PIRATE 2: Rrrr.
PIRATE 3: Oooo. Rrrr.
PIRATES 1 & 2: Yesss.
PIRATES: Rrrr.
DIXON: What is the meaning of this?
PIRATE 1: We be pirates.
PIRATE 2: And this be a hold up.
PIRATE 3: Hand over th’ loot and no one walks th’ plank.
DRAKE: Quickly, Julie.
JULIE: Right.
(DRAKE and JULIE exit rather hurriedly.)
DIXON: You’re pirates.
PIRATES: Aye.
DIXON: Pirates?
PIRATE 1: We needed a gimmick.
PIRATE 2: And we just saw Curse o’ th’ Black Pearl.
PIRATE 3: That Johnny Depp is dreamy.
DIXON: Pirates.
PIRATE 1: Look matey, let me put it another way.
PIRATE RAP
(Sung by all three pirates in four part harmony)
It’s hard to be a pirate in this day and age
But da’ nine t’ five grind feels like we trapped in a cage
So we quit our jobs at th’ local Target
And bought these new clothes from a costume set
We were pirates
We were mean
We were vicious and cruel
But da’ biggest body of water we could find was a pool
Forsakin’ the high seas, we turned to crime
Drinkin’ Coronas with tiny slices o’ lime
We spend our days lookin’ for booty
And once we find our treasure, we’ll look for some cuties
Oh, yeah.
All th’ pirates in th’ house go, “Rrrr.”
So here we end our tale o’ woe and tragedy
How we ditched our jobs and turned t’ piracy
But enough o’ this rap, ‘tis getting hard to rhyme
We’re gonna stop it now because it’s time…to steal
Word
Peace Out
PIRATE 1: Hand over the booty.
(Enter MOTHMAN and CHRYSALIS)
MOTHMAN: I don’t think so, you perfidious, pilfering purveyors of piracy.
CHRYSALIS: You tell ‘em, Mothman!
PIRATE 3: Uh oh, it’s the hooded heroes, Mothman and Chrysalis!
PIRATE 2: Get ‘em.
(A fight ensues between the PIRATES and our heroes. They make quick work of the PIRATES, which is good if you’re a fan of heroics but bad if you like pirates. I, myself, am on the fence about this one.)
DIXON: Thank you, Mothman, Chrysalis. You just saved the Aparo City Orphanarium.
CHRYSALIS: Think nothing of it, citizen.
MOTHMAN: Yes. The real heroes are the ones who raised the money in the first place, like Drake Anderson.
DIXON: (eyeing MOTHMAN) Anderson. Right.
MOTHMAN: Now, if you’ll excuse us.
DIXON: Yes, of course.
MOTHMAN: To the Mothmobile, Chrysalis.
CHRYSALIS: Right, Mothman.
(MOTHMAN and CHRYSALIS exit.)
Comic- Lay Dee Odle Lay Dee Odle Lay Dee Doom
View the original script to Kate Anderson in Lay Dee Odle Lay Dee Odle Lay Dee Doom.
http://db.tt/5sjorhl
And the first four pages of the comic as well! Art by Kathy Harnack
http://db.tt/5sjorhl
And the first four pages of the comic as well! Art by Kathy Harnack
Non Fiction- Outside the Conventions and Humdrum Routine of Everyday Life: Being a Slight Monograph on Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor
Ingrained into the cultural consciousness of Britain are five fictional characters: King Arthur, Robin Hood, Sherlock Holmes, James Bond and The Doctor. These are characters that have withstood not only the tests of time, but the impact of multiple and desperate being buffeted upon them. On the eve of Sherlock Holmes being brought back by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss, it is time to examine the Holmesian connection with Doctor Who.
There are many casting crossovers between Doctor Who and various Holmes productions. The most famous example of this is Tom Baker who has played both Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty in the play The Mask of Moriarty and played Holmes in Barry Letts’ production of “Hound of the Baskervilles”. Joining him in that production was Caroline John (Liz Shaw) playing Laura Lyons; she also played Mrs. Carnac in the Jeremy Brett-led “The Dying Detective”. Ian Marter (Harry Sullivan) has a bit part as Inspector Fereday in Brett’s version of “The Musgrave Ritual”. Two-time non-canonical Doctor Richard E. Grant played Mycroft Holmes and Stapleton in two separate Holmes films released in 2002. His Withnail and I costar Paul McGann played Arthur Wright in FairyTale: A True Story, a movie about Arthur Conan Doyle’s investigation of the Cottingley Fairies. And everyone’s third favorite Sherlock Holmes, Peter Cushing played the Doctor in the 60’s Dalek movies and Doyle himself in The Great Houdini.
While his influence is felt most strongly upon Jon Pertwee’s tenure as the Doctor, Holmes was in the show’s hopper from the beginning. Consider the false modesty of Holmes and the first Doctor. While both are very aware of their abilities, they will pass along credit or deny involvement in matters if they think it beneath them. They swing wildly from irritable complaining to wry humour in an instant. This should come as no surprise; after all, Sydney Newman did create Adam Adamant Lives!. Newman may not have read the classics, but he did know populist drama better than anyone.
It has often been said, by Barry Letts among others, that the master is Moriarty to the Doctor’s Holmes and while this cannot be disputed, it misses the larger picture. The whole of the UNIT era is an extended pastiche of Sherlock Holmes, with a fair amount of the aforementioned Mister Bond thrown in for good measure. Think about it: the hero is more than content to sit in his laboratory and perform his experiments in peace. He is accompanied by his companion who, although a fully capable person in their own right, is often reduced to asking superfluous questions. The hero is coaxed out of his rooms by a gruff official who drops tantalizing clues to an inexplicable occurrence. The hero and the official are frequently at odds, but have a deep respect for one another. Now where have we seen this before? Turning Sgt. Benton into Mrs. Hudson is however, tea making skills aside, a supposition too far.
And how can we forget “The Talons of Weng Chiang”? We are beaten over the head with the Holmesian imagery by, erm, Robert Holmes but it worth pointing out that the episode isn’t really a Doyle pastiche. At its heart “Talons” is a Yellow Peril story1. Most of the Sherlock Holmes stories that people are familiar with were written before the true rise of the Yellow Peril in fiction. The only story in the canon to deal with such matters is “The Man with the Twisted Lip” and even then only obliquely. Leaving aside the science fiction elements, the bare facts of the case would not have Holmes racing down to the theatre. He might have mentioned to Lestrade to keep an eye on Li H’sen Chang, but on its surface, it is an uninteresting matter that easily could have been handled by any half-observant detective sergeant. The only real mystery in “Talons” is how they have eluded the authorities for as long as they did. Finally, as every true aficionado knows, the deerstalker was a cap to be worn in the country. No-one would wear one about London like that. Well, no gentleman anyway…
Having now eliminated our improbable truths, we are left with the impossible. Our primary guide for this timeline shall be Doctor Who and its related media; were we to open the floodgates to every Holmes pastiche we would be here all evening. The traditional Holmesian canon will be observed2 with two notable additions: Nicholas Meyer’s The West End Horror, which is specifically referred to in The Gallifrey Chronicles; and William S. Baring Gould’s Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, which informs much of the background to All-Consuming Fire. Neither shall we enter into a discussion on the chronology of the Holmes canon, as debates over that make trying to date the UNIT stories a cakewalk by comparison. A quick word on the matter of existence; for the sake of the following, we shall assume that Sherlock Holmes was a real person in the Doctor Who universe. It is suggested in both All-Consuming Fire and Happy Endings that the names Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson were mere fabrications by Arthur Conan Doyle (who also exists) to protect the identities of the real men. It does not particularly matter for our purposes and for clarity they shall be referred to by those names with which we are familiar.
1843 All-Consuming Fire
The first Doctor and Susan met Siger Holmes (father, although not yet, of Sherlock) in India. It was a chance meeting, but Siger’s stories of mystic fakirs who could rip holes in the fabric of space intrigued the Doctor. The seventh Doctor, Ace and Benny were also present, observing the meeting at a distance.
1870
The Doctor finished taking a medical degree at the University of Edinburgh, studying under Joseph Bell3. The same year Watson began his studies at the same university. He took both his bachelor of medicine and his baccalaureate of surgery there, graduating in 1876. In his final year he was impressed with the tenacity of freshman Arthur Conan Doyle. He sensed in Doyle a shared spirit and encouraged his writings. Watson left for London, spending time at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and finishing his doctorate through the University of London in 18784.
1880 Evolution
The bogs of Dartmoor were plagued by a genetically engineered ‘werewolf’ constructed from a Rutan healing salve. Arthur Conan Doyle, in port from the whaler Hope, assisted the fourth Doctor in tracking down the werewolf and prevented its creator from turning more children into ‘mermaids.’ Doyle took inspiration from these events to embellish stories later given to him by Watson and Edward Malone. At some point during these proceedings the Doctor takes Doyle’s stethoscope, which he used in a later incarnation aboard the R1015.
