Black Cat Weekly #76

By A.L. Sirois, Camille Minichino, Phyllis Ann Karr and 7 more

Our 76th issue is a mammoth one, with 4 novels and 6 short stories (including a new Sherlock Holmes adventure, courtesy of A.L. Sirois and Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Take a look at the contents below...I know you’ll be impressed by the quality and diversity of the material.

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

“The Adventure of the Accelerationist,” by A. L. Sirois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“A Death in the Department,” by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]
“The Sodium Arrow,” by Camille Minichino [Barb Goffman Presents short story]
The Red Signal, by Grace Livingston Hill [novel]
Dead Weight, by Frank Kane [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

“The Adventure of the Accelerationist,” by A. L. Sirois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]
“The Garnet and the Glory,” by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story, Frostflower & Thorn series]
“The Foxholes of Mars,” by Fritz Leiber [short story]
“Hsilgne Esrever (Reverse English),” by John S. Carroll [short story]
The Stars Look Down, by Lester del Rey [short novel]
The Eternal Savage, by Edgar Rice Burroughs [novel]

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildside Press
• Release date: Feb 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667681634

Book preview

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

THE CAT’S MEOW

TEAM BLACK CAT

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ACCELERATIONIST, by A.L. Sirois

A DEATH IN THE DEPARTMENT, by Hal Charles

THE SODIUM ARROW, by Camille Minichino

DEAD WEIGHT, by Frank Kane

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

THE RED SIGNAL, by Grace Livingston Hill

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

THE GARNET AND THE GLORY, by Phyllis Ann Karr

THE FOXHOLES OF MARS, by Fritz Leiber

HSILGNE ESREVER (REVERSE ENGLISH), by John S. Carroll

THE STARS LOOK DOWN, by Lester del Rey

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

THE ETERNAL SAVAGE, by Edgar Rice Burroughs

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

PART TWO

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

Published by Wildside Press, LLC.

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

*

The Adventure of the Accelerationist is copyright © 2023 by A. L. Sirois and appears here for the first time.

A Death in the Department is copyright © 2022 by Hal Blythe and Charlie Sweet. Reprinted by permission of the authors.

The Sodium Arrow is copyright © 2016 by Camille Minichino. Originally published in Crimes of the Heart: Happy Homicides #2. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Red Signal, by Grace Livingston Hill, was originally published in 1919.

Dead Weight, by Frank Kane, was originally published in 1951.

The Garnet and the Glory is copyright © 1984 by Phyllis Ann Karr. First published in Sword and Sorceress, ed. Mario Zimmer Bradley. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The Foxholes of Mars, by Fritz Leiber, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June 1952.

Hsilgne Esrever (Reverse English), by John S. Carroll, was originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1948.

The Stars Look Down, by Lester del Rey, was originally published in Astounding, Aug. 1940. Copyright © 1940 by Street & Smith, renewed 1968. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.

The Eternal Savage, by Edgar Rice Burroughs, was originally published in 1925 as The Eternal Lover.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Welcome to Black Cat Weekly.

Our 76th issue is a mammoth one, with 4 novels and 6 short stories (including a new Sherlock Holmes adventure, courtesy of A.L. Sirois and Acquiring Editor Michael Bracken). Take a look at the contents below...I know you’ll be impressed by the quality and diversity of the material.

Oddly enough, one of the main complaints I get about the magazine is that it’s too big and people can’t finish it all before the next issue appears. The magazine was never meant to be read completely from cover to cover (though you are welcome to do so!)—I envisioned people paging through it and picking out what interested them most and just reading those stories. The old something for everyone philosophy. That’s why there is science fiction, fantasy, mysteries and suspense, historical adventure, and even the occasional western.

Of course, a publication of this size couldn’t appear single-handed. Special thanks to all our Aquiring Editors (Barb Goffman, Michael Bracken, Darrell Schweitzer, and Cynthia Ward)—though they aren’t all represented in every issue, they help shape the eclectic nature of the magazine by selecting stories I would never find myself. And the staff, Sam Hogan and Karl Wurf, are the ones who help pull it all together week after week.

So, read what you want. If you want to read it all (and have the time), great! If not...pick what you want. BCW is here however you choose to enjoy it.

Here’s this issue’s lineup:

Mysteries / Suspense / Adventure:

The Adventure of the Accelerationist, by A. L. Sirois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

A Death in the Department, by Hal Charles [Solve-It-Yourself Mystery]

The Sodium Arrow, by Camille Minichino [Barb Goffman Presents short story]

The Red Signal, by Grace Livingston Hill [novel]

Dead Weight, by Frank Kane [novel]

Science Fiction & Fantasy:

The Adventure of the Accelerationist, by A. L. Sirois [Michael Bracken Presents short story]

The Garnet and the Glory, by Phyllis Ann Karr [short story, Frostflower & Thorn series]

The Foxholes of Mars, by Fritz Leiber [short story]

Hsilgne Esrever (Reverse English), by John S. Carroll [short story]

The Stars Look Down, by Lester del Rey [short novel]

The Eternal Savage, by Edgar Rice Burroughs [novel]

Until next time, happy reading!

