The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - The Martian Menace E-Book

Eric Brown

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A new addition to the Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes series from science fiction and crime author Eric Brown.A DEADLY PLOTFor the second time in human history, Martian invaders occupy planet Earth. After a common terrestrial virus thwarted the first deadly invasion, another Martian armada arrived six years later to make peace. Now, mankind enjoys unprecedented prosperity due to the aliens' scientific wonders and technology, and an entente exists between the two races. But when Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson are called upon to investigate the death of an eminent Martian philosopher, they unravel an intricate web of betrayal and murder that leaves no one – human or Martian – beyond suspicion…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series:

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Two

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE DEVIL’S PROMISE

David Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

Stuart Douglas

THE WHITE WORM

Sam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACY

David Stuart Davies

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN

Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE

Stuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE’S CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEY

Carole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER

Stuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOUR

Sam Siciliano

THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH

David Stuart Davies

THE VENERABLE TIGER (April 2020)

Sam Siciliano

THE CRUSADER’S CURSE (August 2020)

Stuart Douglas

ERIC BROWN

TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES:

THE MARTIAN MENACE

Print edition ISBN: 9781789092950

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789092967

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: February 2020

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Copyright © 2020 Eric Brown. All rights reserved.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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For George Mann and Ian Whates

Prologue

The Tragic Affair of the Martian Ambassador

In the spring of 1910, Sherlock Holmes was involved in a singular investigation that was to have far-reaching consequences for my friend, for myself, and for the world at large – though little did I realise this at the time.

Shortly after the second Martian invasion, Holmes decided that the quiet life of beekeeping at his Sussex cottage was not for him. He elected to curtail his retirement, return to London, and resume his vocation as a consulting detective. Interesting developments, to say the least, were occurring in the capital, and Holmes told me that he wished to be in the thick of it.

On the morning in question I was reading The Times and Holmes was poring over his recently acquired Encyclopaedia Martiannica. At one point I set aside the paper and glanced across at my friend, who had taken a break from his studies and was stuffing his pipe.

“What are you reading about now?” I enquired.

He flicked a negligent hand at the open encyclopaedia. “An entry on the biology of the Martian race,” he said. “Did you know, Watson, that Martians are not asexual, as first supposed, but hermaphroditic, and sprout their young in sacs attached to their integument?”

“I must admit my ignorance in that area,” I said.

“And were you aware, moreover, that they did not partake of human blood during the first invasion in ’94, as described in one or two of the more sensational newspapers at the time? They might have laid waste to vast swathes of our planet, and killed tens of thousands into the bargain, but they were not blood-drinkers. Hullo, and what’s this?” he said, interrupted by a commotion in the street.

I glanced through the window in time to see an electrical car swerve to avoid an obstruction in the road, blaring its horn as it did so. The saloon had fetched up on the pavement and a noisy crowd had gathered and was remonstrating – not with the driver, I hasten to add, but at the cause of the vehicle’s sudden veering from the highway.

“My word,” I said.

Planted in the very centre of the road, solid and immovable, was a gunmetal grey girder pocked with rivets the size of saucers – the leg of a Martian tripod.

These were the vehicles that had wrought such havoc around the world in 1894, until common terrestrial viruses had proved the invaders’ undoing. Little did we know back then, as we celebrated our unlikely salvation, that a second wave of Martian spaceships would make its way across the gulf of space six years later, this armada bearing more peaceable extraterrestrials inoculated against Earth’s microscopic defenders.

Holmes joined me at the window as a hatch swung open in the underbelly of the tripod’s domed cabin. What emerged from within, descending on an elevator plate, was the squat, tentacled form of a Martian.

I might mention here that I have been taxed as to how to refer to the Martians in this account. As Holmes had mentioned, they were hermaphroditic, and by rights perhaps I should call a singular Martian ‘it’; however, it seems demeaning to refer to them in this way, so I shall employ the terms ‘he’, ‘him’ and ‘his’ from now on.

As the alien descended, a knot of curious citizens watched his progress. Although the Martians occupied our planet in their hundreds of thousands, it was not every day that one of their number was seen, as it were, in the flesh. Their singular three-legged transportation devices might have ubiquitously prowled the capital from Richmond to East Ham, and from Barnet to Croydon, but the creatures themselves showed a distinct inclination towards privacy.