At some point prior to 1883 Doyle met with Redvers Fenn-Cooper, who told his tale of a lost world on the African plain full of prehistoric creatures. Doyle laughed at the story and soon afterward Fenn-Cooper disappeared. Feeling some sort of guilt, when Edward Malone later came to him with a similar story of Professor Challenger’s exploits in Argentina, Doyle helped him publish6.
1882-1883 Erasing Sherlock
A young Sherlock Holmes has solved the mystery of The Study in Scarlet, but is still struggling to make ends meet. Into this precarious position is thrust Rose Donnelley aka Maria Tory aka Gillian Rose Petra, a time traveler sent to study Holmes by posing as a maid for Mrs. Hudson. Though Holmes quickly determined that all is not as it appeared with their new maid, he was distracted not only by a rash of disappearance in the burgeoning London gay scene, but by his own growing feelings towards Gillian. The whole affair was masterminded by a 21st century professor, Jimmy Moriarty, and his associate in the 19th, Thomas Corkle, a psychopath who was responsible for the disappearances. Using technology and ritual practices given to them by the Celestis7, or possibly Faction Paradox8, Moriarty torments Holmes for no other reason than to see what would happen to the timestream. Holmes and Gillian defeat Corkle and she returns to her native time using a ritual powered in part by the eruption at Krakatoa on August 26th, 1883.
Holmes and Gillian travel to Krakatoa on a ship called the Hope. This is not the same Hope that Doyle traveled on, as that was a whaling vessel that would have never traveled south of the 49th parallel. There are at least three incarnations of the Doctor that were also present at Krakatoa, the ninth, the tenth, and another earlier incarnation9. The crystalline entity eventually known as Mr. Smith was freed during the explosion. It would later come to be integrated into a computer used by Sarah Jane Smith10.
We are given several elements incongruous with what we know of Holmes, not only from the canon but from other Who books as well. Holmes’ siblings are elder brother Mycroft and a younger, developmentally impaired sister Genevieve. We meet Shinwell Johnson, an informant, twenty years early. In “The Illustrious Client”, he is introduced by Watson thusly, ‘I have not had occasion to mention Shinwell Johnson in these memoirs because I have seldom drawn my cases from the latter phases of my friend’s career. During the first years of the century he became a valuable assistant.’ And there is the matter of Grimsley Roylott. Grimesby Roylott is the antagonist of “The Adventure of the Speckled Band”. The back cover of Erasing Sherlock states ‘Dr Grimsley Roylott of Stoke Moran arrested in connection with suspicious deaths of his stepdaughters, Julia and Helen Stoner.’ In the story with which we are familiar, Julia does not die, nor is there any evidence against Roylott until Holmes investigates. If we are to assume that Julia dies because Holmes was otherwise occupied on route to Krakatoa, Roylott would still not have been arrested. Nor does this address his bizarre name change. The answers to these conundrums are answered simply, if not satisfactorily. These events take place during a time war. This more than likely isn’t the Great Time War, although the two probably followed in quick succession. It is uncertain how the events have reflected themselves in the main timeline, if at all. The entirety could be contained in a bubble or been wiped out by later incursions into the timeline.
1887 All-Consuming Fire
Following the theft of several sensitive books from the Library of St John the Beheaded, Holmes and Watson were called upon by Pope Leo XIII to investigate. Chief among Holmes’ suspects is the seventh Doctor, who quickly attached himself to the investigation. However it was soon apparent that Baron Maupertuis, already suspected by Mycroft Holmes and the Diogenes Club of shady business transactions, was the true malefactor. Before following Maupertuis to India, Holmes learned from his eldest brother Sherringford that the stolen books were their father’s journals, which contain instructions on how fakirs could chant open a gateway to another world. Once in India, Holmes, Watson and the Doctor meet up with Benny who confirms that Maupertuis is building an army to conquer the alien world Ry’leh. Hearing the chant, the Doctor is alarmed to discover that they are actually fighting the Great Old One Azathoth. On Ry’leh Maupertuis’ army are revealed not as conquerors but as a distraction to free Azathoth and her disciples, including Sherringford. The Doctor redirected the chant on the return trip to Earth to land during the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, killing Azathoth and Sherringford. Watson chronicled the adventure and shared it with Doyle, but it is never published. Doyle refused to talk directly about his own experience with the Doctor11.
There are numerous references to Holmes’ prior cases which need not concern us here, but the overall date of 1887 is a puzzle. It is implied that the story takes place after “Talons of Weng Chiang”, i.e. the Doctor staying with Professor Litefoot and Holmes’ investigation of The Affair of the Walking Ventriloquist’s Dummy. And yet Talons is dated 1889, or certainly after the Ripper murders. There is nothing to prevent the Doctor from staying with his friend without revealing his true identity, but Holmes’s investigation is still troubling. However, it is never stated in the episode how long Greel was in London nor is there any indication in the novel where Holmes’ case took place.
There are a few other matters of interest as well. The Library of St John the Beheaded contains a copy of Love’s Labours Wonne, which cannot be the precise play that we see in “The Shakespeare Code” as all the copies there were destroyed. It is possible that Shakespeare wrote another play with the same title or another playwright could have written one and it was attributed to the Bard. Obviously some version of the events at the Globe got out and the Catholic Church decided that no matter the actual contents of the play, it would be suppressed. At the beginning of the book, Holmes and Watson share a train with Robert Baden-Powell, whom the Doctor later would meet as part of another adventure with Doyle12. The Doctor spins a ghastly tale of spontaneous human combustion in front of a bar full of policemen, including Inspector Abberline. The following year, Abberline was put in charge of investigating the Ripper murders of which the seventh Doctor was briefly suspect of and turned out to be committed by the Valeyard13. Lord Roxton assists Holmes in India, while Professor Challenger is named as a visitor to The Library. Both these men would later share an adventure with Edward Malone, who published their exploits with Doyle’s help14. And there is mention made of a Diogenes Club agent, Charles Beauregard. In a parallel universe Beauregard is a key agent for the Diogenes Club, who later battled an entity known as the Cold15, fought in this universe by the first Doctor16.
Happy Endings
In autumn of the same year, Holmes and Watson again meet the seventh Doctor and travel to the future to attend the wedding of Bernice Summerfield.
At some point after this time the Doctor first meets Sherlock Holmes from his perspective17.
1893 The Adventure of the Diogenes Damsel
Many years later for Benny, she landed in London bereft of an operational time ring. She turned to her friend Watson only to fid him unavailable and as Holmes was ‘dead’ at the time, she turned to his brother Mycroft. Together they worked to solve a baffling series of crimes revolving around the number seven. It was revealed that the crimes were committed by a deranged clone of Benny’s old traveling companion, Christopher Cwej to attract the attention of the seventh Doctor. Benny, Mycroft and Lord Straxus, a similarly stranded Time Lord, were able to stop him from killing Oscar Wilde. With Straxus’ assistance, Benny was able to return to her native time.
Mycroft is not quite as Doyle describes him, instead being taller, thinner and fully willing to travel further than his usual orbit. Mycroft explains that Doyle had exaggerated his attributes for dramatic effect to highlight the differences between the Holmes brothers.
1895 The West End Horror
An amnesic eighth Doctor investigated a series of murders connected with the London theatrical scene. It is unclear how far the Doctor came in his investigation as the case was swiftly solved by Holmes and Watson. The case brought Holmes in contact with Oscar Wilde, long time friend of the Doctor and Gilbert and Sullivan, from whom the first Doctor obtained an opera cloak18.
Inspector Lestrade was assisted by the tenth Doctor and Rose in The Case of the Unsuitable Suitor. The details of the case remain undisclosed, save for the identity of the aforementioned suitor, the quite literally two faced Professor Janus. Immediately following this, the Doctor and Rose become entangled in an adventure with Bram Stoker (investigated by Holmes during The West End Horror) and a vampiric version of Oscar Wilde.
1902 Revenge of the Judoon
King Edward VII was abducted by a squad of Judoon looking for an anachronistic plasma coil at Balmoral Castle. The Doctor and Martha arrived just in time to meet the King’s aide, Captain Carruthers, who showed them the plasma coil which was given to him by Arthur Conan Doyle. Martha and Carruthers visited Doyle back in London while the Doctor traced the King. Doyle told them the coil was given to him by a group called the Cosmic Peacekeepers, eventually revealed to be the spearhead of an alien invasion. The Doctor rescued the King, convinced the Judoon to withdraw and destroyed the Peacekeepers’ weapon, but did not re-meet Doyle.
Shortly after this, Doyle’s friend and sometimes collaborator J.M. Barrie was given the idea for Peter Pan by an alien who told him a universally popular fairy tale19. Whether or not Barrie shared this experience with his friend is a matter of conjecture. Around the same time Doyle’s future friend Harry Houdini taught the Doctor the basics of escapism20.
