"That's better," I said. "What is so infernally funny?"
"Human beings," Holmes said. "Human beings, Watson, are an endless source of amusement."
"I do not like leaving Sir Arthur with a misapprehension of events. Perhaps we should return-seek out the raft on which he was held captive."
"It has, no doubt, been sunk in the deepest part of the lake. We would never find it… unless we could engage the services of Mr Verne's Captain Nemo."
"I'm astonished that you've read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," I said.
"I have not. But you did, and you described it to me quite fully." He sipped the brandy, and glanced at the glowing amber liquid in appreciation. "Hmm. The last good year."
I poured cognac for myself, warmed the balloon glass between my hands, and savored the sweet, intoxicating bite of its vapors. It was far too early in the day for spirits, but this one time I excused myself.
"When we return to Baker Street," said Holmes, "I might perhaps borrow your copy of War of the Worlds, if you would be so kind as to lend it to me."
"I will," I said, "if you promise not to rip out its pages for your files. Bertie inscribed it to me personally."
"I will guard its integrity with my life."
I snorted. The train jerked, wheels squealing against the tracks, and gathered speed.
"What about Sir Arthur?" I asked, refusing to be put off again. "He believes he's been visited by Martians!"
"Watson, old friend, Sir Arthur is a willing participant in the hoax."
"You mean-he engineered it himself? Then why engage your services?"
"An innocent, unconscious participant. He wants to believe. He has exchanged Occam's razor for Occam's kaleidoscope, complicating simple facts into explanations of impossible complexity. But he believes they are true, just as he believes spirits visit him, and Houdini possesses mediumistic powers, and I… " He started to chuckle again.
"I don't understand the purpose of this hoax!" I said, hoping to distract him before he erupted into another bout of hysteria. "Nor who perpetrated it!"
"It is a difficult question. I despaired of solving it. I wondered if Sir Arthur wished to pit his intellect against mine. If the journalists and photographers conspired to create a story. If Constable Brown wished to draw more resources to his district-and found he enjoyed the limelight!"
"Which of them was it, Holmes? Wait! It was the photographer-only he has access to flash powder!"
"And an intimate knowledge of Surrey fields? No. The flash powder is easily purchased-or purloined. It was no one you mention."
"Then who?"
"Who benefits?"
I considered. If Sir Arthur wrote of the events, he might make a tidy sum from a book and lecture tour. But Holmes had already stated that Sir Arthur was innocent. Still, what benefited Sir Arthur would benefit his whole family…
"Not Lady Conan Doyle!" I exclaimed, aghast.
"Certainly not," Holmes said.
"The butler? The driver? He would know how to sabotage the car-"
"Robert Holder, Watson!" Holmes cried. "Robert Holder! Perhaps-indeed, certainly-with help from James and the butler and other tenants in the neighborhood. But Robert was the mastermind, for all his rough appearance. A veritable Houdini of the countryside!" Holmes considered. "Indeed, he used some of my own techniques. And he almost defeated me!"
"He risked all by challenging you!"
"I was unforeseen-surely he intended Sir Arthur to conduct the investigation. When you and I arrived, Robert must have realized he would stand or fall by his boldness. He offered Sir Arthur a compelling reason to dismiss my solution-and me. Sir Arthur accepted the offering. How could he resist?"
Holmes gazed out the window of the train for a moment. Unmarred fields rippled past, like miniature green seas.
"If not for Robert's misapprehension about the velocity of light," Holmes said, "a misapprehension that I shared, I would have known what happened, and I would have known how-but I never would have been certain who."
"You sound curiously sympathetic, Holmes," I said with disapproval.
"Indeed I am, Watson. Robert is clearly an honourable man."
"Honourable!"
"He refused Sir Arthur's offer to relieve him of the year's rent. He has no wish to steal."
"Only to lie."
"Like Houdini. Like any entertainer, any storyteller. Shakespeare lied. You have lied yourself, my friend, in your descriptions of our adventures."
"I have disguised individuals," I said, taking offense. "I have, yes, perhaps, dissembled occasionally… " I hesitated, and then I nodded. "Very well. I have lied."
"Life is hard for people who work the land. You and I are prosperous, now, but remember what it was like when we were younger, scraping along from season to season, with never a new shirt or a pair of boots that did not let in the rain? Imagine seeing no better prospects. For the rest of your life."
I suddenly remembered father and sons, and their new clothes.
"Who can blame them for creating a diversion, a mystery to attract sightseers, people of leisure with money to spare. People," Holmes added, "with a blind eye to turn to the evidence lying plain before them?"
"What of your commitment to the truth, Holmes?" I asked with some asperity.
"I know the truth," he said. "You know it. Sir Arthur knows it, but rejects it. I have kept the solution to other mysteries confidential; it is part of my duty. How is this different?"
I suddenly understood. Holmes's sympathy was not so much directed toward the hoaxers as away from the curiosity seekers who were willing, indeed eager, to be fooled.
"Very well, Holmes," I said. "I am content, if you are."
We rode in silence for some miles, lulled by the rocking of the train, enjoying Sir Arthur's excellent cognac and the peaceful English countryside. I wondered what the world would be like if beings from another planet did visit us.
"Holmes," I said.
"Yes, Watson?"
"Why was Sir Arthur so willing to pay you, when he did not believe your solution? What did he say to you, just as we left?"
"He said, 'I understand why you are such an extraordinary person. Like Houdini, you have good reason to hide your abilities, your true nature. I understand why Sherlock Holmes cannot be the one to reveal the truth about our visitors. I will do it, and you may trust me to keep your secret.'"
"Your secret?"
"Yes, Watson." Holmes smiled. "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believes I am a Martian."
The Adventure of the Death-Fetch by Darrell Schweitzer
Darrell Schweitzer is the author of the novels The Shattered Goddess and The Mask of the Sorcerer, as well as numerous short stories, which have been collected in Transients, Nightscapes, Refugees from an Imaginary Country, and Necromancies and Netherworlds. Recent books include The Fantastic Horizon, Ghosts of Past and Future, and Living with the Dead. Well-known as an editor and critic, he co-edited the magazine Weird Tales for several years, and is currently editing anthologies for DAW, such as The Secret History of Vampires and Cthulhu's Reign, and an urban fantasy werewolf anthology for Pocket Books.
We all have days when the world seems too much to bear, and all we want to do is lock ourselves in our room and not come out. It's an illusion, this idea that a foot of wood and plaster can seal us off from the troubles that beset us, but it's a comforting illusion, and it resonates. Authors have spun some wonderful dramatic scenarios out of this notion of a safe room within a hostile universe. H. P. Lovecraft's "The Music of Erich Zann" is about a violinist who plays unearthly tunes to keep hostile entities from invading his apartment. China Miéville's "Details" is about a woman who has plastered over all the visible lines and angles in her apartment, because those angles are traversed by the other-dimensional terrors that assail her. The movie Pulse features characters who must seal up their room with red duct tape to protect themselves from malevolent spirits. There's something instantly intriguing about a person who refuses to come out, and also about the idea that evil could be kept at bay by something simple, such as music or duct tape. Our next tale brings us a chilling new variation on this theme.