A police constable was soon on the scene, and this worthy met the Martian at ground level and escorted him through the rapidly parting crowd.

Holmes rubbed his hands together in delight. “Why, I do believe, Watson, that the Martian is making a beeline towards 221B.”

Indeed, the alien was hauling his bulk up the steps towards our front door.

Presently Mrs Hudson, appearing unaccustomedly agitated, burst into the room. “Mr Holmes!” she cried. “Would you credit it, but there’s one of those horrible Martian creatures downstairs, and it says it wants to see you promptly!”

My friend smiled. “Then if you would kindly show the fellow up, Mrs Hudson.”

“And have it leave its dreadful slime all over my new carpets?”

“I will personally pay for their cleaning,” he said.

With an indrawn breath, Mrs Hudson withdrew.

Evidently our extraterrestrial visitor, for all its many tentacles – or perhaps because of them – found the ascent of the staircase something of a trial, for it was a good five minutes before Mrs Hudson flung open the door and stood aside as the Martian shuffled into the room.

We are all aware, from the many illustrations provided by our national dailies, of the appearance of the beings from the red planet. However prepared I might have been, the sight of the creature in such close proximity provoked in me the contradictory emotions of fascination and revulsion, for the Martian was truly a hideous specimen.

He stood just under five feet tall, his bulk consisting of a head and body combined in a way that bore no relation to any terrestrial creature, and this perhaps accounted for my revulsion. Set into the oily brown skin of his torso were two huge eyes, like jet-black jellyfish, and a quivering, V-shaped beak. Beneath this were two groups of eight tentacles, which the creature used as both arms and legs.

Holmes gestured the alien to a chaise longue, the only piece of furniture in the room able to contain his bulk.

The Martian sat down, arranging his limbs across the brocade in a manner at once businesslike yet prim. As we watched, the peculiar V-shaped mouth opened and closed. “Mr Holmes,” he said in croaking English, “I am Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran, deputy ambassador to Great Britain, and I have come today to request your investigational services.”

For a number of years, Holmes had been teaching himself the fundamentals of the notoriously complex Martian tongue – and now it was a temptation beyond his powers of resistance to reply to the deputy ambassador in his own language. My friend gave vent to a horrible series of eructations, which surely taxed the elasticity of his larynx.

The Martian flung several of his tentacles into the air and replied excitedly, “But you have mastered our language as no other Earthling yet!”

“I take that as a compliment,” Holmes said. “Now, as to the nature of the investigation in question?”

“I am afraid that must remain undisclosed,” the creature said, “until you have agreed to accompany me to the ambassador’s residence, where I will furnish you with the relevant details.”

Holmes frowned, not enamoured of such a stipulation. His curiosity, however, was piqued. In an aside, he said to me, “This can be no little matter, Watson, if the ambassador himself requires our presence.” To the Martian, he said, “Very well, Mr Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran. Shall we hasten to the embassy?”

“We will avail ourselves of my tripod,” said the Martian.

* * *

To stride the boroughs of London as if on the shoulders of a giant!

We sat ensconced on a padded couch in the cockpit of the tripod and goggled in amazement at the city far below. Tiny cars beetled like trilobites along the busy streets, and in the skies air-cars buzzed about like insects. Pedestrians went about their everyday business as if oblivious of the tripod striding in their midst.

The journey was over all too soon. In due course we were deposited outside the Martian Embassy in Grosvenor Square and entered the building. The deputy ambassador ushered us into a lift and we ascended to the first floor, and thence into the sitting room of the ambassador’s suite, where we paused beside a polished timber door.

Without further ado, Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran said, “I made the discovery this morning, Mr Holmes. Beyond the door is the ambassador’s bedroom, and it is my habit to enter at eight, once he has risen, to apprise him of the day’s agenda.”

Holmes fixed the deputy with an eagle eye. “And this morning?”

“This morning I found the ambassador stabbed to death in his bed. I immediately locked the door and posted a guard.”

Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran opened the door and stood aside, and Holmes and I entered.

We were in a bedchamber dominated by a large double bed, upon which reposed the bulk of the Martian ambassador. I did not require a doctorate in Martian medicine to ascertain that the ambassador was quite dead.