1920
In the grip of deep depression due to a series of tragedies befalling his family, Doyle was called upon to verify the photos of the Cottingley Fairies. While he believed them to be genuine, they were not verified until 2007 when Captain Jack Harkness and Torchwood came into contact with the same group of fairies21.
2010 Happy Endings
Holmes and Watson were brought forward from the past to attend the wedding of Bernice Summerfield. While initially overwhelmed by the unfamiliar settings, Holmes recovered and after catching up with modern affairs, he was able to assist Roz Forrester with the Adventure of the Curious Landowner. On the surface, the case was a trifling one; Roz found evidence of an illegal pesticide/genetic agent called Bloom, which in Roz’s future was used as part of the Kilbracken cloning technique. Holmes quickly determined the likely owner of the Bloom as the only farmer in the area with the means to obtain it, Lord Tasham. Confronted, Tasham admitted to buying 30 barrels but only to prevent its use by others. When Tasham went to show his accusers the barrels, they all discovered that they had been stolen. As it transpired, the barrels were taken by the Master in a desperate attempt to clone himself a new body. Neither Holmes not Watson played a major role in the Master’s downfall, that honour going to Ishtar Hutchings, the Brigadier and four copies of the seventh Doctor.
From this point, the Doctor has no more direct contact with Holmes, but there are a few more tantalizing references to Holmes’ ultimate fate. In the 33rd century, across the former continent, Europa is home to a dark, twisted world of historical and fictional celebrity reconstructions22. While Holmes is not mentioned, it seems inconceivable that he is not among those revived. And along similar lines, Holmes exists in the City of the Saved, a bubble set between the end of this universe and the beginning of the next that contains every human being that ever existed. Not only has the historical Holmes been resurrected, many filmic representations were brought to life using ‘remembrance tanks.’ All these versions of Holmes have gathered together and formed The Great Detective Agency, solving any problem that might arise when you have the entirety of human history in one place at the same time23.
No other fictional concept has been covered in so much depth in Doctor Who as Holmes. Perhaps that is that is because few other concepts have as much depth themselves. We like Holmes for the same reasons we like the Doctor; at their best they are strong, well defined characters that prefer to use their intellects rather than their fists. They’re smart, they’re clever, and although appreciated by the masses, for their true fans, they are adored. It is no wonder that Holmes and his associates keep reoccurring in the Doctor’s life; the Doctor is peerless in his universe, so he to import one from another.
Bibliography
Baring-Gould, William S. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. New York: Bramhall House, 1962.
Barnes, Alan, and John Ross. "Bat Attack!/Battle of Reading Gaol." Doctor Who Adventures #11-12, 2006.
Barnes, Alan. Doctor Who: Storm Warning. Big Finish Productions. 2001.
Cornell, Paul. Happy Endings (Doctor Who: The New Adventures). Berkeley: London Bridge (Mm), 1996.
Cornell, Paul. Timewyrm Revelation (Doctor Who: The New Adventures). Berkeley: London Bridge (Mm), 1991.
Davies, Russell T. "Rose." Doctor Who. BBC. 1995.
Dicks, Terrance. Doctor Who: Revenge of the Judoon. New York: BBC Books, 2008.
Doyle, Arthur Conan and William S. Baring-Gould. The Annotated Sherlock Holmes. New York: Clarkson Potter, 1972.
Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Lost World. New York: Tor Classics, 1997.
Doyle, Arthur Conan, and Leslie S. Klinger. The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes. New York: W.W. Norton, 2005.
Ford, Phil. "The Lost Boy." Sarah Jane Adventures. BBC. 2007.
Hale, Kelly. Faction Paradox: Erasing Sherlock. New York: Mad Norwegian P, 2006.
Hammond, Peter J. "Small Worlds." Torchwood. BBC. 2006.
Holmes, Robert. "Talons of Weng Chiang." Doctor Who. BBC. 1977.
Houghton, Don. "Inferno." Doctor Who. BBC. 1970.
Lane, Andy. All-Consuming Fire (Doctor Who: The New Adventures). Berkeley: London Bridge (Mm), 1994.
Marley, Stephen. Managra (Doctor Who: The Missing Adventures). Berkeley: London Bridge (Mm), 1995.
Meyer, Nicholas. The West End Horror-A Posthumous Memoir of John H. Watson, M.D. Boston: W. W. Norton & Company, 1994.
Morris, Johnny. The Tomorrow Windows (Doctor Who: The Eighth Doctor Adventures). New York: BBC Books, 2004.
Nation, Terry. "The Keys of Marinus." Doctor Who. BBC. 1964.
Newman, Kim. "Cold Snap." The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club. New York: MonkeyBrain Books, 2007.
Newman, Kim. Doctor Who: Time and Relative. London: Telos Publishing, 2002.
Parkin, Lance, and Lars Pearson. AHistory: An Unauthorized History of the Doctor Who Universe (Second Edition). New York: Mad Norwegian Press, 2007.
Parkin, Lance. The Gallifrey Chronicles (Doctor Who: The Eighth Doctor Adventures). New York: BBC Books, 2005.
Peel, John. Evolution (Doctor Who: The Missing Adventures). New York: London Bridge (Mm), 1995.
Perry, Robert, and Mike Tucker. Matrix (Doctor Who: The Past Doctor Adventures). New York: BBC Books, 1998.
Platt, Marc. "Ghost Light." Doctor Who. BBC. 1989.
Purser-Hallard, Philip. Faction Paradox: Of the City of the Saved. New York: Mad Norwegian Press, 2004.
Roberts, Gareth. "The Shakespeare Code." Doctor Who. BBC. 2007.
Sloman, Robert. "Planet of the Spiders." Doctor Who. BBC. 1974.
Smith, Jim. Bernice Summerfield: The Adventure of the Diogenes Damsel. Big Finish Productions. 2008.
Spencer, Si, and John Ross. "Under the Volcano" Doctor Who Adventures #3, 2006.
1 A Yellow Peril story is one in which Asian antagonists are intent on destroying the West. For more information I urge you to check out the work of Jess Nevins. One such article can be found here: http://www.violetbooks.com/yellowperil.html
2 The traditional Sherlock Holmes canon consists of the 56 short stories and the 4 novels written by Doyle. There are perhaps a dozen other works that are sometimes included, but none of them have any bearing on this discussion.
3 Bell was the Royal Physician whenever Queen Victoria was in Scotland. His unusual observational methods were noted by many, including Doyle, who became his assistant and used the experience as background for his stories.
4 “Tooth and Claw”, All-Consuming Fire, Annotated Sherlock Holmes
5 “Storm Warning”
6 “Ghost Light”, The Lost World
7 The Celestis were an offshoot of the Celestial Intervention Agency, who removed themselves from the universe in order to escape a time war.
8 Faction Paradox were an independent organization devoted to wrecking havoc in the timeline during the aforementioned time war.
9 “Rose”, “Under the Volcano”, “Inferno”. The first Doctor is the most likely candidate as he seemed more intent on seeing big events in earth’s history, but we cannot be certain.
10 “The Lost Boy”
11 All Consuming Fire: Prologue
12 Revenge of the Judoon
13 Matrix
14 The Lost World
15 “Cold Snap”
16 Time and Relative
17 Timewyrm: Revelation. The seventh Doctor tells Ace that he’s met Holmes, but precisely when this happens is a matter for speculation. We know from All-Consuming Fire that the third Doctor is a member of the Diogenes Club. It is a reasonable surmise that he and Holmes met while Holmes visited the club. Indeed, as we have seen, given their similarities they might have gotten on like a house on fire.
18 “Keys of Marinus”
19 “The Tomorrow Windows”
20 “Planet of the Spiders”
21 “Small Worlds”
22 Managra
23 Of the City of the Saved
Fiction- Turn of the Century
I had never been to Ireland. ‘Oh, you simply must go,’ my friend said. ‘It’s beautiful. And quiet too, if you stay out of Dublin and Cork. God’s own country.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that ‘God’s own country’ was Australia. But I could see her point and I did need some peace and quiet. Things between my boyfriend and I have been…strained as of late. For someone who knows a lot of languages, he has a hard time communicating what he’s feeling. I shouldn’t be too surprised, he is English after all.
My friend made the arrangements as I am absolutely hopeless with such things, and I soon found myself in the land of my forebears. Dad said at least part of the family came from Ireland. Regardless, red hair and an inclination to the bottle aside, I felt to particular affinity towards the country when I set down. Oh, it was pretty, no denying that, but there was nothing special.
I stayed in a little town called Balliskryn, near Sligo where W.B. Yeats was influenced in his younger years. My friend had stayed there the year before and the owner of the inn still remembered her. ‘Don’t get too many Americans in here,’ he said. ‘Few Germans, some English but Americans are rare. She was quite obliging, too.’ He licked his lips with the memory.
My friend, the harlot.
