appropriate moment.”
“Well done, both of you. This latter must be the occasion the fiend has targeted for his disruptive influence. This agrees in every detail with Mother Lee’s foretelling, and so allows us to discount the other ship as a possible venue. We must hasten to the Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth. This will be a daylight affair, not something done by moonlight. I trust we will not be too late.” Holmes pushed his chair back and rose from the table, turned, and strode out towards the stable yard.
We others exchanged glances, but spoke no word as we hastened to follow. Fortunately, I had my medical valise with me, as I had felt need of some digestive ameliorants after the rather coarse fare and somewhat sour wine of the previous night.
Our course to the Plymouth Dockyard was somewhat impeded by the traffic of gentlemen’s carriages, tradesmen’s and carter’s conveyances, and pedestrians, all intent on entry by the same gates. There was ample space within, as a large attendance had been expected, so we rapidly found a convenient location to leave our vehicle. We joined the growing crowd, all of whom were intent on reaching some preferred vantage point for the ceremony.
This particular ship launch had attracted unusual interest for several reasons. Firstly, Her Majesty herself was to be the ship’s Sponsor, a considerable honour, and would be present to administer the christening fluid. Secondly, it was an unusually large and modern ironclad cruiser, with many recent innovations, such as rifled guns which fired explosive shells, and a considerable expense in up to date navigational and electrical equipment. Much popular interest had arisen in this Naval town.
Not mentioned in the newspaper was another factor, the superstitions around ships and their launching, sailing, and crew. I overheard some dispute amongst several pensioners in the crowd as we pushed by. One asserted, “Nohow.” A pause for a vigorous expectoration, “That ship is unlucky. Mark my words, newfangled guns, electrimacle lights, spanking new cables and iron over good oak counts nothing against sailing on a Friday. Don’t you go telling me she ain’t got no sails, Harry Jenkins, that don’t mean Tom Jones ain’t waiting for her crew down below. Doomed, that’s what I say.”
The other side of the argument went thus, “Since she’ll be held to land by them whacking great cables, she won’t be sailing, and so the bad luck jinx don’t apply. If she was sailing yesterday, I’d agree. I’d tell my Matthew to jump ship right now, rather than stay aboard. But she ain’t sailing, and he’s proud to be in her engine room. I’m telling you, Jeb, stow it, or I’ll bust you one. It is bloody Saturday today, you daft old bugger.”
Jeb was unabashed. “All of that may be, but you can’t tell me having a woman aboard her at the launching, even Her Majesty, bless her and keep her, is anything but bad luck.”
“Oh, come on Jeb. They built a bloody great platform for Her Highness to stand on, right up beside the bows. She won’t touch that ship, let alone set foot on her decks.”
There was a cloth draped platform next to the prow of the vessel, and the electrical machine mentioned in the newspaper was plainly visible on a steel framework above. The ship’s railings were decorated with red, white, and blue cloth in streamers and rosettes, to match the decor of the launch platform and the many flags hung from every high point.
While the dignitaries had not as yet made an appearance, there was a considerable contingent of Naval officers and seamen in full dress uniform ranked around the ship, as well as aboard her. A large and lively crowd of civilians and dockworkers stood further from the centre of interest, some even seeking better views from the structures of the dockside cranes and the windows of buildings nearby. Some of the crowd brandished flags, particularly the children. Many had comestibles or beverages in hand, and vendors cried their wares with vigour and high volume, to compete with the strains of a Sousa march at full blast from the Naval Band.
“When they strike up ‘Heart of Oak’ our time will have run out. That will be followed by Her Majesty’s arrival, and the ceremony itself,” said Holmes.
I said, “I do not see how it would be possible to perform some heathen ritual here amongst this patriotic throng. We must be wrong in our inference. This cannot be the occasion of that fellow’s curse.”
A young lad nearby let go of his mother’s hand, and ran to pick up a grey feather from the ground. I smiled to see how a child may treasure such a commonplace thing as a seagull feather. Holmes reacted quite differently. He stiffened and leant forward to inspect the ground nearby.
I said, “What, Holmes, are you jealous of his good fortune, and seek your own feather, then?”
