Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

“Did you hear anything while you were in that state?” Holmes asked them, staring deep into their eyes.

Which, to the last, went blank a second, before flaring with a sudden recognition.

“It was very faint,” the Polish girl murmured, her nose blocked up from crying.

“But I thought I could hear laughter,” said the law student, still shaking.

“Cruel laughter,” added the newsvendor. “Makes me sick to think about it.”

“Some kind of malevolent poltergeist?” suggested Charlie Rooker as the final cell door closed behind them and they walked away.

Sherlock Holmes’ eyebrows came up.

“Do you really believe in such things, Inspector?”

Rooker looked awkward.

“Not normally, no. But – I hope you don’t mind, Mr Holmes – I’ve been following your career of late, newspaper reports and such. And it seems to me you’ve come across a few things that don’t answer any normal explanation.”

Holmes smiled mildly. “Yes, a few. I’m flattered that you’ve paid such interest. And your notion of a poltergeist might be near to the truth. But an exceptionally malevolent one, wouldn’t you say?”

When Rooker looked to him for explanation, he continued.

“It’s not merely committing crimes. It’s letting blameless people carry the can for each of them. There’s no telling who it will take over next, or where it will show up. In short, it’s throwing this entire population into turmoil.”

The inspector nodded when he saw Holmes’ point.

“A hateful being indeed. But why do you suppose it’s trying to cause so much damage?”

They reached the open street. Holmes tilted his face towards the sun, lowering his eyelids, and took a deep breath. He was relieved to be away from the cells. But he could not get rid of the feeling – it had been with him the past couple of days – that he was somehow being watched. It was only a faint instinct and he’d mentioned it, so far, to no one.

“And that goes to the heart of it, Inspector. Motive. What possible use would a poltergeist have for cash and valuables in the first place? Did you ever think of that?”

Charlie Rooker’s face went very still. Holmes managed to force a grin. He took a notebook from his pocket, scribbled an address and tore the sheet off.

“Meet me here at eight o’clock this evening please, Inspector. We are hopefully going to lay this poltergeist of ours to rest.”

London was a city most attractive in the twilight. The pace of life grew gentler. The streetlights – coming slowly on – gave the nearby walls and paving stones a gently burnished glow. Holmes was standing in a leafy square in Chelsea, watching while a flock of starlings spun in dizzying patterns above the high rooftops. He only looked away from them when a familiar car drew up.

“What’s this all about, guv?” Charlie Rooker asked when he got out. “Why do you suppose our poltergeist might show up here?”

“Because I’m going to invite him,” Holmes replied. “In fact, I’m going to dare him.”

When Charlie Rooker looked completely blank again, he pointed to a massive house that occupied one entire half of one side of the square. There were Rolls Royces and Bentleys parked outside it. And as the two detectives watched, a stretched limousine pulled up, a couple were disgorged. The man was in full evening dress, complete with cummerbund. The woman wore a sparkly ball gown, a fur stole and a tiara.

“That is one of the homes of the multi-billionaire Mikhail Verduchin,” Holmes explained.

“Blimey! The bloke who owns …?” And Rooker named a famous premier league football club.

“If you say so. But tonight he is hosting a charity ball of such opulence, of such accumulated wealth, that it rated mention in every single one of this morning’s better papers.”

Holmes had had them all delivered to his suite, and had studied them assiduously.

When Rooker looked more carefully, he could see that there were several heavy-set men in dark suits perched outside the house. He spotted a coiled flex leading to an earpiece, and surmised that these were privately hired security types. Ex-army by the look of them, with probably a number more inside. It would take a lunatic to go in there and attempt to commit a robbery.

“Nearly every wealthy person in this city is inside that house tonight,” Holmes went on. “Bankers and businessmen. Magnates and moguls. Pop stars and sporting heroes. All of them bejewelled and Rolexed to the eyeballs. And how could our poltergeist resist such a tasty and high-profile delicacy?”

“But what makes you so sure …?”

“I am certain because he’s nearby. I can feel it. He has become aware of my presence during the course of the last couple of days, and is taking a close interest in me.”

Rooker started glancing round.

“Oh, you won’t see him, Inspector,” Sherlock Holmes informed the man. “But he can see you. He can clearly see the pair of us.” Then he turned towards the centre of the square and spread his arms. And bellowed, “Can’t you!”

At which, utter confoundment overcame Inspector Rooker. He’d had – up until this point – the greatest of respect for Holmes. But now the most famous detective in the world was standing on an open street and shouting into thin air like some drunken maniac.

“Mr Holmes?”

But Holmes ignored him.

“You know I’m here!” he continued in the self-same wild and elevated tone. “Yes, you know I’m back in London! And it would please you mightily to lay me low, humiliate me, make me look a fool! So here’s your chance! Come on now – do your worst!”

The security men in front of the house were starting to take an interest. They were consulting with someone in the background, pressing their hands to their wired ears. And a few moments after that, a couple of them began walking carefully across.

“Mr Holmes !” repeated Rooker, far more forcefully this time.

And he started reaching for the great detective’s arm … when two things happened simultaneously.

He suddenly went slack, his own hand dropping back down by his side.

And then the men across the street went still as statues.

There was a part of Holmes that could only marvel at the power of this adversary he was facing. Taking over one soul at a time was impressive enough. But to freeze an entire security contingent into position? One of the men who’d been approaching him was caught in mid-stride. Another had his head bowed, and was unable to bring it up.

They might as well be dead, although they were not that. But they’d certainly be of no further use when it came to protecting the guests inside the house.

And then he looked around at Charlie Rooker. And what he saw practically chilled his blood.

To all intents and purposes, the police inspector looked precisely the same as he had done a few seconds before. The same manner of dress. The same collar-length hair. Nothing about his features or his poise had altered.

But his face had gone as hard as stone. His expression was not merely grim – there was a strange cruelty to the tilt of his lips and the slanting of his eyelids. Furrows that had not been there had appeared on his brow, and there was a heavy crease across the bridge of his nose that had not been present earlier either. The same face it might still be, except it had been subtly transformed by malicious intent.

It was a criminal’s visage he was staring into, not one of an officer of the law.

And then, there was that strange dark glint that had appeared in Rooker’s eyes. No CCTV camera, however advanced, could ever have picked it up. If a person’s eyes were indeed the windows to his soul, then these windows were looking in upon a psyche so malevolent it almost seemed to nullify any surrounding light. There was coldness. There was hollowness. And there was not a flicker of humanity.