The next few days were spent in the local pub with my book, avoiding my lecherous innkeeper and getting lightly buzzed.
‘You should really get out and see the sights,’ the woman behind the bar said after my third straight day.
‘My job is sightseeing,’ I said, not a little tipsy. ‘When I’m on vacation I like to sit in a cave or the nearest civilized equivalent.’
‘Have you been to the caves, then?’ she asked excitedly. ‘They filmed parts of Nightshade there. My da was a monster.’ She pointed to a framed picture on the wall. A dashing middle-aged man had his arm around what looked like a guy covered in bubble wrap. It was signed, ‘To Jonny, stay scary-Edmund Trevithick.’
‘No, I haven’t. I was speaking figuratively.’
‘Oh,’ she sounded crestfallen.
‘I’m sure they’re very nice caves.’
‘It’s a cave,’ she shrugged. ‘But you might be interested in the ruins. You have that look about you.’
‘It’s the khaki, right? Anyway, about these ruins?’ I tried to feign disinterest.
‘There was a sculptor who lived a couple of kilometers outside town about a hundred years ago. Some of the OAPeeps say it’s haunted.’
‘Really?’ Damn, I was hooked.
‘I can get you a map if you like.’
The next day I set off for the ruins with a packed lunch provided by my new stalker. The hills weren’t too bad compared to some I’ve clamored over. If I took nothing else from the experience, I had to admit it was picturesque.
The ruins were just that: ruined. I had hoped for something a little more impressive. It was simply a rundown little cottage. Outside there were several stone statues done in the typical Victorian style. They had been exposed to the elements and neglected for too long, they were beginning to erode. Already some of the facial details had been lost. There was even one statue of someone called Tyrone Power, according to the base, which was missing an arm! It’s funny, because I’ve seen Alexander’s Ragtime Band and that statue looked nothing like Tyrone Power.
The door of the cottage just about fell of when I opened it, but the interior looked to be in surprisingly good condition. There was a hole in the roof that left one corner exposed to the elements. I was thankful it hadn’t rained recently, though it did smell of mould. I flicked open my Zippo to get a little more light inside.
I moved on to the bedroom and found a skeleton in the bed, long dead by the look of it. I pulled back the decayed blanket. The skeleton belonged to a woman with no obvious signs of trauma. I probably shouldn’t have gone near it without gloves at least, but if this place had been abandoned for a century…Pathology was never my strong point, I could tell no more than that.
‘Leave her,’ came an unearthly voice from behind me. I turned around.
There was a ghost. An actual ghost floating right in front of me. I’d never seen a ghost before. You read all sorts of accounts, but what can prepare you for seeing one yourself?
‘Hello,’ I said to the ghost.
‘Leave her,’ the ghost repeated.
I took a few steps away from the bed. ‘My name’s Kate. What’s yours?’
‘Roan,’ said the ghost. He was neither handsome nor gruesome, just a sort of blur. A blue spectre fading in and out of clarity.
‘Are you cold?’ I asked suddenly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I paused. ‘Who is she?’
‘She was my wife,’ the ghost intoned, his voice barely above a whisper.
I cleared my throat. ‘I believe it is customary to haunt the place where you died, not your significant other.’
‘Who said I did not perish here?’ Roan stepped backwards through the wall.
I followed him to the next room. There were more statues here, but they were all of the same person, the same woman. At least, I presumed so. They all lacked complete faces. A few had noses, some mouths, yet not one was finished. In the center of the room, in front of the most complete statue, there was a skeleton holding a hammer and chisel. The ghost was standing next to it.
‘This is you?’ The ghost nodded. ‘And all these?’
‘Are her, yes. I was an artist and she was my muse. She sang and would dance about the room. I always told her to be still, such that I could capture her beauty in the clay and the stone. She never listened.’
‘So you killed her,’ I said.
The ghost turned to me, fury in his dead eyes. ‘How could you say that? I would never do such a thing.’
‘I’m sorry. I read too many books.’
‘She fell ill. A cold, I said, nothing more. But it was. Time caught her and for all reasons took her. I could not bear it. I threw myself into work, ignoring the world and its demands as best I could. I am no Pygmalion and was not able to bring her to life, in my work or otherwise. I died, as she did, groping in dawn’s light for something not there,’ he was on the verge of tears. I’m sure if ghosts could cry, he would have. ‘Now I cannot even remember her face. Was I in love with her or her beauty?’
‘Is there a difference?’ I asked.
He shook his head and smiled at me. ‘Not at this point, I suppose.’
‘You have to move on. Let her go. You’re dead, she’s dead. Cherish the time you had together and get on with your afterlife.’
‘She haunts me so,’ the ghost wailed.
‘Now there’s an interesting concept,’ I said, waling over to Roan’s skeleton. Gently, I pried the hammer and chisel from his hands.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I did not answer him. I placed the chisel against the statue’s unfinished face and struck with the hammer. The statue shattered into a hundred fragments.
‘No!’ Roan cried. ‘What have you done?’
‘Let my indulgence set you free,’ I misquoted back to him. Before he disappeared I thought I saw something in his eyes that understood what I had done. I hoped so.
The autumn wind was blowing as I stepped outside. The dead leaves it picked up touched and danced in the currents. I shut the door behind me and tried to forget the story of all those many years ago.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that ‘God’s own country’ was Australia. But I could see her point and I did need some peace and quiet. Things between my boyfriend and I have been…strained as of late. For someone who knows a lot of languages, he has a hard time communicating what he’s feeling. I shouldn’t be too surprised, he is English after all.
My friend made the arrangements as I am absolutely hopeless with such things, and I soon found myself in the land of my forebears. Dad said at least part of the family came from Ireland. Regardless, red hair and an inclination to the bottle aside, I felt to particular affinity towards the country when I set down. Oh, it was pretty, no denying that, but there was nothing special.
I stayed in a little town called Balliskryn, near Sligo where W.B. Yeats was influenced in his younger years. My friend had stayed there the year before and the owner of the inn still remembered her. ‘Don’t get too many Americans in here,’ he said. ‘Few Germans, some English but Americans are rare. She was quite obliging, too.’ He licked his lips with the memory.
My friend, the harlot.
The next few days were spent in the local pub with my book, avoiding my lecherous innkeeper and getting lightly buzzed.
‘You should really get out and see the sights,’ the woman behind the bar said after my third straight day.
‘My job is sightseeing,’ I said, not a little tipsy. ‘When I’m on vacation I like to sit in a cave or the nearest civilized equivalent.’
‘Have you been to the caves, then?’ she asked excitedly. ‘They filmed parts of Nightshade there. My da was a monster.’ She pointed to a framed picture on the wall. A dashing middle-aged man had his arm around what looked like a guy covered in bubble wrap. It was signed, ‘To Jonny, stay scary-Edmund Trevithick.’
‘No, I haven’t. I was speaking figuratively.’
‘Oh,’ she sounded crestfallen.
‘I’m sure they’re very nice caves.’
‘It’s a cave,’ she shrugged. ‘But you might be interested in the ruins. You have that look about you.’
‘It’s the khaki, right? Anyway, about these ruins?’ I tried to feign disinterest.
‘There was a sculptor who lived a couple of kilometers outside town about a hundred years ago. Some of the OAPeeps say it’s haunted.’
‘Really?’ Damn, I was hooked.
‘I can get you a map if you like.’
The next day I set off for the ruins with a packed lunch provided by my new stalker. The hills weren’t too bad compared to some I’ve clamored over. If I took nothing else from the experience, I had to admit it was picturesque.
The ruins were just that: ruined. I had hoped for something a little more impressive. It was simply a rundown little cottage. Outside there were several stone statues done in the typical Victorian style. They had been exposed to the elements and neglected for too long, they were beginning to erode. Already some of the facial details had been lost. There was even one statue of someone called Tyrone Power, according to the base, which was missing an arm! It’s funny, because I’ve seen Alexander’s Ragtime Band and that statue looked nothing like Tyrone Power.
The door of the cottage just about fell of when I opened it, but the interior looked to be in surprisingly good condition. There was a hole in the roof that left one corner exposed to the elements. I was thankful it hadn’t rained recently, though it did smell of mould. I flicked open my Zippo to get a little more light inside.
I moved on to the bedroom and found a skeleton in the bed, long dead by the look of it. I pulled back the decayed blanket. The skeleton belonged to a woman with no obvious signs of trauma. I probably shouldn’t have gone near it without gloves at least, but if this place had been abandoned for a century…Pathology was never my strong point, I could tell no more than that.
‘Leave her,’ came an unearthly voice from behind me. I turned around.
There was a ghost. An actual ghost floating right in front of me. I’d never seen a ghost before. You read all sorts of accounts, but what can prepare you for seeing one yourself?
‘Hello,’ I said to the ghost.
‘Leave her,’ the ghost repeated.
I took a few steps away from the bed. ‘My name’s Kate. What’s yours?’
