Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“But — don’t they suck your blood out ?” Matty asked.

Balthassar shrugged. “A thimbleful each, perhaps. A small price to pay for good health, and one I do not begrudge them. Which reminds me...” He turned to Dr Berle. “I believe you have something for me?”

Berle had a disturbed look on his face. He took the box from his lap and put it on the table, then flicked a catch on top and opened a lid. From inside he took a glass jar with a lid made of waxed paper which was fastened on with string.

Inside the jar was something horrifying.

The leeches on Duke Balthassar’s face and hands — and presumably on the rest of his body as well — were small, barely larger than Sherlock’s little finger. The one in the jar was the size of his clenched fist, and it was a bright, glistening red. It lay curled around the bottom of the jar, its tiny head waving blindly in the air, seeking sustenance.

Virginia clutched her hand to her mouth and turned away. The cougars, lying on the veranda nearby, tried to edge back even further. Their teeth were exposed and their eyes looked wild and scared, but their fear of Balthassar seemed to exceed their fear of the leech, and they didn’t try to run.

“An impressive specimen,” Balthassar said, taking the jar from the table. “When did it last feed?”

“A month or so ago,” Berle replied. “Or so I’m told.” He paused, and swallowed, before continuing. “Duke, as a doctor — as your doctor — I have to tell you that this... treatment. . . isn’t something I recommend. In fact, I’m not even convinced it works. The things you’re doing to your body... they’re monstrous !"

“I’m still alive, Doctor, and I still have all of my extremities, minus two fingers and some toes,” Balthassar replied. “That is all the proof I need.” He pulled at a loose strand of string, and the knot holding the waxed paper on undid itself. And with this beautiful creature I will be able to think even more clearly and my stamina will be unbounded.”

He reached into the jar and carefully picked the leech out. It hung bonelessly from his fingers. He smoothed a strand of his fine white hair back from his face, then placed the leech behind his right ear.

The cougars made a mewing sound. They were terrified.

As Sherlock watched, the creature’s head moved around, searching for a vein, he presumed, then fastened itself on to Balthassar’s skin. Its rear end manoeuvred for a moment, wriggling around, and then it too fastened itself down firmly.

Balthassar closed his eyes and smiled blissfully. “That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s right, my beauty. Feed. Feed away’

“How... how long do they stay attached?” Sherlock asked.

“Days,” Balthassar replied dreamily, eyes still closed. “Weeks in some cases. When they have taken their fill they detach and hibernate for a month or two while they digest the still-fluid blood. I have a large supply of leeches — most from here in America, from Florida and from Alabama — but nothing like this one. Oh no, nothing like this one.” He smiled. “I knew it was there, in the jungles of the Far East. I could feel its presence. It called out to me, asking me to come and get it.”

There was something in his tone of voice that reminded Sherlock of John Wilkes Booth when he talked about smelling smoke — sleepy, not quite focusing on reality. Could the leech be secreting something else into his bloodstream apart from the anticoagulant, some kind of narcotic that stopped its victims from caring that there was a parasite attached to them and filled them with pleasant, hallucinatory thoughts? He filed the thought away for later — if there was a later. He still had no idea how the three of them were going to get away.

Sherlock’s attention was drawn by a movement down by Balthassar’s feet. The cougars were edging away from him. Their attention was fixed on the giant red leech, and they didn’t like it. They seemed afraid of it.

“Sherman, Grant,” Balthassar hissed, then he said something Sherlock couldn’t understand. The big cats stopped moving away, but their muscles were still tense.

The red leech appeared to be pulsing as Sherlock watched. Pulsing with Balthassar’s blood, intercepted from a vein behind his ear.

“You are wasting time,” Balthassar said. “Do you have any more questions?”

Sherlock tried to pull his attention away from the leech. “You said that 'the Government in Exile of the Confederacy still seeks to establish freedom from the oppressive regime of the Union for those states who wish it',” he quoted.

“Indeed.”

“But how?” Sherlock asked.

“Try to work it out. I will tell you if you are right.” As Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, Balthassar added: “Look on it as a way for me to get more information. If you can work it out, given that you know about Mr Booth, then the authorities can undoubtedly work it out as well. I promise, if you can’t work it out then I will give you the answer.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. The longer he could keep Balthassar talking, the more he could put off the moment of their deaths. Maybe he could think of some way to escape in the meantime. Maybe Amyus Crowe would find them.

“So,” he said. “John Wilkes Booths mind has gone. He’s alternately hallucinatory and violent, and he needs to be drugged most of the time just so you can move him around. He’s obviously no use as an assassin, or as anything else apart from just a figurehead. So you need him as a rallying point, someone you can wheel out on stage to inspire the troops.”

Balthassar nodded, but the word “troops” had sparked an idea in Sherlock’s brain, despite the fact that he’d only chosen it as a metaphor.

“You are rallying troops,” he said. “I can’t see you overturning the current Government or even seceding by political means. You’ve tried and failed. You’re raising an army, aren’t you? That’s why you need Booth — to motivate your army. To show them that there’s a direct connection between the War Between the States and what you’re doing now!"

Again, Balthassar nodded. “Go on.”

“But I can’t see you raising an army large enough to take on the Union’s Army. Not again. Not since you lost last time. So you need an army to do something else.” His mind was racing. “But what? If the Army isn’t going to fight on American soil then it must be aimed at invading somewhere else.” He tried to think back to the maps he’d looked at on the SS Scotia. “Mexico?” he asked.

Balthassar shook his head. “A good guess, but wrong. It was tried, a few years back, but the plan fell apart due to lack of support. And besides, Mexico is hot and arid, and has a standing army of its own which would resist us.”

“What then?” Sherlock asked, but even as he did so the answer sprang into his head. “If you have an army then you need a land border for them to cross,” he said. “The United States only has two land borders: one with Mexico and one with... Canada ?”

Balthassar nodded. “Well done. Yes, we have raised an army, several thousand strong, which is encamped not too far away from here. They have been finding their way here for several months, in dribs and drabs so as not to attract attention. With John Wilkes Booth as our figurehead — our mascot, if you like — we will march up and take the port of Halifax in order to prevent British resupply, then cut communication links between Eastern and Western Canada by capturing Winnipeg. We can then move through the country and capture Quebec and the Great Lakes region. Once that is done we can carve out a new nation where like-minded Confederates can join us and keep slaves, as God intended.”