Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird
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is concealed. He is dressed to hide the fact that he is a policeman.’
‘A policeman!’
‘Yes, and, in a sense, he is rather “bad”. That is to say, he is among the worst policemen in an unremarkable lot. Even Lestrade thinks him stupid. Imagine.’
I laughed.
‘But he is enough to frighten away my would-be murderer, who is himself a rank amateur. So bravo, Watson, you improve.’
I cleared my throat. ‘A rank amateur, you say? Yet with excellent aim. Who, then?’
‘An old acquaintance with a grudge, but I tell you, the situation is handled,’ he said. Then noticing my worried face, he chuckled. ‘Really, Watson. Your concern is touching, but misplaced. The mere presence of our friend below will end the matter.’
I was not convinced and would try again on this subject later. ‘Where is the brandy?’ I said, moving to the sideboard looking for the familiar crystal decanter.
I found the vessel behind a stack of books. It was empty.
‘I am sorry, Watson, there is no brandy to be had,’ said he. ‘The shops are barren except for a few outside my budget. You have heard of the problems with the vineyards in France? I have been studying the subject. But I can offer you this.’
From next to him on a side table, he lifted a beaker of clear liquid. He poured a very small amount into each of two glasses. ‘Try it,’ he said, with a smile.
I took the glass and sniffed. I felt a sudden clearing of my sinus cavities and a burning in the back of my head.
‘Good God, Holmes, this smells lethal!’
‘I assure you it is not. Give it a try. Here, I will drink with you.’ He raised his glass for a toast. ‘Count of three. One. Two—’
On three we both gulped the liquid down. I erupted into such a fit of coughing and tearing of the eyes that I did not notice whether my companion did or not. When it subsided, I looked up to find he had tears streaming down his reddened face and was laughing and coughing in equal measure.
‘What is this stuff?’ I sputtered, wiping myself with a handkerchief.
‘Raw spirits. Distilled pure whisky, but before the ageing which renders it mellow. I diluted it with water, but clearly not enough.’
He held up a small booklet, entitled The Complete Practical Distiller.
‘That was a rather mean trick.’
‘Forgive me, my dear fellow. All in the name of science.’
A sharp pop and a sudden loud hiss emanated from the chemistry table. I glanced back at the complex system of flasks, copper containers and tubing.
Holmes normally employed a small spirit lamp to heat his chemicals, but I now noticed a very bright flame arising from a Bunsen burner which was connected by a length of rubber tubing to the wall. Over this was suspended a small, riveted copper kettle in a strange teardrop shape, one end drooping into a line which proceeded through valves and tubes into various looped and coiled copper configurations, complex and confusing, and—
‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘That is a miniature still!’
‘Ah, Watson, you improve. Decidedly.’
‘But you have tapped into the gas line! Why? Is that not dangerous?’
‘I needed a higher temperature. And, no, it is not dangerous when you take the precaution of—’
The noise had increased. The entire apparatus began to vibrate. The copper kettle and odd configuration of tubes and beakers rattled and shook. One clamp came loose and clattered off the table to the floor. A tube shook free and several drops of liquid arced into the air.
‘Holmes—!’ I began, but he was up and out of his chair, bounding across the room when a sudden small explosion blew the lid off the copper vessel, broke three glass tubes and an adjacent beaker, and sent a spray of foul smelling liquid up the nearby wall and across a row of books. A flame erupted underneath it.
We shouted simultaneously and in a flash he was upon the equipment, dousing the fire with a large, wet blanket pulled from a bucket he had evidently placed nearby in anticipation of such a possibility. The blanket slid down among the broken pieces. The flame went out and there was silence except for a low sizzle.
The room now reeked of raw alcohol, and a dark, burnt smell. A slow drip fell from the table to the carpet.
Mrs Hudson’s familiar sharp knock sounded at the door. ‘Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?’ she called out. ‘A young lady is here to see you.’
Holmes and I looked at each other like two schoolboys caught smoking. As one, we leapt to tidy the room. Holmes flung a second wet cloth sloppily over the steaming mess in the corner while I used a newspaper to whisk some broken glass and other bits under an adjacent desk.
I threw open the window to let out the hideous odour and in a moment we were back in our chairs, another log tossed onto the fire.
‘Show her in, by all means, Mrs Hudson,’ shouted Holmes.
He picked up his cold pipe and assumed an insouciant air. I was less quick to compose myself and was still sitting on the edge of my chair when the door opened.
Into the room stepped a vibrant young woman of about twenty-eight, exquisitely poised, small and delicate in stature. I was struck immediately by her beauty and graceful deportment but equally by the keen intelligence radiating from her regard. She was elegantly clothed in a deep purple travelling costume of rich wool, trimmed with small touches of tartan, gold and lace about the throat.
Her luxurious hair was brown with glints of copper, and her eyes a startling blue-green behind small gold spectacles. She removed these, took in the room, the mess, the smell and the two of us in one penetrating and amused glance. I immediately thought of a barrister assessing an opponent.
‘Oh, my,’ she said, sniffing the air.
A strong, rank odour emanated from the contraption, the newspapers and wet cloth on the chemistry table. This mess continued to hiss and clank intermittently.
I rose quickly to greet her. Holmes remained seated, staring at her in a curious manner.
‘Madam, welcome. Let me close the window. It is so cold,’ I offered, moving towards it.
‘Leave it,’ commanded Holmes, stopping me in my tracks. ‘Do come in, Mrs McLaren, and be seated.’
The lady hesitated and suppressed a cough. ‘Some air is welcome. Well, Mr Holmes, how clearly you have been described in the newspapers. And you must be Dr Watson.’ Her accent carried a hint of the soft lilt of the Highlands, but modified by a fine education. I liked her immediately.
Holmes appraised her coolly. ‘Do sit down, Mrs McLaren, and state your case. And please, be succinct. I am very busy at the moment.’ He waved a hand, indicating the settee before us. I knew for a fact that Holmes had no case at present.
The lady smiled. ‘Yes, I see that you are very busy.’
‘Welcome, madam,’ I repeated, mystified by my friend’s unaccountable rudeness and attempting to mitigate it. ‘We are at your service.’
‘Let me come straight to the point,’ said she, now seated before us. ‘I live in Scotland, in the Highlands to