‘Roan,’ said the ghost. He was neither handsome nor gruesome, just a sort of blur. A blue spectre fading in and out of clarity.
‘Are you cold?’ I asked suddenly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Should I be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I paused. ‘Who is she?’
‘She was my wife,’ the ghost intoned, his voice barely above a whisper.
I cleared my throat. ‘I believe it is customary to haunt the place where you died, not your significant other.’
‘Who said I did not perish here?’ Roan stepped backwards through the wall.
I followed him to the next room. There were more statues here, but they were all of the same person, the same woman. At least, I presumed so. They all lacked complete faces. A few had noses, some mouths, yet not one was finished. In the center of the room, in front of the most complete statue, there was a skeleton holding a hammer and chisel. The ghost was standing next to it.
‘This is you?’ The ghost nodded. ‘And all these?’
‘Are her, yes. I was an artist and she was my muse. She sang and would dance about the room. I always told her to be still, such that I could capture her beauty in the clay and the stone. She never listened.’
‘So you killed her,’ I said.
The ghost turned to me, fury in his dead eyes. ‘How could you say that? I would never do such a thing.’
‘I’m sorry. I read too many books.’
‘She fell ill. A cold, I said, nothing more. But it was. Time caught her and for all reasons took her. I could not bear it. I threw myself into work, ignoring the world and its demands as best I could. I am no Pygmalion and was not able to bring her to life, in my work or otherwise. I died, as she did, groping in dawn’s light for something not there,’ he was on the verge of tears. I’m sure if ghosts could cry, he would have. ‘Now I cannot even remember her face. Was I in love with her or her beauty?’
‘Is there a difference?’ I asked.
He shook his head and smiled at me. ‘Not at this point, I suppose.’
‘You have to move on. Let her go. You’re dead, she’s dead. Cherish the time you had together and get on with your afterlife.’
‘She haunts me so,’ the ghost wailed.
‘Now there’s an interesting concept,’ I said, waling over to Roan’s skeleton. Gently, I pried the hammer and chisel from his hands.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I did not answer him. I placed the chisel against the statue’s unfinished face and struck with the hammer. The statue shattered into a hundred fragments.
‘No!’ Roan cried. ‘What have you done?’
‘Let my indulgence set you free,’ I misquoted back to him. Before he disappeared I thought I saw something in his eyes that understood what I had done. I hoped so.
The autumn wind was blowing as I stepped outside. The dead leaves it picked up touched and danced in the currents. I shut the door behind me and tried to forget the story of all those many years ago.
Fiction- The Case of the Drubbed Dirigible
When look back across the voluminous case files of my father, the noted investigator Sir Menlove Moulsdale, it is the cases in which I was personally involved that I am invariably drawn to. This is not surprising; who would not be enticed by such remembrances? Yet it is to one case that I return again and again, like an errant salmon to the stream of its birth.
The year was 1888 and although the Ripper had not yet committed his atrocities, the name Jack buzzed about the public, for Admiral Jack Nyland was about to retire from public service. For those too young or enfeebled to remember Admiral Nyland, he was the greatest naval hero the country had seen since the days of Nelson and Hornblower. He had begun his service as they had, sailing the ocean’s waves. When the first of the British Airships had been built in 1870 following the capture of plans made by that notorious rogue Robur, the then Captain Nyland was there. He changed the course of the Le Havre conflict in swift order and single handedly wrote the rules of aerial warfare. If I wax slightly poetic here, it must be remembered that he was my childhood hero, as he was with many my age. But these triumphs were in the past. The world was rather a safer place, all things considered, and Nyland had decided to retire to the Cotswolds where he would keep sheep. ‘They shall remind me of the clouds of which I was once so fond,’ he remarked to a reporter upon his announcement.
His final command was to be the maiden voyage of Britain’s first public airship. It had taken little convincing the public of the great benefits of air travel. Most were eager for fast trips to the Continent or to the Americas and those few that claimed that man was not meant to fly were ignored and safely confined to their pulpits of dwindling congregations. The inaugural voyage was a relatively short one, from Cardington in Bedfordshire to an airstrip just outside the newly reacquired city of Calais; a mere 170 mile journey, well within the capabilities of any airship of the day.
This first flight was not meant for the general populous; it would instead be filled with the same sort of dignitaries and important individuals that these events always catered to. My father, having just brought to a more than satisfactory conclusion the Affair of the Salted Quaker, was highly demanded in certain social circles. Normally, he politely declined all such invitations but showing a rare fatherly interest, he accepted this one for my benefit, reasoning quite rightly that I should enjoy meeting the Admiral of the Air.
The flight was set for eight in the morning on May the 30th. Not that the Volantis, for that was the name of the wonderous ship, took off at eight. First there were a series of speeches that were mind numbing to an eleven year old such as myself, although I am certain that even the speakers themselves found them monotonously dull. Prince Edward then made a brief appearance to christen the ship and further cement his reputation as a patron of science and technology. I am not ashamed to say that I cried and cheered when he broke the bottle of champagne over the bow, I know I was not alone. I fancy that I even saw my father grow slightly misty at the sight, but it could just as easily have been wishful thinking on my part. We boarded the grand vessel and I took in the atmosphere of the place. This was the history in the making and you could sense it in the air (ahem).
The cabin that was assigned to us was a modest affair, no better than a second class berth on a train. The more elaborate staterooms could keep even the most august royal personage in style and comfort for the ten day world voyage. It was rumoured that once it was deemed safe, Prince Edward would begin crisscrossing the globe about the Volantis to inspect his Imperial Mother’s holdings.
I spent the first hour staring out the window of our compartment. We were traveling at an altitude of only 1500 feet. Part of the object of this flight was to make the public aware of the new line. It would not do if the ship could not been seen. But the view was still more spectacular than anything I had seen until that morning. Even the dreariest countryside managed to look enticing from that ship.
After another hour a steward, ironically named Porter, appeared at the door and informed my father that should he wish to meet the Admiral, would he kindly follow this way? My father touched me lightly upon the knee and made motion towards the door. I smiled triumphantly at our cabin mate, a shorter man with blocky mustaches and a severe look on his face. As we followed Porter I asked my father about the man we left behind.
‘That he is a civil servant is obvious. The only two breeds of gentlemen that keep their umbrellas and expressions so tightly furled, even in such clement weather, are civil servants and bankers. As the ship was financed wholly by Her Majesty’s Government, there would be no reason for a private banker to be on board. He did not work directly on this undertaking, for if he did he would surely be placed in a higher position of esteem than to be thrust with a minor public figure such as myself. No, Deke, he is no doubt an undersecretary in the War Office sent purely to observe on their behalf. That he is having an affair with an older woman who originally hailed from just outside Stuttgart but now works as a governess with a position for a family who live south of Regent’s Park is fascinating in its own right, but ultimately immaterial. That is all I could determine at a glance. Were I able to examine his left foot I could tell you precisely where he was born and whether he kept fish in his youth,’ my father scratched idly at his ear.
The steward was clearly astonished by my father’s deductive display but before he could ask him to elaborate on his methods, we had arrived at the bridge. It was just as well, for while my father’s methods were fascinating for those who did not know him, accustomed as I was to the minor feats of inference, I found them rather tiresome.
We were ushered through a portal onto the bridge. The rest of the ship’s interior had been designed by the famed artist and decorator Dòrje Cudglé with the utmost style and comfort in mind. Here though was the typical naval mentality was in hold. It was positively stark when compared to the rest of the ship, the only extraneous ornamentation a small commissioning plaque set in the corner.
‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing the exemplary investigator, Mr. Menlove Moulsdale?’ a plumy voice to my right boomed.
‘Indeed you do. And you are Admiral Jack Nyland.’ It was not a question.
The other men on the bridge parted, allowing the Admiral though. I had seen his portrait many times and the Boy’s Own Book of Aeronautic Adventures that was kept firmly on my nightstand had several engravings of the man. But nothing could prepare for the personal magnetism of the man. His burnsides, ever the rivals of the eponymous American general, were now tinged with grey and the hair that remained on his head barely covered his pate, but that distinctive nose still held proud. He grasped my father, rather oddly, by the left hand and shook it vigourously. ‘To think I stand here with the man who single handedly solved the glutinous gasogene gamble, an honour, sir.’
My father waved this aside. ‘A trivial matter compared with some of your ventures, Admiral. Ah, might I present my son Deke?’
The Admiral bent down and looked me in the eye. His breath smelled of tobacco. I am certain my father could have identified the variety if he wished. ‘Hello there, young matey. Like the ship?’
‘Y-yes, sir,’ I stammered.
‘You’re very lucky, you know. It’s not just anyone who gets to come up to the bridge. Would you like a look at the helm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He hollered at the helmsman, a Mr. Cohen, to move out to let me in closer. The helm appeared to be no more sophisticated than the wheel of an old rig but the Admiral took great delight in explaining the subtle instrumentation around us. All of a sudden, a great explosion rocked the ship. We were all thrown from our feet.