“Stabbed,” Holmes opined, “by a sharp implement just below the mouthpiece – the area in the Martian body where the major pulmonary organ is located.”

After a brief search of the room, Holmes muttered, “But of the murder weapon there is no sign.”

Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran shuffled back and forth at the foot of the bed, clearly in a state of agitation or grief. “Immediately after making the discovery,” he said, “I contacted my superiors on Mars via our sub-space communicator and summoned an investigational team, though it will be a week before they arrive on Earth. The ambassador’s life-mate will also be aboard the vessel, come to retrieve her partner’s corpse for burial in the sands of our home planet.”

I stood over the bed and gazed down at the dead Martian, gagging at the obnoxious stench of escaped bodily fluids. I withdrew a handkerchief and covered my mouth and nose.

Ichor, sulphurous yellow and viscid, had leaked from the wound in its torso and pooled on the sheets around its bulk. Its vast eyes were open, and stared blindly at the ceiling. Its V-shaped mouth likewise gaped, as if emitting a final painful cry.

Beside the bed was a small table upon which lay several envelopes, each one slit neatly open. Holmes examined their postmarks one by one and informed me that they had been delivered the day before.

He turned to Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran. “And you say the door was locked?”

“From the inside, by the ambassador,” the Martian replied.

“Was he in the habit of locking his bedroom door?”

“The ambassador valued his privacy.”

“I take it you had a spare key?” Holmes asked.

“That is so. And I fetched it when the ambassador failed to respond to my summons at eight.”

“And the key, deputy ambassador – is it kept in a place from where others might easily take it?”

“It is kept in an unlocked drawer in the bureau,” he replied, gesturing to the adjacent outer room with a quivering tentacle.

“How many members of staff would have access to the other room?”

“Just four: two of my own kind, and two of the humans who work at the embassy.”

“If you would kindly summon them forthwith for questioning, I would be most grateful.”

The Martian shuffled from the room, closing the door behind him.

Holmes crossed to the open window. “Hullo, what’s this?”

He lifted the window further open and peered out. The drop to the gravelled forecourt below was in excess of thirty feet, with no convenient drainpipe, wisteria or the like to provide suitable access.

Holmes stood back and contemplated the wall below the windowsill.

I saw then what had attracted his attention – a gouge in the wallpaper four inches beneath the sill, and an abrasion on the paint of the woodwork itself.

“If the ambassador was in the habit of keeping his window open at night,” Holmes said, “and an intruder armed with a grapple and rope… You catch my line of reasoning, Watson? Then again, there might be an entirely innocent explanation for the marks.”

I examined the wall more closely, and when I turned from the window I saw Holmes cross to the bedside table, sort through the envelopes, then tuck something into his breast pocket, an expression of supreme satisfaction on his aquiline visage.

Before I could question him, however, the deputy ambassador returned.

“The staff are gathered and await you, Mr Holmes.”

* * *

“And you have been in the employ of the embassy for how long?” Holmes asked.

We were seated at a table in a small room in the ambassador’s suite, which Holmes had requisitioned for the purpose of conducting the interviews.

“Three years this May,” replied the gentleman by the name of Herbert Wells, a sad-faced man of perhaps forty with expressive, melancholy eyes and a straggling moustache. In a singular recapitulation of the physical nature of his employers, Wells had short legs and a stocky, barrel-like torso.

“And your position at the embassy?”

“I work as a scientific liaison officer to the ambassador and his staff,” he said in an odd, high-pitched voice. “I liaise between the Martian scientists and engineers who visit our world, and their opposite numbers on Earth.”

“And you trained at…?”

“The Royal College of Science, under none other than the great Professor T.H. Huxley himself.”

Holmes cleared his throat. “In your time working here, have you had reason to notice any hostility towards the ambassador?”

Wells hesitated. “The ambassador is… was… well liked, by both Martians and humans. I cannot imagine who might have done this.”

“Are you aware of the political factions that exist among the Martians? We well know that there was political strife, not to say animosity, between certain nations before their arrival here.”

“I know of certain political differences between the Martians, yes, but I was not aware that such differences existed between the ambassador and his staff, or any other Martians who had dealings with him on Earth.”