—John Betancourt

Editor, Black Cat Weekly

TEAM BLACK CAT

EDITOR

John Betancourt

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Barb Goffman

Michael Bracken

Paul Di Filippo

Darrell Schweitzer

Cynthia M. Ward

PRODUCTION

Sam Hogan

Karl Wurf

THE ADVENTURE OF THE ACCELERATIONIST,

by A.L. Sirois

It was an unusually hot day, and sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes had sought refuge from the July sun in the British Museum. There were few other visitors at this time of year; good weather being such a relatively fleeting phenomenon in the United Kingdom, anyone who could be outside made sure they were. Sherlock, therefore, had the museum largely to himself, which suited him.

Mycroft Holmes had invited his younger brother to London for the weekend. Mycroft had recently taken on new responsibilities in the British government but hadn’t made their exact nature clear to his sibling or their parents. All Sherlock knew was that his brother was held in high esteem by his superiors. Sherlock enjoyed spending time with his brother, but these days Mycroft was terribly busy with government work and had little time to spare.

I know I promised to go to the museum with you, he had said to Sherlock that morning, but I have an important meeting with a foreign diplomat. I really can’t say more.

I understand, said Sherlock, face solemn despite his amusement. Mycroft, averse as ever to any form of physical exertion, could not have been looking forward to visiting the British Museum merely to humor his younger brother’s peculiar whims. I will see you this evening, then, at the Diogenes Club.

I promise you an excellent dinner, Mycroft said, relief evident on his broad face. And I further promise you I will tell you as much as I can about the meeting. He picked up his hat, cane, and gloves from the side table by the door and took his leave.

Sherlock had been able to assist Mycroft in one or two small matters related to international diplomacy and had therefore won some approval from authorities—which, he knew, might be of value in the future. Mycroft had suggested more than once that Sherlock might himself pursue a government career.

Sherlock, however, wasn’t inclined to devote much thought to the future other than a more immediate one: he had turned seventeen in January, and as a special gift his parents had reserved a ricket for him to a concert in the Royal Albert Hall by the Spanish composer and virtuoso violinist Pablo de Sarasate. He has been looking forward to the show for months.

With considerable self-satisfaction, therefore, he ambled through the museum’s exhibits, taking his time as he examined this or that treasure of antiquity or of nature. It was just as well that Mycroft wasn’t accompanying him, grumbling and sighing. Sherlock had visited the museum several times before, but in the company of his parents, and he’d not been able to spend as much time as he’d wanted among the museum’s offerings. To an intellectually inclined youth from the provincial village of Little Buckewood in West Sussex, there was much to excite one’s curiosity.

Having a special interest in geology, he saved the museum’s collection of mineral and gems for the last. In a peaceful state of mind, pleasantly lulled by the museum’s quiet galleries, he made his way through rooms devoted to Egyptian artefacts, zoological specimens, and one housing a collection of dinosaur models created by the sculptor Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins for the life-size dinosaurs displayed at the Great Exhibition of 1851, shortly before Sherlock’s birth. Holmes had seen those monsters in the Crystal Palace Park in south London and found them of passing interest. In truth, he was more interested in less fanciful things, such as actual mineral samples.

Looking forward to an enjoyable couple of hours among crystals and gemstones, he approached the hall of minerals in a mood of pleasant anticipation, even more so because there seemed to be no one else headed in that direction. As he was entering the room, however, something zipped by him so quickly, he could barely see it. For an instant he thought a bird might somehow have gotten into the old building—but it was too large. Then it came to a very brief halt in front of a display of gemstones.

It was no bird: rather, it was a young woman, outlandishly dressed in a close-fitting black costume consisting of a leather corset secured with brass buttons, a white shirt, long sturdy leather arm bands like a falconer’s gloves, and goggles over her eyes. She wore a short-brimmed flat-top black hat with her dark hair pulled back away from her face. Her mannish leather breeches were secured around her hips by a belt from which dangled a collection of implements including a magnifying glass, a knife, and what Holmes saw with widened eyes was a pistol. Altogether she looked like she was prepared for battle. All this he took in immediately, still too stunned to move.

Then, with her hands moving as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, she smashed the case’s glass top. Shards of glass almost magically appeared at the sides of the display case’s interior. Removing her gauntlet, she grabbed some of the gems. Then she blurred and accelerated again and rocketed out of the hall faster than any living thing he had ever seen.

