Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Well, that went well,” I said with some sarcasm once we were back out on the street.

“I thought so,” agreed Holmes, offering a smile that, when framed by his bald, tattooed face, looked positively terrifying.

“What did you hope to gain by that?” I asked. “Other than having to drink two pints of that foul muck they had the audacity to term ‘ale’.”

Holmes suddenly stopped and yanked me to one side. To the side of the Bouquet of Lilies was a rough lean-to, a small covered area where the landlord kept a padlocked coal-house and a pile of logs. Holmes pushed me into the shadows just as a high-pitched whistling noise rang in my ears. I felt a cold rush of air go past my face as something flashed past and then came to a percussive stop in the upright post of the lean-to.

“Dear God!” I exclaimed, looking at the still-vibrating hilt of the dagger that had passed not a foot from my head. “That could have been the end of me!”

“Have patience,” said Holmes. “They probably haven’t finished yet.”

“I can’t see a thing,” I admitted, staring out into the shadows.

“Luckily for us, neither can they.”

Holmes plucked the knife free from the wood and looked at it. “Interesting,” he said, “a German knife.” He glanced at me. “We’ve had a lucky escape, the knife-throwers of Hamburg are incredibly accurate.”

“I am struck dumb by relief,” I muttered, somewhat exasperated by the way he was happy to show off, even while our lives were under threat.

We heard the sound of footsteps coming towards us. Holmes grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the street behind the pub. “Run!” he shouted. “Your life depends on it!”

Didn’t it always?