“Very well. Now… we come to the business of what happened last night. Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran saw the ambassador at ten o’clock, at which time the ambassador repaired to his bedchamber and locked the door. Therefore he died at some time between ten o’clock last night and eight this morning. Where were you between these hours?”

“I have a room in the basement of the embassy, sir. I retired at nine, where I wrote for two hours before going to bed.”

“You keep a diary?”

Wells smiled. “I write fiction,” he said. “Though nothing of what I write finds favour with publishers’ current tastes. Too fantastical,” he finished.

Holmes murmured his condolences. “Perhaps what is needed in these fantastic times is a little more social-realism,” he said. “And you rose at?”

“Seven-thirty, as usual. It was just after eight when Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran summoned me with the alarming news.”

Holmes regarded his long fingers, splayed on the tabletop before him, then looked up at Wells. “And I take it that you know where the spare key to the ambassador’s bedchamber is kept?”

“Yes, sir. In the bureau in the outer room.”

“To which you have access?”

Wells nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“That will be all, Mr Wells. Will you be kind enough to send in Miss Cicely Fairfield?”

* * *

Wells opened the door to be met on the threshold by a vision of striking loveliness, a young woman I guessed to be barely eighteen, raven-haired and swarthy skinned, with a serious demeanour. Holmes watched the couple as they gripped each other’s hands and uttered what might have been reassuring words, before Miss Fairfield smiled bravely and strode with exceptional deportment into the room. She wore a navy blue crinoline dress and a fitted bodice.

Holmes regarded her keenly, his gaze lingering on her bodice, and I noticed what might have been egg yolk adhering to the material. It appeared that she had partaken of a hasty breakfast that morning.

She seated herself at the table. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, it is an honour indeed to meet such illustrious upholders of the law. I have followed your exploits with considerable interest.”

Holmes smiled. “In which case you will have no objections to aiding our enquiries?”

The slightest frown marred, for a second, the perfection of her forehead. “Of course not, Mr Holmes.”

The interview that followed was the swiftest I have ever seen my friend conduct. It seemed barely two minutes from when Miss Fairfield entered the room to the time she swept out.

“If you could inform me of the position you hold in the embassy, Miss Fairfield, and the duration you have been here?”

She regarded Holmes with a level gaze, her vast brown eyes unwavering. “I was employed as the private secretary to the late Martian ambassador, and I have held the position for a little over six months.”

“And your duties entailed?”

“I organised the ambassador’s itinerary, dealt with his correspondence, and arranged business meetings.”

“Would you say that, over the months you have held the post, you have come to know the ambassador?”

She frowned as she contemplated the question. “I am not sure that one is able to come to know, with any certitude, the person of an extraterrestrial being.”

“But did he seem, in your dealings with him, a fair employer?”

“I had no… complaints,” she said hesitantly.

“And between the hours of ten last night and eight this morning, you were on the premises?”

“I have an apartment nearby, but last night I was working late. It was after midnight when I left my office and made my way home.”

“And when was the last time you set eyes on the ambassador?”

“That would have been around seven, when I finished taking that day’s dictation.”

My friend then surprised me by saying, “Thank you, Miss Fairfield. That will be all, for now.”

She inclined her fine head towards Holmes and myself. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”

She was almost at the door when Holmes asked, “One more question, if I might?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“How long have you known the ambassador’s scientific liaison officer, Mr Wells?”

“For a little short of six months,” she replied.

“And how would you describe your relationship with him?”

Something very much like annoyance, or perhaps indignation, flared in her eyes. “Mr Wells and I are engaged to be married, Mr Holmes,” she said defiantly, whereupon she turned and hurried from the room.

* * *

For the next hour we interviewed the two Martian staff members, attachés who liaised on matters of state with the British government. They could tell us little about the ambassador, other than that they held him in high regard and were terribly shocked by his death. When asked if he had enemies among the many Martians in London, each replied that the ambassador had been highly respected.

In due course Holmes dismissed the second attaché and turned to Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran. “I presume you have alerted Scotland Yard as to what has happened, and that your own medical authorities will deal with the ambassador’s corpse?”

Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran waved a tentacle. “Inspector Lestrade is on his way as we speak,” he said, “and the body will be removed just as soon as he’s conducted his enquiries.”

“And I wonder what old Lestrade will make of the sad affair?” Holmes said in an aside to me. “Come, Watson, we have learned as much as is to be learned here. We shall continue the investigation elsewhere.”

“And where might that be?” I asked as we took our leave.

“We are heading for Madame Rochelle’s,” he said.

I echoed the name. “But isn’t that…?” I began.

“Indeed it is, Watson. Madame Rochelle’s is perhaps the most infamous brothel in all London.”

* * *

“I’m not at all sure…” I began as we paced down a narrow alley off the Strand, glancing over my shoulder to ensure that we were not observed.

“Curb your fears, Watson. We have penetrated more insalubrious premises than this one in the course of our investigations. Aha… this must be it.”

A dark recess gave access to a door, upon which Holmes rapped with his cane. A second later the door opened and a thin face peered out.

My friend whipped an unfamiliar, gold-bordered card from his pocket and showed it to the doorman. This had the effect of an open sesame, and we stepped inside.

“Where on earth did you come by the card?” I whispered as I followed Holmes down a darkened corridor.

“Where else, Watson, but in the ambassador’s bedchamber.”

“Ah! So that’s why you were looking like the cat with the cream,” I said.

Holmes paused and turned to me. “Your powers of observation, Watson, are as acute as ever.”

I huffed at this. “And what else did you find in the bedchamber?”

My friend gave a short laugh. “I found nothing, Watson. That is, I did not find what I was looking for.”

“And what might that have been?”

“The opener with which the ambassador had slit his private correspondence.”

“The murder weapon!”

“A brilliant deduction. Now, I think through here…”

He opened a green baize door and instantly we were assailed by music – Debussy’s Nocturnes – from one of the new-fangled Martian harmony-grams, along with the overwhelming reek of perfume and a scene to shock the most jaded of sensibilities.

Young ladies in various stages of déshabillé disported themselves around the room upon chesterfields and divans and were courted – shall we say? – by their suitors. Several among the clients were Martian, and it was a nauseating sight indeed to see the ivory limbs of the young ladies entwined with the writhing tentacles of their otherworldly patrons.

“I never even dreamed…” I began.

Holmes commented, “Some Martians find our women irresistible, Watson.”

“What shocks me more, Holmes, is that some of the fairer sex succumb to their advances.”

“Such is the tragedy of their circumstances,” said Holmes.

A scantily clad woman of middle years advanced upon us, smiling. “Welcome, gentlemen. If I might take your coats…”

Holmes proffered his calling card. “If you would be kind enough to present this to Madame Rochelle.”

Two minutes later we were ushered into a highly scented and sweltering boudoir. A buxom woman, whose wrinkled flesh spoke of advanced years, sat upon what appeared to be a throne beside a blazing fire.

“Mr Holmes hisself!” she declared in a Hackney shriek. “Never thought I’d see the great detective on my turf, so to speak. Are you sure I can’t tempt you with one of my more beautiful girls, Mr Holmes?”

He maintained an admirable élan. “We are here to investigate a murder, Madame.”

“A murder? Who’s been murdered? I swear that none of my girls—”

“I understand that the Martian ambassador himself was a frequent visitor to your establishment?”

“‘Was’ is right, Mr Holmes. He stopped coming here a few months ago, and I right miss him, I do. The ambassador was a bit of a character, he was.”

My friend considered her words and stroked his chin with a long forefinger. “Could you tell me if any of your ladies were in the habit of visiting the ambassador at the Martian Embassy?”

“What? You think I send my girls out into the city? I protect my girls, I do.”

“I am sure you do, Madame Rochelle,” said Holmes. “I wonder if you can recall whether, when the ambassador visited your establishment, he exhibited a preference for a certain type of lady?”

Madame Rochelle thought about that. “He liked ’em dark, Mr Holmes. No blondes for the ambassador. Dark and sultry was how he liked his wimmen.”

In due course Holmes thanked Madame Rochelle, assured her once again that we did not care to avail ourselves of the pleasures of her establishment, and withdrew.

