Having joined forces, Likely Will and Hamilton almost certainly intended, now, to move against us as quickly as the cover of night would allow, armed not with the noisy weapons of our own age, but with the rather frightening array of creatures and devices that we knew Will Sadler to keep among his private collection, all of which could be used to great effect without the police in the city ever hearing a sound. Hackett and Andrew were therefore instructed to secure all the gates of the iron fence that surrounded the inner grounds of the palace with new chains and locks, locks to which our opponents would (we hoped) possess no keys and which they would be reluctant to demolish with further charges of gun-cotton and black powder. The rest of us, meanwhile, readied firearms, hand weapons, torches, and medical supplies; and as we did so, nearly every one of us remarked (and I think, to lesser or greater extents, actually felt) that our efforts to prepare an effective defence of the royal residence against so peculiar an enemy were indeed drawing us backwards in time – back, towards the era of the Scottish Queen and David Rizzio themselves.
This feeling was heightened when Holmes again and much more emphatically urged that our movements about the palace be confined to those inner rooms whose windows faced onto the courtyard, rather than those that looked out over the abbey ruins and the lawns: Holyroodhouse had not been designed as a fortress, said Holmes, and the wide, tall transparencies of its outer rooms allowed an entirely too tempting series of targets to be seen – particularly since the weapons we would soon be facing were silent, and would not offer us the usual modern defensive compensations of muzzle flashes in the darkness, which could be marked and fired upon. Many heads were nodded, and solemnly, to all this sage advice; but, as we would soon learn, no amount of verbal preparation, not even from Holmes, could truly prepare us for the primitive onslaught that was coming.
Our education commenced soon thereafter; and the first lesson was vivid indeed. Just as our watch passed the third hour mark, Miss Mackenzie began to manifest fearful symptoms of nervous strain: She claimed that she could hear footsteps, quiet but deep, reverberating throughout the palace. At first, when the rest of us assured her that this phenomenon existed solely in her imagination, she attempted composure; but not half an hour later, the sound of glass panes being shattered in one of the small chambers opposite the dining-hall caused the night to be further pierced by Miss Mackenzie’s uncontrolled screaming. Indeed, a general outcry went up from the rest of us, as well; it was only with a certain effort that we finally obeyed Holmes’s orders to remain silent, and to extinguish the lamps and candles that were burning on the table.
‘You may find such discipline demanding,’ Holmes whispered, ‘but our lives now depend upon just such self-control, in the face of deliberate attempts to sow panic among us.’ His wise words had the desired effect on all our party: Even Miss Mackenzie, although emotionally and nervously exhausted from days of similar events, tried as hard as her young heart would allow to overcome her renewed horror. ‘Hackett,’ Holmes continued, ‘you had best come with me – and if you have such a thing as a crowbar, and perhaps a chisel, be good enough to bring them!’
Hackett snatched up some such tools, and then the pair of them ran into the room opposite, the mere motion of their bodies in the small chamber almost immediately prompting two more bursts of breaking glass. Watching from the dining-room doorway, I was able to see at least one of the relatively small sashes of windows across the way, the grid of which stood out against the now-moonlit sky; and as I studied the area, I realised with a start what was happening:
‘Arrows!’ I cried, observing one such weapon protruding from the surface of a table in the targeted chamber. ‘Holmes – Hackett! In Heaven’s name, be careful, for the moonlight has revealed your position to the archer!’
‘You are nearly correct, Watson!’ came my friend’s voice. ‘They are not quite arrows, however, but something even more deadly, and at least one carries a message!’
I puzzled a moment over that statement, listening with the others as some hammering and creaking of metal against wood echoed out of the small room. Then I stood guard with a rather fine Holland and Holland .375 calibre Mauser-based hunting rifle, as the two of our party who had gone across the hall rejoined us.
In one of his hands, Holmes did indeed hold something akin to an arrow, but I now saw what he had meant by his qualification of it:
‘A crossbow bolt!’ said I, for such it was: a shorter, thicker missile than the arrows used with long- and recurved bows, but more effective, in this case, because a crossbow’s much greater power would ensure proportionally greater accuracy when the bolts passed through a barrier such as a glass pane – after all, medieval armour had once been unable to resist their force, so what chance did we stand in those outer rooms? This particular bolt was wrapped in what appeared to be writing paper, and as Holmes sat at the dining-table we re-ignited the various sources of light, and watched as he carefully peeled a note from the shaft.
‘Your brother may know little enough of modern explosives, Robert,’ said I, ‘but his mastery of these older weapons is flatly terrifying – it cannot be less than fifty yards to the west gate, and though comparatively few trees obscure his line of fire, any one would doubtless be enough to interfere with less-skilled marksmanship.’
‘Aye, Doctor,’ answered Robert Sadler. ‘When Mr Holmes says that staying to the inner rooms of the palace may save our lives, he does no’ exaggerate: Will can clip the wings of a songbird with that cruel weapon – I’ve seen him do it.’
As Holmes studied the note, which appeared to be very brief, his brow arched in confusion.
‘What is it, Holmes?’ asked I. ‘A demand for our surrender, no doubt.’
