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

Before Holmes could react any further, Rooker raised his right arm, holding it out straight. Exactly as the previous victims had described, there was a massive nickel-plated pistol clutched between his fingers. And Holmes knew perfectly well that the inspector had not previously been armed.

Rooker thumbed back the hammer, and it clicked into position.

An illusion , the great detective told himself. Except it looked – and even sounded – real.

But, during earlier sojourns in the Far East, Holmes had let himself be trained in various forms of mind control. And he employed those methods now. He forced himself to steady his breathing. Calmed himself and cleared his head. Closed his eyes for a few seconds, muttering a silent mantra.

And when he opened his lids again, the gun looked a great deal less substantial than it had been. Almost transparent, in fact. He squinted at it from a slightly different angle. And it disappeared from view entirely for a second before wavering back.

Quite an interesting trick, all the same , Holmes mused.

He started to reach out for Rooker’s wrist. Only to discover that his limbs were frozen into place, exactly the same way the security guards’ had been.

The most appalling, ugly smile distorted Charlie Rooker’s features.

“And so, the world’s greatest detective, powerless at last,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “This is a sight worth a king’s whole ransom.”

Even Rooker’s voice had changed – it had become gravelly and lifeless. Holmes tried to respond, but found that he could not even do that.

“But why pay a king’s ransom,” the man continued, “when you can take one. See you later, Sherlock Holmes.”

And without any slightest warning, he vanished. Was that an illusion too, or evidence of some far greater supernatural power?

Within half a minute, screams began emerging from the interior of Verduchin’s house. Holmes could not see anything of what was going on, but he could guess. Charlie Rooker – or at least the creature who’d possessed him – was robbing the massed inhabitants. Holding them at gunpoint, and then stripping them of all their pricey finery, their wallets and their watches. Not genuinely a king’s ransom, perhaps. But he had watched the people going in, and guessed there had to be at least a million pounds worth of valuables in there.

He struggled to move, employing other techniques that were intended to control the mind and body. And the only thing that he could manage was to shake with rage. He could not lift a finger.

Rooker reappeared within ten more minutes, striding out through the mansion’s front door. There was no longer any sign of the bogus pistol by this time, but he was carrying in his left hand a large bag which was weighed down very heavily. In fact, the haul of booty was so large that the inspector’s whole body was tilted to one side, his shoulders being dragged across diagonally by the burden. And Charles Rooker was not a slight or an unhealthy man.

He began half-jogging, half-limping along the pavement, heading for the north side of the square. Night had fallen fully by this stage. The man was reduced to a silhouette in a bare handful of seconds. And he had almost gone from view … when Holmes found himself able to move again.

He jerked forwards, practically stumbling. Steadied himself and drew in a deep, angry breath. Either the strange being who had possessed the inspector was no longer in control – or he was being toyed with!

It made no difference, he supposed. A very bizarre game was certainly afoot. No sirens were approaching, so it seemed that no one had alerted the authorities as yet. And so this whole business was up to him to finish. Holmes started off, at a run, in the direction that his companion had disappeared. He was not burdened in the way that Rooker was, and ought to catch up with him easily enough.

That proved to be the case. Holmes hit the Fulham Road and caught sight of Inspector Rooker’s streetlit outline hobbling away from him in a westerly direction. He thought of calling out, but reckoned that would be of little use. And so he put every effort into overtaking the policeman, his feet pounding on the paving stones and his breath burning in his lungs.

Charlie Rooker crossed the road and ducked away along another side street. He had pretty much left Chelsea now. Motor horns blared at Holmes as he hit the asphalt in pursuit, but the great detective did not flinch or make the slightest alteration to his course.

He reached the corner where he’d last spotted Charlie, only to see the man vanish a third time, into what looked like the opening to an alley. Sherlock Holmes practically bellowed with rage, and went towards it at a speed that would have impressed an Olympic runner.

He skidded to a halt at the mouth of the alley. Once again, it was a dead end one. Inspector Rooker was standing almost at the far end of it, facing a blank wall. He’d stopped moving altogether, and did not glance back when Holmes turned up.

He was standing very rigidly at first. But as Holmes watched, his entire frame went slack. His shoulders slumped. The bag dropped from his grasp.

The man stumbled away and tried to support himself against the wall off to his right-hand side, his whole aspect unsteady.

There was now another person standing on the spot that he had occupied. A figure caught in lightless silhouette as well, but nothing like Rooker’s. This outline was slightly taller, very thin and gaunt. Holmes became stock still with apprehension.

The figure seemed to notice he was there. It peered over its shoulder at him. There was a streetlight on the pavement beside Holmes, and he ought to have been able to catch a glimpse of this weird perpetrator’s face. But there was only blackness. No kind of real features could be made out in the least. It was like looking at a living shadow.

Why, then, was he certain it was smiling? Sherlock Holmes was not sure, but a loathsome tingling sensation ran the whole way down his spine.

The figure calmly reached down and picked up the bag of loot … and what ghost could do that?

And then the shadows on the wall in front of it appeared to coalesce. They seemed to form a portal.

The figure stepped towards it. Paused a moment, glancing back at Holmes again and raising a hand in a mocking gesture of farewell.

And, next instant, it was gone. The shadows unfolded. There was only the blank brickwork.

Charlie Rooker groaned, put his back against the wall, and then slid partway down it till his chest was almost at a level with his knees. He looked like he had been awoken from an awful nightmare, his brow soaked with sweat and his smooth features contorted in a grim, agonised fashion.

“Oh my God, I could hear laughter,” he gasped. “That damned poltergeist thing got to me, now didn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Holmes answered, crouching down beside him.

Charlie Rooker closed his eyes and pressed both hands across his face.

“I robbed the people in that house?”

“It wasn’t really you, Inspector.”

“But who’ll believe me? I’m an officer of the law, Mr Holmes. Do you have any idea what’ll happen to me?”

Holmes patted his upper arm reassuringly.

“I shall speak to the Home Secretary first thing tomorrow morning, Charlie. And to the Prime Minister himself, if necessary. I’ll explain the situation to them, and demand they grant both you and all the others a full pardon. This country owes me far too much to even think of denying me that.”

Rooker nodded gratefully, his features untensing a little.

“But what was that thing?” he demanded.

Holmes abruptly stood back up.

“Not ‘what’ but ‘who.’ I believe I got to the nub of it earlier today, Inspector. ‘What possible use would a poltergeist have for cash and valuables?’ Remember me saying that?”