Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus by P.C. Martin

arm, for all its attempts to deprive me of that useful member. I declined to appreciate the humor of the thought, however, and when Holmes' chuckles died down, I gave myself up to mentally cataloging my injuries. Presently, however, I roused myself sufficiently to take notice of my friend's doings. He had risen to fetch his Persian slipper, bulging with tobacco, and a great bundle of newspapers, and had nestled once again in his chair, propping his feet up on the edge of the grate. Blue swirls issuing from his favorite pipe encompassed his thin, ascetic face, and disappeared into the shadowy corners of the ceiling beyond the firelight.
    “Holmes!” cried I with a reproving frown. “You are not going to stay up all night, are you?”
    “It is necessary, Watson,” came the laconic reply. “The case, as you are well aware, hinges on time. If we are sluggish in our attempts to recover the lost technical cards, chances are they shall pass forever out of our reach. We must act quickly, but what must our actions be? I have not stopped for a moment's quiet reflection all day, and once or twice in times past when dealing with timely matters, I have found that a silent night's vigil over an ounce or two of shag can do wonders for the reasoning faculties. I strongly advise you, however, to take to your bed as soon as I have shown you the results of our evening's foray. See what my sister has extracted from among Mr. von Oberon's affairs.”
    Holmes handed me a few of the papers I had observed him perusing when I had entered.
    “Cuttings,” said I, looking the leaves over.
    “From the agony column in the Daily Telegraph ,” continued Holmes, coming forward to stand beside my armchair. “They are a sequence of correspondence between two individuals called 'Pierrot' and 'Sieg'. My guess is that these are the assumed names of von Oberon and his accomplice. They order themselves.”
    I read several aloud.
    “ 'Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Acquisition within fortnight. —Sieg.'
    “ 'Matter presses. Discovery imminent. No more letters at present address. Will confirm by advertisement. —Pierrot.'
    “ 'Stinking Wharf, care of same steward for PN. —Pierrot.'
    “ 'Confirm Monday night after nine, residence. Goods in possession by then. Two taps. Leave at once. —Sieg.'”
    “A cryptic record, to be sure,” said I.
    “Indeed,” replied Holmes, taking up the papers and receding into the comfortable depths of his armchair. “And yet I feel that there is, at the heart of this broth of mysteries, a very simple solution. We have, I believe, most of the threads in our possession. If, by careful tracing and inspection of these threads, we fail to reach the truth, it shall be entirely our fault. And now Watson, off with that derelict arm of yours, and then I shall say to you, good-night.”
     
     

Chapter Four
     
    I awoke early the next morning to the sound of a low explosion somewhere very nearby, followed by a dreadful trembling of the walls about me, and the distant tinkling of glasses and crockery. Instantly recalled to my senses by this unheralded blast, reminiscent of my days on the battlefields of Afghanistan, I leaped precipitately from my bed, disregarding the stiff soreness of my battered body, and hastened to discover the source of the explosion.
    I reeled upon entering our sitting-room. An acrid smell distinctly familiar to my military nose mingled with the dense clouds of tobacco smoke; my stinging eyes searched the fog for any sign of Holmes, for I greatly feared that, in the course of some ghastly chemical experiment, which it was his frequent habit to perform during his leisure moments, he had at last blown himself to bits.
    A heady chuckle met my ears, and I located Holmes at last, crouched not far from the shuttered window, apparently inspecting with enormous amusement a great gaping hole in the wall, blackened all about the edges, through which could be faintly seen the gray sky