As I was about to speak, I heard a man approach from the blind end of the court, although I had seen no one there previously. I started to call out, thinking it must be Holmes, but then saw that, while the man was quite as tall as Holmes, he was much bulkier, with a considerable paunch and ill-fitting clothes. As he pa.s.sed, another of the women smiled at him and called a greeting. He nodded at her. As she put out her arm for him to take, he dropped his hand to the b.u.t.tons of his trousers. I looked away in disgust, and as I did so the woman who had spoken to me slipped her arm around mine.

I had lost track of the third woman, and was as surprised as the others when her voice rang out from behind. "Stop, fiend!"

The voice was calm and authoritative. I looked up. The woman was holding a revolver-Holmes' hair-trigger revolver-in an unwavering grip aimed at the man's head. I looked closely at her face and saw, beneath the makeup, the thin, hawk-like nose and the unmistakable intense gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

The other man swiveled with surprising speed and sprang at Holmes. I pulled my hand loose from my lady companion and in an instant s.n.a.t.c.hed my revolver free of my pocket and fired. Our two shots rang out at almost the same instant, and the man staggered and fell back. The two bullets had both hit above the left eye, and taken away the left half of the cranium.

The women screamed.

The man, with half his head missing, reached out a hand and pulled himself to his feet. He came at Holmes again.

I fired. This time my bullet removed what was left of his head. His jutting windpipe sucked at the air with a low sputtering hiss, and in the gaping neck I thought I saw purplish-white tendrils feeling about. The shot slowed him down for no more than an instant.

Holmes' shot took him in the middle of the chest. I saw the crimson spot appear and saw him rock from the impact, but it seemed to have no other effect.

We both fired together, this time lower, aiming for the horror hidden somewhere within the body. The two shots spun the headless thing around. He careened against the cauldron of tar, slipped, and fell down, knocking the cauldron over.

In an instant Holmes was upon him.

"Holmes, no!"

For a moment Holmes had the advantage. He pushed the monster forward, into the spreading pool of tar, struggling for a hold. Then the monster rose, dripping tar, and threw Holmes off his back with no more concern than a horse tossing a wayward circus monkey. The monster turned for him.

Holmes reached behind him and grabbed a brand out of the fire. As the monster grabbed him he thrust it forward, into the thing's chest.

The tar ignited with an awful whoosh. The thing clawed at its chest with both hands. Holmes grabbed the cauldron, and with one mighty heave poured the remainder of the tar onto the gaping wound where its head had once been.

Holmes drew back as the flames licked skyward. The thing reeled and staggered in a horrible parody of drunkenness. As the clothes burned away, we could see that where a man's generative organs would have been was a pulsing, wickedly barbed ovipositor with a knife-sharp end writhing blindly in the flames. As we watched it bulged and contracted, and an egg, slick and purple, oozed forth.

The monster tottered, fell over on its back, and then, slowly, the abdomen split open.

"Quickly, Watson! Here!"

Holmes shoved one of the pieces of firewood into my hands, and took another himself. We stationed ourselves at either side of the body.

The horrors which emerged were somewhat like enormous lobsters, or some vermin even more loathsome and articulated. We bludgeoned them as they emerged from the burning body, trying as we could to avoid the oily slime of them from splattering onto our clothes, trying to avoid breathing the awful stench that arose from the smoking carca.s.s. They were tenacious in the extreme, and I think that only the disorientation of the fire and the suddenness of our attack saved our lives. In the end six of the monstrosities crawled out of the body, and six of the monstrosities we killed.

There was nothing remotely human left in the empty sh.e.l.l that had once been a man. Holmes pulled away his skirts and petticoat to feed the fire. The greasy blood of the monstrosities burned with a clear, hot flame, until all that remained were smoldering rags with a few pieces of unidentifiable meat and charred sc.r.a.ps of bone.

