Neil Gaiman - Shadows over Baker Street

With a cry, Silverman plunged the syringe down and slammed it into the flesh of one of the arms groping through the bars, fingers wide to seek his throat. He felt the needle bite and brought his free hand down on the plunger, jamming it home with a grunt and stepping back, leaving the needle deeply embedded in its target, watching in horror as the arm was jerked inward, catching the syringe on the bar and snapping it off near the center of the too-long needle. Green liquid glittered in the air, splashing the walls and floor in droplets that glowed and hissed. Silverman stepped back farther with a gasp. His heart slammed too quickly—too violently—in his chest, and he feared it would stop. He couldn’t get breath to slip past the knot in his throat, and only the intervention of the wall at his back prevented his toppling to the stone floor.

The screams tore through the air at inhuman volume. Silverman slapped his palms to his ears and closed his eyes. Nothing could have blocked that sound, but he muted it, and blessedly, within moments, the sounds began to fade. The screams receded slowly to wails, the wails to moans. Silverman’s eyes snapped open wide, and he pushed off the wall, moving toward the bars of the cell. His voice rose instantly, returning to his chant, bringing the ancient Hebrew to life through his voice, and trying to imagine that he was in control of the situation.

He stepped closer. The light was very dim, and the bony wrists and yellowed, skinny arms no longer groped between the bars. In fact, the cell’s occupant had retreated to the far wall and slid down to a sitting position on the floor, knees drawn up and head back.

Silverman spoke more clearly, enunciating carefully. There was no reaction within the darkened cell. No motion, no sound. Silverman grew calmer, gaining confidence, and he stepped to within an inch of the bars, staring down fixedly at the man cowering against the back wall. The final words of the chant tumbled from his lips, resonant and strong. For just an instant, as the hall fell silent, Michael Adcott raised his head, staring into the eyes of his captor. The captive man’s eyes blazed with something beyond insanity, beyond rage or pain.

But only for a second. Then those eyes were dead. Blank. Nothing more reflected in their dull black depths but the dim light of the torches in the hall. Silverman watched a moment longer, letting his breathing catch a normal rhythm and straightening his jacket, running one hand back through sweat-soaked hair.

Reaching into one pocket, Silverman retrieved a ring of keys and inserted a large iron skeleton key into the cell’s huge old lock.

“Come along, then,” he said, his voice cracking once, then steadying again. “Come along, Michael. We have work to do, and I’ve had enough nonsense for one day.”

Adcott didn’t move. Not until Silverman’s fingers gripped his upper arm and tugged. Then, with slow, mechanical movements, he levered himself from the floor, leaned against the wall for support, and found his feet. The man did not turn to Silverman, nor did he answer. When Silverman turned toward the door of the cell, Adcott followed as if drawn in the other man’s wake.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time Holmes made his way to the door of my flat. He stood outside the door, and when I invited him in, he shook his head impatiently.

“Your coat, Watson, and hurry. Timing is crucial, and we have several places to be before evening.”

I didn’t hesitate. Long years as Holmes’s companion have removed several layers of my natural hesitation. There were only two choices: follow as best I could, or be left behind and miss whatever was to come. My coat over one arm, my hat in the other hand, I slipped out the door, and Holmes pulled it tight behind me.

Just as I was turning to go, I saw him bend at the waist, reaching down to run a finger along one of the cracks in the sidewalk. Straightening, he removed a bit of paper from his pocket and carefully folded whatever he’d scraped from the ground inside. I thought to ask what he was doing, then thought better of it. All in its time, he’d say. Why force the words?

There was a carriage waiting at the curb, and Holmes slipped inside. I followed, and without a word from Holmes, the driver was off. I should have liked to ask where we were bound, but experience told me the words would be wasted. Holmes had the predatory, hunter’s gleam in his eye I’d seen so many times before, and I knew he’d speak to me only when he was ready. I contented myself with slipping into my coat and leaning back to watch the streets as we passed.

The carriage headed into the center of the city, and it was only a short time before we pulled to the curb. A quick glance out the window confirmed my suspicions. We had pulled up in front of the morgue.

“Why have we come here?” I asked in surprise. “I’ve told you the man was in my flat, alive and standing as you, or I.”

“If, indeed, the man you saw was the same Michael Adcott you pronounced dead,” Holmes replied, exiting the coach and motioning the driver to wait, “then I would expect without doubt to find that body here. The fact you met a man you believe might be Adcott does not mean the Adcott for whom you signed the death warrant is not dead.”

He fell silent then, leaving me to follow the trail of his thoughts to their obvious conclusions. A brother? A close cousin? Why hadn’t it occurred to me? My ears were burning with the sudden realization I’d acted the fool, but I followed Holmes into the morgue entrance nevertheless. What had I been thinking? That dead men walk?

It was late in the day, and it was unlikely that many would be walking the halls of that dark place, but Holmes entered with familiarity and confidence. There was nothing to do but to follow.

It took a good bit of cajoling on Holmes’s part, but the clerk behind the desk, a dour little man with too-thick glasses and a perpetual frown that creased his brow with deep wrinkles, finally agreed to escort us to where the body of Michael Adcott had been stored. The body was, he assured us, right where it had been left, tagged and recorded.

“I sent you a report earlier this very day, Mr. Holmes, did you not get my message? Do you think he’s up and walked away, then?” the man asked. His voice was grave, but now there was a twinkle in his eye that had not been present as he argued with Holmes at the front desk. “They do that, you know. One day here, the next up and gone, and days later wives and mothers, daughters and friends, are here, telling how they’ve met the corpse on the road and asking after the remains. Sometimes, they’re just not there.”

I didn’t much appreciate the clerk’s levity, but Holmes paid the man no mind at all.

“You saw the man, then,” Holmes asked, watching the clerk’s face with keen interest. “You verified the information you sent personally?”

The old man cackled. “If he’s in my book, Mr. Holmes, he’s in my morgue. There are papers that must be filled out to remove a corpse, and permissions to be granted. No such papers have passed my desk for the late Mr. Adcott, and if there are no papers, there is no reason to look. He is here.”

“Then let us wish him Godspeed on the road to the next world,” Holmes replied. “Let us see Mr. Adcott for ourselves, and then we shall see what we can make of the rest of this business.”

Unfortunately for my own sanity, the remains of the late Mr. Michael Adcott were indeed missing from their slab. No note, no papers of explanation or permission. The numbers and documentation lay neatly in place, but no body accompanied them. The small man was less talkative now, and a sight less sure of himself.

“Perhaps he’s been moved?” I suggested.

The man shook his head, not turning to meet my gaze, only staring at the empty spot where a dead man should be. “There were no papers. No one moves without paperwork. No one.”