‘Such is what I had expected,’ Holmes replied, in a deliberately, indeed a purposefully, measured voice. ‘But it is rather more – personal than that. And entirely more fiendish …’ He glanced quickly at Miss Mackenzie, into whose features horror had flooded once again. ‘Mrs Hackett,’ Holmes said, realising that a crisis was likely near, ‘I wonder if you might not return with your niece to the kitchen—’
‘Nay, I will no’ go!’ the girl cried, leaping forward with impressive speed and snatching the note from Holmes before he had a chance to keep it from her. Staring at the thing, she backed away slowly, towards the hallway door. ‘Aye …’ she murmured. ‘Aye, I thought as much – I can no’ bear it – but he means to have me—!’
‘Who, my dear girl?’ said I, moving very softly towards her.
‘Hush, Allie, let us help you,’ Mrs Hackett said. ‘There’s no one—’
‘There is!’ Miss Mackenzie cried. ‘I warned you that I heard him! He’s abroad again – do you no’ understand?’ Her plea was a terribly desperate thing to hear, even more so to see, for her whole frame began to tremble violently as she was making it. ‘I have left the place I was to be – I’ve betrayed him, and now it’s him that’s come—’
‘Nay, Allie,’ said Robert, trying to approach and comfort her. ‘Will could no’ have come near here, without our knowing it—’
‘’Tain’t Will!’ the girl fairly screamed. ‘It’s him – I must go back to the tower, he said I was to be there, perhaps if I go, he may let me live—!’
‘I don’t like this business, Watson,’ Holmes said to me, quietly but urgently. ‘Have you nothing with which to calm her?’
I shook my head, feeling entirely helpless; but then I spied a sideboard across the dining-room, and, moving towards it, said, ‘Some more whisky, perhaps, Miss Mackenzie? You must try …’ Yet even as I poured out some of the liquor and attempted to bring the glass to the girl, she only howled the worse:
‘No! That’s how you coaxed me down here, to begin with! I must go back, do you no’ see? I was to be there, and now he’s coming for me—!’
Seeing that the girl was well past reason, Robert again tried to get a quick grip around her shoulders – but she even more rapidly pulled away once more. ‘No, Rob – this is one de
vil even you canna’ keep out!’ The girl continued backing towards the hallway door. ‘For he was ne’er gone!’
No doubt it was the shock caused by these words that momentarily rooted the rest of us to the floor; whatever the cause, Miss Mackenzie was able to suddenly rush from the room and dash out into the Great Stair and beyond, without any of us trying, at first, to stop her. Holmes then led the pursuit, and the rest of us did follow quickly; but before we could get to the fleeing girl, she had run into the north-easternmost royal reception room, a long, wide space on the outer side of the palace, which – especially as it was devoid of interior illumation, like all the chambers thus positioned, as per Holmes’s order – commanded an ordinarily excellent but now quite fearsome view of the moon-lit, Gothic archways of the old abbey ruins and the inner fence-line in the middling distance. Miss Mackenzie had evidently been making for the west tower, intent on returning to the room in which we had originally found her, before something – something visible through the wall of mullioned windows, perhaps – had drawn her into this very dangerous area. And, when we continued our pursuit of her into the room, we soon saw what that ‘something’ was: Just as her lithe young form became silhouetted against the window sashes and the abbey beyond, she, along with the rest of us, looked up in horror at the sky above those ancient ruins.
Through the near-darkness was hurtling a terrible sight: a streaking ball of fire, high above the roof-top of the palace, at first indistinguishable in shape. Soon, however, as its ascent crested and it began to plunge towards us, the mass of flame opened up, almost as if it were some enormous, fiery flower, and it became recognisable as the outstretched form of a human being. The sight was ghastly indeed, and ghostly as well – yet it was not so ephemeral that it prevented us from realising that it was about to smash through the windows before us, and set the reception room, the eastern wing of the palace, and perhaps the entire building ablaze. This idea alone was enough to set even the brave Mrs Hackett screaming in chorus with Miss Mackenzie, and to bring loud oaths of shock and disbelief from nearly everyone else present, including myself; only Holmes and his brother remained silent: a typical manifestation of their idiosyncratic and unflappable ability to concentrate their minds and formulate plans in the most apparently terrible and hopeless of situations. We all braced ourselves for what we were sure would be the devastation of the flaming horror, and Rob Sadler bravely seized the opportunity to charge forward and finally snatch the hysterical Miss Mackenzie from the window—
And then, as fast as it had appeared, the danger seemed to pass. The fireball impacted the exterior wall just above the window; and although this fact was in itself fortunate and remarkable, the collision of body against stone was accompanied by a sickening series of sounds that I soon recognised as the simultaneous snapping of an incalculable number of human bones. In an instant, the still-smouldering form fell from the point of its impact to the ground below, as Holmes called us out of our terribly transfixed state and to action.
‘Andrew – remain here, with the ladies. Hackett – where is the nearest stair and exit?’