We escaped the cloying confines of Madame Rochelle’s and once again breathed the refreshing spring air of the Strand. Holmes hurried over to a communications kiosk – yet another wonder for which we had to thank the Martians – on the corner of the Strand and Northumberland Avenue. “Excuse me one moment, Watson,” he said, and entered the kiosk.

He emerged minutes later and explained. “I contacted Mr Wells and Miss Fairfield, and arranged to meet them, in secrecy, on Hampstead Heath at six.” Without further ado he crossed the pavement and slipped into W.H. Smith’s, emerging a minute later to hail a passing cab.

“And now?” I asked as we climbed aboard.

“To the Martian Embassy,” he said, and seconds later we were hurtling through the streets of the capital towards Grosvenor Square.

* * *

A Martian underling showed us into the embassy and summoned the deputy ambassador.

Holmes asked if he might once again examine the ambassador’s bedchamber, and Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran escorted us to the suite.

Holmes crossed to the bed while I remained on the threshold with the deputy, stopped in my tracks by the foul stench issuing from the corpse. Holmes, for his part, seemed not to notice the odour, for he had his back to me and appeared to be searching through the late ambassador’s inert tentacles.

“Aha!” he said at last, and turned to us with an expression of triumph.

Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran shuffled past me. He gave vent to a series of oesophageal belches, then said, “Mr Holmes?”

“I am happy to inform you that the case is solved,” he said. He stood beside the bed and gestured at the tangle of dead limbs. “My earlier examination of the corpse failed to locate the implement that caused the fatal injury for the very good reason that it was concealed beneath one of the ambassador’s limbs.”

Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran hurried across to the bed and I, gagging at the stench, joined them. I stared down at the tangle of tentacles and saw, protruding from beneath a pseudopod, a bloodstained letter opener.

The Martian spoke. “Are you saying, Mr Holmes, that…?”

My friend said, “My investigations led me, in due course, to an establishment at which the pleasures of the flesh might be indulged by those of little self-restraint. It is my painful duty to inform you that the ambassador was a frequent visitor to this establishment, where he developed a predilection for ladies of a certain type.”

Before me, Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran appeared to slump. “I was aware of his weakness,” he said, “and more than once attempted to reason with him, to no avail.”

“It is my opinion,” said Holmes, “that remorse overcame the ambassador, and in the throes of self-recrimination, and guilt at his unfaithfulness to his mate – at this very moment travelling through space towards Earth – he took his own life.”

The deputy ambassador said, “A tragic affair, Mr Holmes.”

Presently we took our leave, and as we hurried across the square towards the taxi rank I said doubtfully, “Suicide? But… how was it that you didn’t find the letter opener when you first examined the corpse?”

My friend said nothing, but opened the rear door of the cab and slipped inside. “To Hampstead Heath,” he told the driver.

* * *

We came to the crest of Parliament Hill and stood in silence, all London spread before us. The sun was setting, and a roseate light bathed the capital. I made out familiar landmarks, St Paul’s and Nelson’s Column, and the more recent addition to the city’s skyline: the docking station at Battersea. Prominent across the city were the towering tripods, stilled now after the activity of the day, hooded and slightly sinister. Soon, when the sun went down, they would begin their curiously mournful and eerie ululations.

Holmes pointed. “Look, Watson, down by that oak. Mr Wells and Miss Fairfield, holding hands like the lovers they are. Shall we join them?”

We made our way down the incline and met the pair beneath the oak’s spreading boughs. Both looked suspicious as we approached, Miss Fairfield’s beautiful visage drawn and paler than usual.

Wells stepped forward. “You said you had news.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “The case is solved.”

At this Wells frowned. “Solved?” he said, looking from Holmes to myself.

“It appears,” I said, “that the weapon was concealed beneath the ambassador’s limbs all along.”

“But isn’t it curious that you did not find the knife when you first examined the corpse?” Miss Fairfield asked.

“Not in the slightest,” Holmes replied, “for the implement was not there when I made my initial examination.”

“What?” I cried.

“Then how…?” Wells began.

“I purchased a letter opener from Smith’s just one hour ago, and planted it upon entering the ambassador’s bedchamber.”

I stared aghast at my friend. “Do you know what you’re saying, Holmes?” I expostulated. “Why… but that means the ambassador cannot have taken his own life!”