It seemed impossible that our shots and the sounds of our struggle had not brought a hundred citizens with constables out to see what had happened, but the narrow streets so distorted the sounds that it was impossible to tell where they had originated, and the thick blanket of fog m.u.f.fled everything as well as hiding us from curious eyes.

Holmes and I left the two daughters of joy with what money we had, save for the price of a ride back to Baker Street. This we did, not with an eye toward their silence, as we knew that they would never go to the police with their story, but in the hopes-perhaps foolish-that they might have a respite from their hard trade and a warm roof over their heads during the damp and chill months of winter.

It has been two months now, and the Whitechapel killings have not resumed. Holmes is, as always, calm and unflappable, but I find myself unable to look at a wasp now without having a feeling of horror steal across me.

There are as many questions unanswered as answered. Holmes has offered the opinion that the landing was unintentional, a result of some unimaginable accident in the depths of s.p.a.ce, and not the vanguard of some impending colonization. He bases this conclusion on the fact of the ill-preparedness and hasty improvisation of the being, relying on luck and circ.u.mstance rather than planning.

I think that the answers to most of our questions will never be known, but I believe that we have succeeded in stopping the horrors, this time. I can only hope that this was an isolated ship, blown off-course and stranded far from the expected sh.o.r.es in some unexpected tempest of infinite s.p.a.ce. I look at the stars now, and shudder. What else might be out there, waiting for us?

The Affair of the 46th Birthday

by Amy Myers

Amy Myers is the author of several crime novels, such as Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner and and Murder in the Mist Murder in the Mist, and the story collection Murder, Murder, ' 'Orrible Murder! In addition to her crime fiction, she has also published several historical novels under the name Harriet Hudson. Myers's short fiction has recently appeared in In addition to her crime fiction, she has also published several historical novels under the name Harriet Hudson. Myers's short fiction has recently appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k Mystery Magazine Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k Mystery Magazine, and The Mammoth Book of d.i.c.kensian Whodunnits The Mammoth Book of d.i.c.kensian Whodunnits. This story first appeared in the same venue as many of the original Holmes stories-The Strand Magazine-which is still publishing, albeit in substantially different form and after a fifty-year hiatus.

Our next story is called "The Affair of the 46th Birthday," so you're probably imagining that this is going to be a tale of celebration and joy. After all, who doesn't like birthdays? You get together with loved ones and sing songs, receive gifts, and eat cake. Well, okay, maybe it's not true that everyone everyone loves birthdays. Little children do, for sure, at that age when each successive birthday means you get a little bit taller and a little bit stronger, and get taken a little more seriously. Teenagers and college students are also known to be fond of birthdays, when you can look forward to more rights and freedoms. But after that birthdays quickly lose their l.u.s.ter, and by the time you're forty-five, most people would probably prefer for their next birthday to remain forever on the horizon. If you're someone who's not looking forward to your next birthday, this story may help put things in perspective. They say that getting old is better than the alternative. This is a story about some highly motivated people who would very much like to see our birthday boy experience the alternative. You may be dreading your next birthday, but probably not like this. loves birthdays. Little children do, for sure, at that age when each successive birthday means you get a little bit taller and a little bit stronger, and get taken a little more seriously. Teenagers and college students are also known to be fond of birthdays, when you can look forward to more rights and freedoms. But after that birthdays quickly lose their l.u.s.ter, and by the time you're forty-five, most people would probably prefer for their next birthday to remain forever on the horizon. If you're someone who's not looking forward to your next birthday, this story may help put things in perspective. They say that getting old is better than the alternative. This is a story about some highly motivated people who would very much like to see our birthday boy experience the alternative. You may be dreading your next birthday, but probably not like this.

It is only recently, with the shocking news of the a.s.sa.s.sination of the King of Italy, that my good friend Sherlock Holmes has at last permitted me to recount the full story of the late King Humbert's visit to Chartham Beeches on the occasion of his forty-sixth birthday on 14 March 1891. It is not too much to claim that without Holmes' intervention the friendship of one of our closest allies in Europe might have been lost at a most critical time. Even now, ten years later, with the death of our own Queen so recent, who can tell what troubled waters might lie ahead?