‘Mr. Farmer, contact the engine room! Damage report!’ the Admiral yelled.
‘Unable to contact the engine room, Admiral,’ Farmer shouted back.
‘Send a runner!’
‘Allow me to go,’ my father put a hand on Nyland’s shoulder. ‘Your men can be put to better use.’
The Admiral nodded and focused himself on processing the reports coming from his crew. In an instant my rather was running down the length of the Volantis and I was following close at his heels. We both leapt over a fallen man in a blue jacket. Had the situation not been so urgent, I would have stopped to help him. But if there was something wrong with the engine, soon it would not have mattered. ‘You should not have come,’ my father shouted back at me.’
‘What should I have done?’
‘I-I do not know,’ he spared a glance back at me and gave a grim smile.
We reached the engine room with surprisingly little difficulty. Steam bellowed out from half a dozen places. There was a man I presumed to be the engineer, lying on the floor. I flipped him over and gasped. A large portion of his face had been seared by the steam. He groaned. He was still alive! Fighting the wave of nausea welling inside of me, I pulled him into a sitting position. ‘Can you speak? What happened?’ I asked him. His eyes fluttered, but he did not wake.
My father popped into view covered in sweat, he held a spanner in his hand. ‘I have stemmed most of the leaks, but I am an amateur. How is her?’ he pointed towards the man I found.
‘I think he should recover, but is unable to offer anything now.’
Father found the communications tube and called up to the bridge. Ten minutes later, the Admiral stood in our midst once more. He had brought with him Mr. Farmer, who set about trying to repair the damage. The ship’s surgeon had already come to collect the unfortunate engineer to sick bay. ‘Gentlemen,’ the Admiral rumbled, ‘We are in dire straits. Mr. Ilsley has been gravely injured. The wireless telegraph has been destroyed, leaving us without communication to the outside world. And Mr. Farmer informs me that not only do we only have one engine operating, our steering has been tampered with as well!’
‘May I inspect the communications room?’ my father asked.
‘Of course,’ said the Admiral.
The communications room was just down the corridor from the engine room. It was small, there was barely enough room for my father and myself let alone the rotund Admiral. Nevertheless, the three of us squeezed in to examine the destruction. The wireless machine was utterly smashed. It would take a talent far greater than ours to resurrect it, if that was even possible.
‘As I said, completely destroyed,’ the Admiral grumbled.
‘I did not doubt your word, Admiral Nyland. I merely wished to examine the evidence.’
‘Evidence?’
‘To determine who caused this catastrophe.’
‘Pah! What does it matter now?’
‘It might matter a great deal, Admiral. But you should devote your full attentions to trying to right the airship or, as you so rightly say, it will all be for naught. You do what you must, and I shall do the same for my own field of expertise.
‘Very well,’ the Admiral shuffled out of the room. As soon as he departed we could hear him yelling for an update from Mr. Farmer.
‘What do you think?’
I peered gravely at the destroyed equipment. ‘There is a groove on the table’s edge that suggests the use of a sword or axe. An axe, more likely, as they are readily found about the ship for fire safety.’
My father smiled. ‘Anything else?’
‘The equipment has been smashed willy-nilly. If the crime were committed by someone with knowledge of such things they would either have disabled it in such a manner to make it appear still operational or otherwise only destroy the pertinent parts.’
‘A reasonable supposition, but an unhelpful one in this instance. Few on board would have such knowledge, so this does nothing to narrow our field. Still, there are a few points to be had. It was done by a left handed man. The grooves, which you correctly pointed out were from an axe, are arranged in a manner consistent with a man swinging an axe with his left hand. Also, before you ask, the grooves are too steady to have been done by a right handed man trying to throw us off the scent. That he stands between 5’10” and 6’ is of eminent use. Most aeromariners are chosen for their shortness of stature in order to make the cramped conditions slightly more tolerable. This means we are more than likely looking for one of the passengers. Run, boy, fetch a copy of the passenger list and meet me in our cabin.
The list was easily obtained from Porter the steward and I quickly rushed back to the cabin. My father was there, but out cabin mate was not. ‘He has been taken to the sick bay, or so I am told. He hit his head when the engine stopped. Ah, but you have the list. Quickly, give it here. Most of these names I recognize from various society functions, the sort of ignorable gentry that these things attract. Half of them are under the height requirement anyway. Hurm, now we come to the meat of the piece. There are some six likely candidates among them. I have circled the names. Get the steward to fetch them here on some pretext,’ my father sank back in the plush cabin bench. ‘And let us pray that we should find the villain that he is able to be brought to justice.’
With the help of the same obliging steward out suspect herded towards our cabin. They were brought before my father in turn. He asked them no questions; he just sat on the bench and took them in silently. His face betrayed no emotion, no hint of any suspicion. When they all passed through out chamber I turned to him. ‘Well?’
‘The third man, who was he?’
‘Morse Dalton.’
‘Ha! An obvious pseudonym. Fetch the Admiral and bring back “Morse Dalton.” Make sure that they do not see each other beforehand.’
The Admiral came with good news. ‘The airship is no longer in immediate peril!’
‘You have fixed the engines?’
‘No, but we have leveled off our descent. We are not going to crash into the Chanel. We should have enough power to reach Callas in little less than ninety minutes.’ At the last he checked his pocket watch.
‘Excellent. Now that we have solved one problem, let us move to the other. It is vitally important that whatever might occur you carry yourself with the calm demeanor that made you famous during the Battle of Piedmont. It helped to win the day there and so shall it here,’ my father clapped his hands together and rubbed them.
Morse Dalton was shown in once more by Porter. He was of stocky build and stood precisely six feet tall. He was immaculately dressed, without as much as a stray hair on his lapel. As he entered he looked only at my father, ignoring Porter, the Admiral and myself.
‘Mr. Dalton, was it? I believe this belongs to you.’ My father tossed him something. He caught it in his left hand and opened it to reveal a hapenny.
‘Eh, what’s this?’
‘It is what you must perceive your life to be worth if you were willing to sacrifice it to destroy this entire ship to get to one person.’
‘You are mistaken, sir.’
My father raised an eyebrow.
‘It is not that my life is worthless, it is that my hatred overwhelms it.’
‘By Jove, man. Who on earth could you possibly hate that much?’ the Admiral stood up.
‘You! You, you daft fool!’ Dalton lunged at the Admiral, hands springing for the throat. Porter and I managed to pry them apart. Dalton struggled in our grasp momentarily, and then let himself grow limp.
The Admiral fell back upon the bench. ‘I have never seen this man before in all my life. What have I done to him?’
‘It is for that very reason that he hates you, Admiral Nyland. This man, this so called Morse Dalton is you son,’ my father said gently.
‘That’s impossible! Mary and I never-‘
‘No, but you and Sophronia did. Sophronia James. Do you remember her, Admiral? Do you remember you little conquest after the Siege of Lyons?’ Dalton spat out the words with a hatred I had never seen before or since.’
‘Sophronia? That was over twenty five years ago, before I met Mary,’ the Admiral said.
‘Twenty eight. It was twenty eight years ago. I, “Father”, was born nice months after that. And in the meanwhile between then and now I have grown to loathe you: you with your pompous, philandering ways. You care for nothing except your duty, not a soul in the world, not even that harlot you married.’ Dalton’s eyes gleamed with righteous fire. ‘I am your son, Admiral. I am also your killer!’ His hand went for his pocket and he brought out a pistol.
‘No!’ the Admiral shouted.
In a swift movement, my father’s leg lashed out, catching Dalton in the hand and sending the gun flying. The gun hit the cabin window and broke it open with a hideous crash. The wind swept in, fiercely off our hats off.
Before any of us could react, Dalton took one last look at the object of his hatred and jumped out of the broken window.
‘Son!’ the Admiral cried. He went to the window in a futile effort to grab Dalton, but it was far too late. Dalton’s body was far out of view, no doubt already in the ocean’s cold bosom. The Admiral collapsed on the floor. ‘How, Mr. Moulsdale?’
‘Come, Admiral, let us retire to the adjacent cabin and I shall explain the facts as I know them.’ We commandeered the cabin next door. Porter fetched us all a measure of brandy. My father glared at me slightly, but said nothing as I drank mine.
‘We may never know the whole truth,’ said my father after a long moment. ‘But is seems his story was genuine enough. The name of Morse Dalton, however, was false. When he entered my cabin at the first, he held his hat in his hand. What he failed to remember was that there was a tag in the lining that read “M. James.” What the M stood for I cannot be certain. It might very well have been Morse. Aside from that, his familial resemblance to you was quite striking. As our friend Mendel says, the dominant traits are passed to the next generation. Your noses held the same bridge, the same noble cleft chin and I need hardly point out that you are both left handed. There were other similarities, but these were the greatest. No doubt his mother was quite tall. Ah, I see by your face she was.
