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

overly spacious apartment flowed an endless stream of papers, periodicals, journals and tabloids of every sort and description, and the criminal news and agony columns were duly perused, sorted according to value of interest, and carefully stored for future reference in massive bundles and scrapbooks.
    If, due to some pressing case absorbing all of his vital energies, Holmes was unable to keep abreast of this daily imposition on his time, I was in no wise permitted to dispose of the cluttering flood, though the papers accumulated knee-deep upon every surface in our rooms; during those times I was instructed to either sort through them myself, according to my knowledge of Holmes' interest, or else to store them in some place where they would be immediately accessible to him whenever he chanced to require them, for they were bastions of fresh resource for his insatiably curious and energetic mind. By faithful study of the same, Holmes kept his fingertips upon the pulse of London's society and criminal strata, and this he did with the devoted fidelity of a family doctor watching over a cherished patient.
    It was, therefore, upon this fresh stack of information that the attention of my friend Sherlock Holmes alighted at once. As a result of our skirmish on the previous evening, Holmes' sallow complexion was severely transformed by a rainbow of assorted shades; nevertheless the irrepressible light of adventure gleamed deep and bright in his eyes, as a wounded foxhound that returns to the chase after a short reprieve.
    “The very first thing to do, Watson,” said he, from deep within the folds of The London Gazette, “is to place an advertisement in the agony column of the Daily Telegraph .”
    “Indeed?” I queried, settling back in my chair with the paper mentioned upon my knee. “To what end?”
    “We know that it has been one of the means of correspondence between von Oberon, alias Pierrot—”
    “How do you know that von Oberon is Pierrot?” I interrupted.
    “Obviously, my dear Watson,” said Holmes with a reproving glance at me over the top of his paper, “Peter von Oberon is more likely to be 'Pierrot' than 'Sieg'. Furthermore, I happen to know the identity of the latter, and it is my intention to unmask and capture this villainous person without unnecessary delay. I shall therefore assume the alias of Pierrot, and insert an advertisement requesting an urgent interview with my confederate.”
    I poised to agree with my friend, but just as my coffee cup reached my lips, my eyes descried a familiar name in the paper before me.
    “Holmes!” cried I with a sputter, nearly upsetting my coffee. “Too late! Look at this!”
    Holmes lifted an unperturbed eyebrow, and I read aloud, my voice quivering with the excitement of my discovery:
    “ 'Imminent danger. Tonight after ten. Stinking Wharf. No return. Pierrot.'
    “Well, well,” said my friend with a philosophical shrug, “it seems our quarry have tried to second-guess us, though this rash move shall prove to be their very downfall, or I'm very much mistaken. I shall wire to Mycroft immediately.”
    “But Holmes,” I expostulated, “this is terrible. What shall we do?”
    Holmes looked surprised. “Why Watson,” said he, “naturally, unless Providence forbids it, we shall join not one, but both of our friends tonight at ten. If we do not catch them then, it shall be entirely our fault. I've no doubt Mycroft will place her agents carefully; for all her habitual lack of energy, she is at least thorough and cunning when she does undertake a task.”
    “And where do you propose to find them? Surely even you cannot tell which of the thousands of putrid-smelling wharves along the river merits the title 'Stinking Wharf'.”
    Holmes' expression froze upon me for a second or two, then he threw his head back and laughed aloud with great merriment; an occurrence which I have only observed at rare intervals, and that only when his current foes had great cause to