It began, as did so many of our cases, in our old rooms at Baker Street. My wife was away, and I was enjoying a cosy breakfast with Holmes, when the door opened. Behind Mrs Hudson came two gentlemen in a high state of perturbation, the first elderly, clad in formal frock coat and top hat; the second similarly clad, but younger and with a most splendid moustache. I recognised the former immediately: it was Lord Holdhurst, the Foreign Minister in the current administration.

"Lord Holdhurst," Holmes greeted the minister. "We are honoured by your presence-and that of, if I mistake not, His Excellency the amba.s.sador for Italy. The matter must be urgent indeed, as you have arrived together on a Sat.u.r.day morning. Pray be seated."

"It is indeed His Excellency, Count Panelli," Lord Holdhurst introduced his companion.

"You must pardon us, if you please, Signor Holmes," the amba.s.sador said in a most agitated manner, "for this early and unannounced visit, but haste is indeed essential."

Lord Holdhurst gave a questioning glance in my direction.

"You may speak freely before Dr Watson," Holmes a.s.sured him. He remained standing, a sign that his great mind was eager for employment. "How may I help you both?"

"You will no doubt have heard that King Humbert of Italy is in London," Lord Holdhurst said. "Today he celebrates his forty-sixth birthday, and is to honour me with his company at a banquet in his honour to be held at my country residence of Chartham Beeches in Surrey."

The count seemed close to tears in his agitation. "But something most terrible has occurred."

"This morning I received this, Mr Holmes." Lord Holdhurst handed my friend a letter, which Holmes quickly read, then waved it in my direction: "It is in Italian, Watson, but its message is stark. Blood has been spilled, blood will be seen again today. Viva Sicilia." Blood has been spilled, blood will be seen again today. Viva Sicilia."

"You take this seriously, Lord Holdhurst?" he asked. "It is poorly written, on paper purchased from a common store. You must receive many such threats."

"I do, but I cannot afford to ignore it. King Humbert of Savoy, now King of Italy, is always fearful that he might be a.s.sa.s.sinated. There has, as you must know, been more than one attempt in the past. You must also be aware, Mr Holmes, that not all the former Italian kingdoms relished becoming part of a united Italy. Some of their citizens are still opposed to the rule of the House of Savoy and will stop at nothing to regain what they see as their freedom. It is, however, vital for England that Italy remains united."

"Indeed." Holmes frowned. "I do not yet see a need for my services, however. Those of Scotland Yard and the local police should surely be sufficient to protect His Majesty."

"On the contrary, your presence is essential," Lord Holdhurst declared. "At tonight's banquet the emissaries of certain countries will be present."

"Come, Lord Holdhurst, if time is of the essence, I must deal in facts," Holmes said, his impatience scarcely contained. "You no doubt refer to Germany and Austro-Hungary, Italy's partners in the Triple Alliance, to which Britain is not a signatory. The Alliance guarantees mutual support in the event of instability threatened by France or by the Balkans, although not I believe by Russia."

Lord Holdhurst looked grave. "That is correct, Mr Holmes. It is not generally known, however, that there was another alliance formed shortly afterwards between ourselves and Italy alone with the object of ensuring stability in the Mediterranean. Italy was, and is, anxious to preserve good relations with England, and would not wish to support aggression against us. Our prime minister is therefore determined that this alliance should remain in force. However unless we act speedily it will be severely strained, and perhaps broken forever, a situation in which France would no doubt rejoice."

I saw Holmes' eyes flicker at this statement, engaged as he was in tasks for the French government that winter. "I believe it is Russia, not France, from which any threat would come."