‘He had clearly been waiting for the opportunity for some time and with this being your last certain appearance in public life, he knew he had to strike now. And for the zealot, what better way to destroy you hated idol than to make sure that he is not only dead, but that his reputation and legacy is forever tarnished as well?’
‘Had I but known, I would have loved him from the start,’ the Admiral put his head in his hands.
‘And that is perhaps the greatest tragedy,’ said my father. ‘There are few bonds greater than that of parent and child but he was blinded by his ill-placed passion. You may rest assured that this will not become public knowledge, Admiral. We shall suppress your connection to Dalton. He shall be known merely as a lunatic. You will go into private life with your honour intact.’
‘I-thank you, Mr. Moulsdale. I will not forget this kindness you have shown me.’
The airship landed without further incident and despite the troubles of the maiden voyage, the travel line was a rousing success, as I am certain you are all aware. And Admiral Nyland did not forget my father’s help. A month after the affair, my father received a summons to the palace where he was knighted for his services to the Crown. The Admiral had placed words in the proper ears.
At this late date, I feel no particular compunction to preserve the Admiral’s secret. He has been dead now these past thirty years, soon after he retired in fact. There are those that live for duty and he was clearly one of them. The rumours of his secret son have circulated for nearly that long and it seems only fair to set them straight. As for my father, I will just say that remembering his words about family, although they were not directed to me, is a strong comfort to me at this time.
The year was 1888 and although the Ripper had not yet committed his atrocities, the name Jack buzzed about the public, for Admiral Jack Nyland was about to retire from public service. For those too young or enfeebled to remember Admiral Nyland, he was the greatest naval hero the country had seen since the days of Nelson and Hornblower. He had begun his service as they had, sailing the ocean’s waves. When the first of the British Airships had been built in 1870 following the capture of plans made by that notorious rogue Robur, the then Captain Nyland was there. He changed the course of the Le Havre conflict in swift order and single handedly wrote the rules of aerial warfare. If I wax slightly poetic here, it must be remembered that he was my childhood hero, as he was with many my age. But these triumphs were in the past. The world was rather a safer place, all things considered, and Nyland had decided to retire to the Cotswolds where he would keep sheep. ‘They shall remind me of the clouds of which I was once so fond,’ he remarked to a reporter upon his announcement.
His final command was to be the maiden voyage of Britain’s first public airship. It had taken little convincing the public of the great benefits of air travel. Most were eager for fast trips to the Continent or to the Americas and those few that claimed that man was not meant to fly were ignored and safely confined to their pulpits of dwindling congregations. The inaugural voyage was a relatively short one, from Cardington in Bedfordshire to an airstrip just outside the newly reacquired city of Calais; a mere 170 mile journey, well within the capabilities of any airship of the day.
This first flight was not meant for the general populous; it would instead be filled with the same sort of dignitaries and important individuals that these events always catered to. My father, having just brought to a more than satisfactory conclusion the Affair of the Salted Quaker, was highly demanded in certain social circles. Normally, he politely declined all such invitations but showing a rare fatherly interest, he accepted this one for my benefit, reasoning quite rightly that I should enjoy meeting the Admiral of the Air.
The flight was set for eight in the morning on May the 30th. Not that the Volantis, for that was the name of the wonderous ship, took off at eight. First there were a series of speeches that were mind numbing to an eleven year old such as myself, although I am certain that even the speakers themselves found them monotonously dull. Prince Edward then made a brief appearance to christen the ship and further cement his reputation as a patron of science and technology. I am not ashamed to say that I cried and cheered when he broke the bottle of champagne over the bow, I know I was not alone. I fancy that I even saw my father grow slightly misty at the sight, but it could just as easily have been wishful thinking on my part. We boarded the grand vessel and I took in the atmosphere of the place. This was the history in the making and you could sense it in the air (ahem).
The cabin that was assigned to us was a modest affair, no better than a second class berth on a train. The more elaborate staterooms could keep even the most august royal personage in style and comfort for the ten day world voyage. It was rumoured that once it was deemed safe, Prince Edward would begin crisscrossing the globe about the Volantis to inspect his Imperial Mother’s holdings.
I spent the first hour staring out the window of our compartment. We were traveling at an altitude of only 1500 feet. Part of the object of this flight was to make the public aware of the new line. It would not do if the ship could not been seen. But the view was still more spectacular than anything I had seen until that morning. Even the dreariest countryside managed to look enticing from that ship.
After another hour a steward, ironically named Porter, appeared at the door and informed my father that should he wish to meet the Admiral, would he kindly follow this way? My father touched me lightly upon the knee and made motion towards the door. I smiled triumphantly at our cabin mate, a shorter man with blocky mustaches and a severe look on his face. As we followed Porter I asked my father about the man we left behind.
‘That he is a civil servant is obvious. The only two breeds of gentlemen that keep their umbrellas and expressions so tightly furled, even in such clement weather, are civil servants and bankers. As the ship was financed wholly by Her Majesty’s Government, there would be no reason for a private banker to be on board. He did not work directly on this undertaking, for if he did he would surely be placed in a higher position of esteem than to be thrust with a minor public figure such as myself. No, Deke, he is no doubt an undersecretary in the War Office sent purely to observe on their behalf. That he is having an affair with an older woman who originally hailed from just outside Stuttgart but now works as a governess with a position for a family who live south of Regent’s Park is fascinating in its own right, but ultimately immaterial. That is all I could determine at a glance. Were I able to examine his left foot I could tell you precisely where he was born and whether he kept fish in his youth,’ my father scratched idly at his ear.
The steward was clearly astonished by my father’s deductive display but before he could ask him to elaborate on his methods, we had arrived at the bridge. It was just as well, for while my father’s methods were fascinating for those who did not know him, accustomed as I was to the minor feats of inference, I found them rather tiresome.
We were ushered through a portal onto the bridge. The rest of the ship’s interior had been designed by the famed artist and decorator Dòrje Cudglé with the utmost style and comfort in mind. Here though was the typical naval mentality was in hold. It was positively stark when compared to the rest of the ship, the only extraneous ornamentation a small commissioning plaque set in the corner.
‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing the exemplary investigator, Mr. Menlove Moulsdale?’ a plumy voice to my right boomed.
‘Indeed you do. And you are Admiral Jack Nyland.’ It was not a question.
The other men on the bridge parted, allowing the Admiral though. I had seen his portrait many times and the Boy’s Own Book of Aeronautic Adventures that was kept firmly on my nightstand had several engravings of the man. But nothing could prepare for the personal magnetism of the man. His burnsides, ever the rivals of the eponymous American general, were now tinged with grey and the hair that remained on his head barely covered his pate, but that distinctive nose still held proud. He grasped my father, rather oddly, by the left hand and shook it vigourously. ‘To think I stand here with the man who single handedly solved the glutinous gasogene gamble, an honour, sir.’
My father waved this aside. ‘A trivial matter compared with some of your ventures, Admiral. Ah, might I present my son Deke?’
The Admiral bent down and looked me in the eye. His breath smelled of tobacco. I am certain my father could have identified the variety if he wished. ‘Hello there, young matey. Like the ship?’
‘Y-yes, sir,’ I stammered.
‘You’re very lucky, you know. It’s not just anyone who gets to come up to the bridge. Would you like a look at the helm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He hollered at the helmsman, a Mr. Cohen, to move out to let me in closer. The helm appeared to be no more sophisticated than the wheel of an old rig but the Admiral took great delight in explaining the subtle instrumentation around us. All of a sudden, a great explosion rocked the ship. We were all thrown from our feet.
‘Mr. Farmer, contact the engine room! Damage report!’ the Admiral yelled.
‘Unable to contact the engine room, Admiral,’ Farmer shouted back.
‘Send a runner!’
‘Allow me to go,’ my father put a hand on Nyland’s shoulder. ‘Your men can be put to better use.’
The Admiral nodded and focused himself on processing the reports coming from his crew. In an instant my rather was running down the length of the Volantis and I was following close at his heels. We both leapt over a fallen man in a blue jacket. Had the situation not been so urgent, I would have stopped to help him. But if there was something wrong with the engine, soon it would not have mattered. ‘You should not have come,’ my father shouted back at me.’
‘What should I have done?’
‘I-I do not know,’ he spared a glance back at me and gave a grim smile.
We reached the engine room with surprisingly little difficulty. Steam bellowed out from half a dozen places. There was a man I presumed to be the engineer, lying on the floor. I flipped him over and gasped. A large portion of his face had been seared by the steam. He groaned. He was still alive! Fighting the wave of nausea welling inside of me, I pulled him into a sitting position. ‘Can you speak? What happened?’ I asked him. His eyes fluttered, but he did not wake.
My father popped into view covered in sweat, he held a spanner in his hand. ‘I have stemmed most of the leaks, but I am an amateur. How is her?’ he pointed towards the man I found.