By way of reply, Hackett led the way at a run that left Mycroft somewhat to the rear of Holmes, Robert, and myself, down a hidden servants’ staircase, narrow and cramped, in the east wall, and thence to a doorway that led out onto the grounds near the abbey ruins. From that spot we could easily see the terrible pile of charred flesh that lay near the exterior wall of the building, and we all rushed to it without an instant’s thought. Had we known what awaited us, our zeal might have been tempered; for the burned corpse upon the ground was far from unrecognisable, and, hard as it may sound, such corpses are somehow less terrible when they are those of strangers.
‘Good God!’ Mycroft Holmes exclaimed breathlessly as he drew up to us. ‘Doctor – who – and how—?’
But it was Holmes who answered: ‘The “who” is no great mystery, Mycroft – observe the pronounced nasal ridge. It is, if I am not mistaken, your man from military intelligence.’
I had covered my mouth with a handkerchief, in order to be able to breathe as I ascertained the inevitable:
‘Indeed,’ I soon declared. ‘And he is more than simply dead – nearly every bone in his body has been fractured by the impact. He must have hit the wall with a fantastic force – but as to what can have achieved that force, after propelling the body from the eastern line of the fence—’
‘The same thing that smashed Dennis McKay’s body against the stones of the abbey ruins in a similar manner,’ Holmes replied. ‘And that may yet inflict—’
Holmes grew suddenly silent when he noticed something about the dead man. ‘Watson,’ he said, ‘what is that, around his neck?’
I took note, amid all the charred flesh and clothing, of a small but heavy metal box that was fixed to the neck by a length of blackened chain.
‘It appears to be a small ammunition box,’ said I, using my handkerchief to lift it free. ‘Such containers are built to withstand fire – there may yet be something within.’
‘There is no doubt of it,’ Holmes said, in dismal anticipation. ‘Why else employ it?’
Using a pocket-knife, I managed to pry the lid of the box free, and found within the container, as we had suspected, an object that our attackers had evidently meant to keep safe from the flames. Wrapped several times in damp rags, it was, in fact, yet another note; but the purpose of this one was grimly pragmatic.
‘“You have seen by now what fate awaits you all,”’ I read aloud, my eyes following the moistened but clear script. ‘“Either grim death, or madness. But escape is possible: Bring the contents of Queen Mary’s bed to us at the west gate. And take no heart from all of your newly placed locks and chains! We can assure you, such paltry devices will prove most inadequate protection against—”’
We would later surmise that Likely Will Sadler had been observing us through some sort of field glasses or monocular during this incident, and that he somehow signalled to his confederates in other positions when he saw us studying the note – for just at that moment, I was silenced by a sudden and terrible series of sounds. An explosion thundered from the direction of the west gate, reverberating over the palace, the park, and the city beyond: precisely the sort of sound that we had thought our enemies too clever to risk, but that hubris – or, perhaps, desperation – had led them to hazard. After that, a series of shouting, even screaming voices began to resonate, one after the other, off the stones of Holyroodhouse: The first of them shrieked in sudden, and most intense pain, a second bellowed vague orders, while a third merely railed in mindless panic.
Then, at last, we all stood to listen, as a new and a far more familiar (to say nothing of welcome) sound joined the din: several policemen’s whistles, followed by the unmistakable bluster of bobbies in pursuit. They were not yet close – but they were clearly getting closer, and quickly.
‘Keep hold of your rifle, Watson!’ Holmes ordered. ‘This body has been a diversion, I suspect, under cover of which Lord Francis has penetrated the perimeter! We must stop him getting to the tower! Mycroft – take Hackett and Robert to the eastern line of the fence. You may try to reason with your brother, Sadler, but above all, you must stop him! Unless I am very much mistaken, several of our reluctant friends from the local police have decided, in light of these sights and sounds, that valour is the better part of discretion, when royal interests are so unarguably demonstrated to be at stake – they will likely arrive at our antagonist’s position just as you do, Mycroft, and if so, you must reason with them!’
‘Why not simply allow them to arrest these infamous fellows?’ Mycroft asked.
‘Because Will Sadler will not allow it, as Robert himself well knows – he possesses a fearsome engine of destruction, and should he turn it against the police …’
‘Aye, Mr Holmes,’ said Sadler, terrible conflict raging in his features. ‘But, done what he’s done, he’s still my brother. I’ll make it my business to get between them, and persuade him to
surrender, Mr Mycroft – if you will only force the officers to take him alive.’
‘I’ve no idea if I can do any such thing, young man,’ Mycroft answered, beginning to get his big body moving north-east. ‘But I shall try!’
At that, Hackett and Sadler followed Mycroft into the darkness. I, in the meanwhile, stayed with Holmes, whilst he, having watched them go, said, ‘I only hope that, timely as we have been, we have been in enough time, Watson! Quickly, now!’
I followed my friend as he raced around the southeastern corner of the palace. ‘Holmes!’ I called, making sure that I had chambered a round in the Holland and Holland. ‘What do you mean, “enough time”? To prevent what?’
‘Miss Mackenzie’s death!’ answered my friend. ‘Lord Francis intends to secure his riches and prevent the girl from ever repeating her tale – and he has enlisted a very reliable ally in the performance of this last detail!’