Lord Holdhurst hesitated, but then spoke freely. "You are correct, Mr Holmes. Unfortunately my neighbour Count Litvov, who has close political connections with the Tsar, will be present at the banquet, which makes it imperative that nothing should mar the occasion. Count Panelli and myself, however, believe that behind this threat lies the hand of Giuseppe Rupallo, an anarchist whom we know to be currently in London."

"His Majesty," moaned the count, "is a most superst.i.tious gentleman. He sees his birthday as being of the highest symbolic importance. If an attempt were made on his life today, it would shake his faith in England as an ally."

"King Humbert is a man of the arts, Mr Holmes," Lord Holdhurst explained. "He sees himself as the figurehead of a new Renaissance now that Italy is united. We are therefore presenting the banquet on this theme. The walls of the dining room are hung with Renaissance paintings for the occasion, Her Majesty's gift to His Majesty is an antique fifteenth-century ring and the Prime Minister's an early copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. The menu too consists of delicacies dating from the Renaissance period. Nothing must mar this important occasion. Scotland Yard's Inspector Lestrade is already present with his men, and knows where Rupallo might be found, but the man is too cunning to do the deed himself. Your presence is essential if we are to prevent this anarchist's plan from being put into effect."

"Ah yes." Holmes waved the letter impatiently. "But this threat is surely too crude, too imprecise."

"You believe it the work of a prankster?" the count asked eagerly.

"I fear not. There will most certainly be an attempt to a.s.sa.s.sinate the King. However, the most interesting fact about this letter is surely obvious."

"Its author," Count Panelli cried. "There is no doubt it is Giuseppe Rupallo."

"Not who, but why why. Why send such a warning, when surprise must surely be of the essence? Are they searching the house?"

"They are. Most guests arrive this afternoon, but His Majesty comes at eleven o'clock for official talks. My carriage awaits, Mr Holmes." Lord Holdhurst rose to his feet. "Pray let us leave immediately for Surrey."

Although I immediately hurried to seize my revolver, my friend did not move.

"Holmes," I said anxiously, "you must surely take the case?"

I was much relieved when Holmes joined us at the door, albeit I heard a murmured: "But which which case?" case?"

"One, Mr Holmes," said Lord Holdhurst stiffly, "that might have serious bearing on the future of this country."

Although spring had not yet clad the trees with leaves, the gardens made the entrance to Chartham Beeches an impressive one, although my mind was distracted by the strange nature of the task set for Holmes and myself. I knew the house to be a n.o.ble and imposing one, built over a century earlier, and its mellow stone and cla.s.sical proportions would make a suitably majestic setting for the banquet it was to host. As we pa.s.sed the lodge, however, I could see alarm in Lord Holdhurst's expression. The gates were open, but there was no sign of the lodgekeeper, although it lacked only a few minutes to eleven o'clock.

"Where is Phelps?" he cried. "And a policeman was to be on duty." He made as if to stop the carriage, but Holmes prevented him.

"Not a moment is to be lost," he shouted. "Drive on, coachman, and pray G.o.d we are not too late."

Count Panelli was weeping with tension now, and Lord Holdhurst, whilst naturally not displaying his fear so openly, was white of face.

"One question," Holmes said quickly to him, as the carriage thundered towards the forecourt of the house. "I take it Count Litvov dwells at the large white residence I can see in the distance?"

"He does, and I could wish it were otherwise. He has not long moved to Briar Grange."

Holmes looked grave. "Nevertheless it is Rupallo whom you fear is behind this threat?"

"It is, although Litvov would rejoice were it to succeed."

"Who knows your plans for this banquet?"

"Count Panelli, naturally. My secretary, Mr Michael Anthony, who has organised the banquet itself, the gifts and decorations for this evening, and His Majesty's own secretary, Signor Carlo Mandesi, with whom Mr Anthony liaises and who conveys His Majesty's wishes over the guests."

We fell silent when the house came into sight as we turned the last bend in the drive. Already we could hear the noise of alarm, and then as our carriage came to a halt, the sight of what seemed every policeman in Surrey and Scotland Yard met our eyes. As we had all feared, they were cl.u.s.tered around an impressive carriage.