Holmes replied, “Exactly so. Just as I thought. No seagull feather, but that of a Moluccan Megapode. See this brown one here? If I am not mistaken this would be from the back of a cock of the species, and that grey feather from the belly. Quite distinctive, and indicates that we are in the right place.”
Holmes was visibly discomfited. His lips were compressed and almost invisible as he frowned, before he continued, “Indeed, we were in the right place at the aviary, for there can be few of these fowl alive here in England. In fact, I think there may be but two males in the entire country, and both now dead. One specimen in Lord Rothschild’s collection at Tring, and this poor creature. That is its nest we saw, back at Forest Holt House.”
I said, “Of course! Dash it all, I should have realised. That great heap of rotting leaves is the method by which megapodes incubate their eggs. However, I should not think such a creature to be a likely sacrifice in an African ritual, Holmes.”
Holmes replied, “The larceny we came close to frustrating was aimed at this bird, I am sure. Guinea fowl and chickens can be readily purchased, but not this very exotic creature. I suspected some such refinement in his spell-casting, but did not know any of this particular species was at hand This bird is of some significance to Barendra, originating as it does in his homeland, and so will play a part in his attempted curse-laying. He is not a stickler for tradition in his practices, as we have seen with his use of a mechanical contrivance to sound the drum.”
I said, “Then he must be concealed aboard the ship, perhaps in the engine room or somewhere below decks, behind closed doors, for I see no-one amongst the crowd who would hesitate to hinder any heathen mumbo jumbo or other goings on.”
Holmes answered, “Certainly no such ritual can be performed amidst this crowd, but it may be something quite simple is required at this point. I believe ritual objects may carry some magical potency in themselves, and once focused on a particular subject and, as it were, charged with power to capacity, all that remains is to secrete them somewhere close by. I suspect your reference to the engine room may be close to the mark, as we have seen from that drum machine the fellow has some skill in mechanical crafts.”
“You make this magic business seem so electrical, Holmes,” I remarked. “I have heard the terms ‘power’ and ‘charged to capacity’ used in that technical context, at least.”
As I spoke, Holmes looked up, and said, “The power wires! Of course!”
His demeanour changed on the instant from that of an eager foxhound, casting abroad for a scent of the quarry, to the focused speed of the Huntmaster at the cry of ‘View-halloo’.
“Watson! You have an astounding capacity for striking, all unknowing, direct to the heart of mystery. Come, we must hasten.”
The Great Detective plunged into the crowd, and we followed. He moved directly towards the engineering workshop, to one side of the yard.
The door was open, and we went in. I was quick enough to see a man turn from the electrical switchgear at one side of the room. He had a sort of doll in his hand, a grotesquerie of cloth, raffia, and cowrie shells. A voodoo doll.
Holmes laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, “Hold. We have you now.”
The man, however, slipped his jacket off, and jumped directly out of the open window. Holmes held the jacket securely, and the Doll lay discarded on the floor.
I observed, “That is a naval uniform jacket. The fellow mu
st be of the crew on the vessel he seeks to curse. What treachery!”
I was thunderstruck at the thought of such malignance, and gasped for breath to voice my profound horror.
Holmes remained calm, and said, “However, I believe there will be no flow of current until some repair is made to this equipment. This has been changed so that a charge may only flow through a circuit completed by some conductive object of the size and shape of this thing, this doll.”
I said, “I do have some knowledge of scientific matters, and I believe cloth and cowrie shells are not good conductors. Surely there is some other component?”
“Ever direct to the crux of the matter, eh Watson? Indeed, I believe the blood of the sacrificed chicken to be an excellent conductor. See, here it is, in a suitably liquid state in this bottle.”
I had not noticed the rum bottle on the desk to one side. Indeed, had I not realised the nature of the contents from Holmes’ explanation, I should have thought it merely a ready source for some congratulatory libation amongst the engineering staff.
Holmes said, “There is another of these Dolls. It must be at the other terminal of the power line, aboard the ship. He must have placed it there, drenched in the fresh blood of that Megapode, in some position where the electric current will flow through it to