For a moment I wondered if Holmes would turn volte-face, return to the field, and submit to questioning by Constable Brown and the journalists, in preference to submitting to the seance.
To our surprise, the motorcar started without hesitation. As Sir Arthur drove down the lane, Holmes puzzled over something in his hands.
"What is that, Holmes?"
"Just a bit of wood, a stake," Holmes said, putting it in his pocket. "I found it in the field."
As he was not inclined to discuss it further, we both fell silent. I wondered if we had to contend-besides the field theorems, the ghostly lights, and the seance-with wooden stakes and vampyres.
"Tell me, Sir Arthur," Holmes said over the rhythmic cough of the motor, "are any of your spirits known to live on Mars?"
"Mars?" Sir Arthur exclaimed. "Mars! I don't believe I've ever heard one mention it. But I don't believe I've ever heard one asked." He turned to Holmes, his eyes bright with anticipation. "We shall ask, this very evening! Why, that would explain Professor Schiaparelli's 'canali,' would it not?"
"Perhaps," Holmes said. "Though I fail to understand what use channels would be-to dead people."
Darkness gathered as we motored down the rough lane. Sir Arthur turned on the headlamps of the autocar, and the beams pierced the dimness, casting eerie shadows and picking out the twisted branches of trees. The wind in our face was cool and pleasant, if tinged somewhat by the scent of petrol.
The engine of the autocar died, and with it the light from the headlamps.
Sir Arthur uttered another of his exotic curses.
"I suppose it will be of no use," he said, "but would one of you gentlemen kindly try the crank?"
Holmes-knowing of my shoulder, shattered by a Jezail bullet in Afghanistan and never quite right since-leapt from the passenger seat and strode to the front of the automobile. He cranked it several times, to no avail. Without a word, he unstrapped the engine cover and opened it.
"It's too dark, Mr Holmes," Sir Arthur said. "We'll have to walk home from here."
"Perhaps not, Sir Arthur," said I. "Holmes's vision is acute." I climbed down, as well, to see if I could be of any assistance. I wished the automobile carried a kerosene lamp, though I suppose I would have had to hold it too far away from the engine, and the petrol tank, for it to be of much use.
"Can you see the difficulty, Holmes?" I asked.
His long fingers probed among the machined parts of the engine.
"Difficulty, Watson?" he said. "There is no difficulty here. Only enterprising cleverness."
The automobile rocked, and I assumed Sir Arthur was getting down to join us and try to help with the repairs.
"Cleverness?" said I. "Surely you can't mean-Ah!" Light flickered across his hawkish face, and for a moment I thought he had repaired the engine and the headlamps. Then I thought that Sir Arthur must have an innovative automobile, in which the headlamps gained their power from an independent battery rather than from the workings of the motor.
But then, I thought, they would surely not have failed at the same moment as the motor.
And finally I realized that the headlamps were dark, the engine still, and the lights on Holmes's face emanated from a separate source entirely.
I raised my eyes in the direction of the flickering lights. An eerie radiance lit the forest beyond the road. As I watched, it descended slowly beneath the tops of the trees.
"Sir Arthur!" I cried.
His silhouette moved quickly toward the mysterious lights.
Holmes and I ran after him. I felt a shiver, whether of fear or of unearthly chill, I could not have said.
Suddenly a great flash of light engulfed us, and a great shock of sound. Dazzled, I stumbled and fell, crying, "Sir Arthur!" I thought I heard one of Sir Arthur's exotic oaths, this time in the voice of Sherlock Holmes.
I came to myself, my sight flickering with brilliant black and white afterimages. When my vision cleared, I found myself staring straight up into the night. Among the constellations, Mars burned red in the darkness. I shivered in sudden dread. I sat up, groaning.
Holmes was instantly at my side.
"Stay quiet, Watson," he said. "You'll soon be right. No injuries, I fancy."
"And you, Holmes? And Sir Arthur?"
"My sight has recovered, but Sir Arthur does not answer my hallo."
"What happened, Holmes? What was that explosion?"
"It was… what Robert called a flying coracle," Holmes said. "But it has vanished, and with it Dr Conan Doyle."
"We must return to Undershaw! Call out a search party!"
"No!" Holmes exclaimed. "He has been spirited away, and we have no hope of finding the location unless I can inspect the site of his disappearance. Before searchers trample it."
"But Lady Conan Doyle!" I said. "She'll be frantic!"
"If we return now," Holmes said, "we can only tell her Sir Arthur is lost."
"Kidnapped!" I only wished I knew who-or what-had done the kidnapping.
"Perhaps, though I doubt he believes so."
"He could be killed-!"
"He is safe, I warrant," Holmes said.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because," Holmes said, "no one would benefit from his death." He settled into the seat of the autocar. "If we wait till dawn, we may retrieve him and return him safely to the bosom of his family. Before they have any more concern than a few hours of wondering where we have got to."
"Very well, Holmes," I said doubtfully, "but the responsibility for Sir Arthur's safety lies on your shoulders."
"I accept it," Holmes said solemnly. Suddenly, he brightened somewhat. "I fear we shall miss the seance."
I confess that I dozed, in the darkest hours of the night, cold and uncomfortable and cramped in the seat of the disabled motorcar. My last sight, before I slept, was the scarlet glow of Mars sinking beneath the tops of the trees. I dreamed of a race of beings so powerful that the canals they built could be seen from another planet.
When I woke, shivering, tiny dewdrops covered my tweeds. The silence of night gave way to the bright songs of dawn. The scent of wet grass and sulphur wafted into my nostrils. I tried to remember a particular point of my dream.
Holmes shook me.
"I'm awake, Holmes!" I said. The snatch of memory vanished without a trace. "Have you found Sir Arthur?"
"Not yet," he said. "Hold this, while I crank the motor."
He handed me a bit of metal-two strips sintered together to form one curved piece.
"What about Sir Arthur?" I asked. "What about your search?"
"My search is finished," Holmes said. "I found, overhead, a few singed tree-leaves. At my feet, a dusty spot on the ground. Marks pressed into the soil, forming the corners of a parallelogram-" He snorted. "Not even a square! Far less elegant than the field theorems. Savory food for speculation."
"But no trace of Sir Arthur?"
"Many traces, but… I think we will not find his hiding place."
I glanced up into the sky, but the stars had faded and no trace of light remained.
Holmes fell silent. He would say no more until he was ready. I feared he had failed-Holmes, failed!-and Sir Arthur lay dead in some kidnapper's lair, on or off our world.
The autocar started without hesitation. I had never driven a motorcar-it is folly to own one in the city, where a hansom is to be had for a handwave, a shout, and a few shillings. But I had observed Sir Arthur carefully. Soon we were moving down the road, and I fancy the ruts, rather than my driving, caused what jolts we felt.
"And what is this, Holmes?" I asked, giving him his bit of metal. He snatched it and pointed straight ahead. I quickly corrected the autocar's direction, for in my brief moment of inattention it had wandered toward the hedgerow.