‘I think he should recover, but is unable to offer anything now.’
Father found the communications tube and called up to the bridge. Ten minutes later, the Admiral stood in our midst once more. He had brought with him Mr. Farmer, who set about trying to repair the damage. The ship’s surgeon had already come to collect the unfortunate engineer to sick bay. ‘Gentlemen,’ the Admiral rumbled, ‘We are in dire straits. Mr. Ilsley has been gravely injured. The wireless telegraph has been destroyed, leaving us without communication to the outside world. And Mr. Farmer informs me that not only do we only have one engine operating, our steering has been tampered with as well!’
‘May I inspect the communications room?’ my father asked.
‘Of course,’ said the Admiral.
The communications room was just down the corridor from the engine room. It was small, there was barely enough room for my father and myself let alone the rotund Admiral. Nevertheless, the three of us squeezed in to examine the destruction. The wireless machine was utterly smashed. It would take a talent far greater than ours to resurrect it, if that was even possible.
‘As I said, completely destroyed,’ the Admiral grumbled.
‘I did not doubt your word, Admiral Nyland. I merely wished to examine the evidence.’
‘Evidence?’
‘To determine who caused this catastrophe.’
‘Pah! What does it matter now?’
‘It might matter a great deal, Admiral. But you should devote your full attentions to trying to right the airship or, as you so rightly say, it will all be for naught. You do what you must, and I shall do the same for my own field of expertise.
‘Very well,’ the Admiral shuffled out of the room. As soon as he departed we could hear him yelling for an update from Mr. Farmer.
‘What do you think?’
I peered gravely at the destroyed equipment. ‘There is a groove on the table’s edge that suggests the use of a sword or axe. An axe, more likely, as they are readily found about the ship for fire safety.’
My father smiled. ‘Anything else?’
‘The equipment has been smashed willy-nilly. If the crime were committed by someone with knowledge of such things they would either have disabled it in such a manner to make it appear still operational or otherwise only destroy the pertinent parts.’
‘A reasonable supposition, but an unhelpful one in this instance. Few on board would have such knowledge, so this does nothing to narrow our field. Still, there are a few points to be had. It was done by a left handed man. The grooves, which you correctly pointed out were from an axe, are arranged in a manner consistent with a man swinging an axe with his left hand. Also, before you ask, the grooves are too steady to have been done by a right handed man trying to throw us off the scent. That he stands between 5’10” and 6’ is of eminent use. Most aeromariners are chosen for their shortness of stature in order to make the cramped conditions slightly more tolerable. This means we are more than likely looking for one of the passengers. Run, boy, fetch a copy of the passenger list and meet me in our cabin.
The list was easily obtained from Porter the steward and I quickly rushed back to the cabin. My father was there, but out cabin mate was not. ‘He has been taken to the sick bay, or so I am told. He hit his head when the engine stopped. Ah, but you have the list. Quickly, give it here. Most of these names I recognize from various society functions, the sort of ignorable gentry that these things attract. Half of them are under the height requirement anyway. Hurm, now we come to the meat of the piece. There are some six likely candidates among them. I have circled the names. Get the steward to fetch them here on some pretext,’ my father sank back in the plush cabin bench. ‘And let us pray that we should find the villain that he is able to be brought to justice.’
With the help of the same obliging steward out suspect herded towards our cabin. They were brought before my father in turn. He asked them no questions; he just sat on the bench and took them in silently. His face betrayed no emotion, no hint of any suspicion. When they all passed through out chamber I turned to him. ‘Well?’
‘The third man, who was he?’
‘Morse Dalton.’
‘Ha! An obvious pseudonym. Fetch the Admiral and bring back “Morse Dalton.” Make sure that they do not see each other beforehand.’
The Admiral came with good news. ‘The airship is no longer in immediate peril!’
‘You have fixed the engines?’
‘No, but we have leveled off our descent. We are not going to crash into the Chanel. We should have enough power to reach Callas in little less than ninety minutes.’ At the last he checked his pocket watch.
‘Excellent. Now that we have solved one problem, let us move to the other. It is vitally important that whatever might occur you carry yourself with the calm demeanor that made you famous during the Battle of Piedmont. It helped to win the day there and so shall it here,’ my father clapped his hands together and rubbed them.
Morse Dalton was shown in once more by Porter. He was of stocky build and stood precisely six feet tall. He was immaculately dressed, without as much as a stray hair on his lapel. As he entered he looked only at my father, ignoring Porter, the Admiral and myself.
‘Mr. Dalton, was it? I believe this belongs to you.’ My father tossed him something. He caught it in his left hand and opened it to reveal a hapenny.
‘Eh, what’s this?’
‘It is what you must perceive your life to be worth if you were willing to sacrifice it to destroy this entire ship to get to one person.’
‘You are mistaken, sir.’
My father raised an eyebrow.
‘It is not that my life is worthless, it is that my hatred overwhelms it.’
‘By Jove, man. Who on earth could you possibly hate that much?’ the Admiral stood up.
‘You! You, you daft fool!’ Dalton lunged at the Admiral, hands springing for the throat. Porter and I managed to pry them apart. Dalton struggled in our grasp momentarily, and then let himself grow limp.
The Admiral fell back upon the bench. ‘I have never seen this man before in all my life. What have I done to him?’
‘It is for that very reason that he hates you, Admiral Nyland. This man, this so called Morse Dalton is you son,’ my father said gently.
‘That’s impossible! Mary and I never-‘
‘No, but you and Sophronia did. Sophronia James. Do you remember her, Admiral? Do you remember you little conquest after the Siege of Lyons?’ Dalton spat out the words with a hatred I had never seen before or since.’
‘Sophronia? That was over twenty five years ago, before I met Mary,’ the Admiral said.
‘Twenty eight. It was twenty eight years ago. I, “Father”, was born nice months after that. And in the meanwhile between then and now I have grown to loathe you: you with your pompous, philandering ways. You care for nothing except your duty, not a soul in the world, not even that harlot you married.’ Dalton’s eyes gleamed with righteous fire. ‘I am your son, Admiral. I am also your killer!’ His hand went for his pocket and he brought out a pistol.
‘No!’ the Admiral shouted.
In a swift movement, my father’s leg lashed out, catching Dalton in the hand and sending the gun flying. The gun hit the cabin window and broke it open with a hideous crash. The wind swept in, fiercely off our hats off.
Before any of us could react, Dalton took one last look at the object of his hatred and jumped out of the broken window.
‘Son!’ the Admiral cried. He went to the window in a futile effort to grab Dalton, but it was far too late. Dalton’s body was far out of view, no doubt already in the ocean’s cold bosom. The Admiral collapsed on the floor. ‘How, Mr. Moulsdale?’
‘Come, Admiral, let us retire to the adjacent cabin and I shall explain the facts as I know them.’ We commandeered the cabin next door. Porter fetched us all a measure of brandy. My father glared at me slightly, but said nothing as I drank mine.
‘We may never know the whole truth,’ said my father after a long moment. ‘But is seems his story was genuine enough. The name of Morse Dalton, however, was false. When he entered my cabin at the first, he held his hat in his hand. What he failed to remember was that there was a tag in the lining that read “M. James.” What the M stood for I cannot be certain. It might very well have been Morse. Aside from that, his familial resemblance to you was quite striking. As our friend Mendel says, the dominant traits are passed to the next generation. Your noses held the same bridge, the same noble cleft chin and I need hardly point out that you are both left handed. There were other similarities, but these were the greatest. No doubt his mother was quite tall. Ah, I see by your face she was.
‘He had clearly been waiting for the opportunity for some time and with this being your last certain appearance in public life, he knew he had to strike now. And for the zealot, what better way to destroy you hated idol than to make sure that he is not only dead, but that his reputation and legacy is forever tarnished as well?’
‘Had I but known, I would have loved him from the start,’ the Admiral put his head in his hands.
‘And that is perhaps the greatest tragedy,’ said my father. ‘There are few bonds greater than that of parent and child but he was blinded by his ill-placed passion. You may rest assured that this will not become public knowledge, Admiral. We shall suppress your connection to Dalton. He shall be known merely as a lunatic. You will go into private life with your honour intact.’
‘I-thank you, Mr. Moulsdale. I will not forget this kindness you have shown me.’
The airship landed without further incident and despite the troubles of the maiden voyage, the travel line was a rousing success, as I am certain you are all aware. And Admiral Nyland did not forget my father’s help. A month after the affair, my father received a summons to the palace where he was knighted for his services to the Crown. The Admiral had placed words in the proper ears.
At this late date, I feel no particular compunction to preserve the Admiral’s secret. He has been dead now these past thirty years, soon after he retired in fact. There are those that live for duty and he was clearly one of them. The rumours of his secret son have circulated for nearly that long and it seems only fair to set them straight. As for my father, I will just say that remembering his words about family, although they were not directed to me, is a strong comfort to me at this time.
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