"His Majesty," cried the count in despair. "What has happened?"

Lord Holdhurst's face was ashen for it was obvious that something was gravely amiss. Holmes leapt down from our carriage, and I after him. I could hear his lordship behind us crying, "Impossible. This is not possible."

Holmes and I hurried to the royal carriage and the group milling around it with cries of alarm. I could see Lestrade there briefly, but all was confusion and no wonder at that. The door of the royal carriage was open and the step in place, but a terrible sight met our eyes.

A body lay half in the carriage, and half tumbling over the step. His Majesty's face was hidden from us, but the blood was not. It was still dripping to the ground, soaking his coat, and I could see it splattered over the interior. I noted that afterwards of course, for my first duty-and Lestrade did not stop me-was to see whether life remained in the body before me. As I knelt at its side, I heard Sherlock Holmes say to Lestrade: "This is a perplexing business, is it not, Lestrade?"

"A terrible one, but quickly solved," was the reply. "It is the work of the Sicilian anarchist, Giuseppe Rupallo. My task is to return to London, where he has undoubtedly fled after his foul murder of His Majesty. The driver was his accomplice, and must have escaped as we gathered round the carriage."

I lifted the body down to the ground. As I turned it I realised with a heavy heart that there was no sign of life. Then I heard a sharp intake of breath at my side.

"Thank heaven. It is not His Majesty," Lord Holdhurst said to my astonishment. "For a moment I feared our plan had failed-"

"Plan?" Holmes picked up sharply. "What is this, Lestrade?"

"I must apologise," Lord Holdhurst said hurried, before Lestrade could answer. "It did not seem necessary to explain earlier. This is indeed the royal carriage, but this is not His Majesty. He is due to arrive in a plain carriage through another gate to the rear of the grounds."

"Then who," Holmes asked, "is this unfortunate gentleman at our feet?"

"It is His Majesty's secretary, Carlo Mandesi."

"Indeed. A plan, Lord Holdhurst, Count Panelli, that seems to have paid little regard for the safety of a mere secretary."

The count's dark eyes flashed. "It is for the honour of Italy."

"No doubt. Had you consulted me earlier, that honour could have been maintained without the waste of Signor Mandesi's life."

"His Majesty had sworn us to secrecy," Inspector Lestrade explained. "Forgive me, Mr Holmes, but Signor Mandesi was eager to play his part. We had the best advice."

"Obviously not," Holmes said grimly, "and Mr Mandesi's family would no doubt agree with me. Whoever is behind this outrage has clearly made his point. Blood has indeed been seen. However, forgive me, Lord Holdhurst, but would it not be expedient to ensure that His Majesty has indeed arrived safely in your home?"

His lordship's face paled. "But the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt has failed."

At that moment a young man came running from the house, seeking Lord Holdhurst, and with a look of relief on his face. "His Majesty has arrived, sir," he said. It was only then that he saw the terrible and b.l.o.o.d.y fate of the secretary.

"Thank you, Mr Anthony," Lord Holdhurst said. "Dreadful though this is, the danger is past for His Majesty."

"For the moment," Holmes commented drily.

"The two a.s.sa.s.sins have made their escape," Lestrade said with great confidence. "They will not return today with so many of my men here. It is clear, Mr Holmes, that the a.s.sa.s.sins must have overpowered the lodgekeeper and policeman, and waited for the carriage to draw up. One dragged the driver off his seat and took his place at the reins, the other jumped inside, performed his terrible deed and no doubt covered in blood escaped to the woodlands. It therefore remains for me to return to London to arrest Giuseppe Rupallo. You will accompany me, Mr Holmes?"

"I think not," my friend replied. "I was engaged, was I not, to ensure His Majesty's survival on his forty-sixth birthday?"

"That is true." Lord Holdhurst looked puzzled.

"That birthday is not yet over."