Holmes smiled, then turned to Mr Wells and Miss Fairfield. “That is correct, is it not? Perhaps one of you would care to explain?”

Miss Fairfield opened her mouth, shocked. “Why, I have no idea what you might mean.”

“Come,” said Holmes, “I am quite aware of the ambassador’s… predilections, shall we say?”

At this, Miss Fairfield broke down. Wells embraced her, and it was a full minute before she regained her composure and looked Holmes squarely in the eye.

“A few months ago,” she began, “shortly after my appointment as the ambassador’s private secretary, he made his feelings known to me. I was revolted, of course, but with increasing insistence he proceeded to press himself upon me. Last night he asked me into his room, ostensibly to dictate a letter. However…” She shook her head. “Oh, it was horrible, horrible! His strength, his ghastly, overwhelming…”

“Please, there is no need to go on,” Holmes said.

Wells interposed. In a trembling voice he took up the story. “I was nearby, Mr Holmes, when I heard Cicely’s cries. I fetched the key and let myself into the bedchamber, and what I saw there…” He shook his head bitterly, his expression wretched. “I was beside myself with rage, sir, and blinded to the consequences took up the letter opener and… and plunged it into the horror’s torso.” He looked up, defiantly. “I am not proud of what I did, but I was spurred into action by my love for Cicely and by my revulsion at the ambassador’s vile actions.” He paused, then went on. “I opened the window and gouged a mark in the wall beneath, to make it appear that the murder was the work of an intruder. I then left the embassy and disposed of the weapon in the Thames.”

He hesitated, then continued. “I do not regret what I did, for the creature had it coming to him, and like a man I will face the consequences. If you inform Scotland Yard of my actions, I will have my day in court.”

Holmes smiled at this, and shook his head. “Well said, but it will take more than pretty rhetoric to persuade me that what you claim is the truth of the matter.”

I stared at my friend. “What the deuce are you driving at, Holmes?”

Holmes turned to Miss Fairfield. “At our first meeting,” he said, “I noticed the splashed ichor on your bodice which I took at first to be egg yolk.” He paused. “Well?”

Miss Fairfield faced the detective foursquare, thought for a moment, then began, “I admit—”

Wells gripped her hand. “Cicely…”

“No, Bertie,” said she, “the truth is better out. You are correct, Mr Holmes, Bertie did not kill the ambassador.” She took a deep breath, then said, “When he pressed himself upon me, held me down with his tentacles and… and proceeded to… You must understand that I was beside myself with terror, and when I saw the letter opener on the bedside table, I…” She stopped, almost out of breath. “I did what I did, Mr Holmes, in self-defence, but I too will face the consequences if that is what you feel is right and proper.”

My friend paced back and forth, his chin upon his chest, lost in thought. Then he stopped and faced the pair.

“As far as the human and Martian authorities are concerned,” he said at last, “the affair is closed. The ambassador killed himself in a fit of remorse and guilt for his philandering with human women of ill-repute. The Martian judiciary will not arrive for another seven days, by which time what little evidence there is will be corrupted. While not condoning your actions, Miss Fairfield, I understand the terrible fear that drove you to commit the deed.”

“You mean…?”

“In my opinion you have suffered enough. Nought will be gained by hauling you before the court, for while human law might have sympathy with your plight, I cannot say the same for the Martian judiciary.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed, and tears glistened in her eyes.

“If I were you,” Holmes went on, “I would attempt to put the terrible memories of last night behind you. Your secret is safe with Watson and me.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr Holmes!” Wells said.

Miss Fairfield stepped forward and took the detective’s hand. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Presently we watched them step from beneath the boughs of the oak and, hand in hand, walk into the diminishing twilight of the heath.

* * *

In due course we started back to Baker Street. Holmes lit his pipe and pulled upon it ruminatively. I stared up at the stars scattered brightly across the heavens, lost in thought as I pondered the coming of the Martians and the many wondrous incidents that their arrival had entailed.

We strode on in silence as the darkness deepened around us, and at last, from all across London, near and far, there sounded the first of the tripods’ strange and mournful cries.

“Ulla, ulla,” they called dolorously into the warm night air, “ulla, ulla…”

Part One

The Martian Simulacra