Shocked into action at last, Sherlock pursued at a dead run. He pounded out of the museum, down the steps and across the court. Judging by wind-blown papers, she had turned left, heading west on Montague, toward Bloomsbury Square Garden—but when he followed, she was already out of sight. A disturbance among some leaves in the gutter, as though a strong wind had passed by, convinced him to turn right on Woburn Place.

He was still shaking his head in astonishment, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He almost stopped, thinking he had no hope of catching up. But then he noticed a red mark on a cobblestone. He leaned down.

Blood. He dipped a tentative finger in it.

She’s cut herself on the glass from the display case, he realized. Perhaps I can track her by finding more drops!

The blood-drip was elongated, as though falling from someone moving extraordinarily fast, smeared in the direction the speedy woman was going. He set out, keeping his gaze on the ground. A hundred or so meters further on he found another droplet, and then another.

But that was the last. Judging by the smearing, the thief continued traveling along Theobald Road at an impossibly fast clip. Holmes slowed to a walk, then halted. He looked around. Either she has stopped bleeding, he thought, or else entered one of these nearby buildings. He spent a fruitless half-hour searching up and down the nearby streets, peering at the steps and doorways of all the buildings, to no avail.

Sorely puzzled, he made his way back to Mycroft’s lodgings, where he sat slumped in an easy chair, smoking a cheroot and mulling over his encounter with the enigmatic female speedster. Eventually, noticing the sun was westering, he roused himself and went to meet his brother at the Diogenes Club across the street.

Knowing from past visits that talking was forbidden in the club except in the Stranger’s Room, once Sherlock arrived, he headed there immediately, where he dispatched a footman with a message for Mycroft, letting him know of his arrival.

Presently Mycroft entered and lowered himself into an armchair across from the one Sherlock had taken.

Hello, said Mycroft. Would you care for some dinner? He consulted a pocket watch. It’s a bit late for tea, I fear.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture. He told Mycroft of the bizarre occurrence at the British Museum. He finished with, And that’s the truth of it. I don’t expect you to believe me.

Mycroft was silent nearly a minute, his wide brow furrowed and his eyes veiled. At last, he heaved a huge sigh and said, "But I do believe you."

Eh? You do? Sherlock blinked, at a loss for words.

Mycroft pursed his lips. Glancing around the room to make sure no one was within earshot, he leaned closer to Sherlock and said, in a quiet voice, Recently there have been some…outlandish reports to the intelligence service concerning people with peculiar, almost supernatural abilities. This young woman is clearly one of them. In fact, I can tell you she has struck before.

"What? She has? She—"

Please keep your voice down! Yes, not long ago she robbed the C. Hoare and Company Bank, from which she purloined certain historical documents.

But…this is incredible! You say there have been others? People like her?

Mmm. Yes, at least two, but not super-fast like this…accelerationist of yours. A pair of men displaying unearthly strength robbed another bank, at night about three weeks ago, smashing their way in through a wall and literally ripping the vault’s door off its hinges. One would have thought it couldn’t have been done with anything less than a steam engine of some sort, yet there were no signs of such a mechanism on the site. There were only human footprints.

Incredible! Sherlock said again.

It is all of that. I daresay the stolen gems will be recut and sold to provide funding for further developments of sensory augmentation. I have been tasked with discovering the truth behind these strange doings. You encountering one of these freaks—especially her—is a splendid coincidence.

I say, were you going to tell me about this, brother?

Oh, eventually, doubtless, Mycroft said diffidently. I never expected you to have a run-in with one of these people.

"Run-in, indeed, Sherlock sniffed. Then the light dawned. He shook a finger at his brother. This is why you were so eager for me to come visit you."

Sherlock felt a bit miffed at his brother’s deviousness; but it was nothing new. Mycroft always played his cards close to his vest.

All right, Sherlock said. I admit I’m intrigued. Which is, doubtless, what you’d hoped.

This is nothing we’ve had any experience with, Sherlock. Any help you could provide would be very much appreciated.

* * * *

After a substantial supper, the Holmes brothers returned to Mycroft’s lodgings. Upon entering, Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "You’ve been smoking in here," he said in an accusing tone.

I opened the window, Sherlock protested.

It’s disgusting. Pray, don’t do it again!

They spent an hour or so working on a descriptive sketch of the woman. Neither brother was a particularly gifted artist, but between them they managed to produce a workmanlike drawing of the enigmatic dark-haired suspect.

Well, said Mycroft when they were done, this, together with your detailed description of her and your estimates of her height and weight, should help us in our search. Good work, brother. He rolled up the drawing and secured it with a bit of string.

Sherlock nodded without replying. Thanks or praise meant little to him. What he really wanted was to find the woman and learn how she managed to run so quickly.

Now, you’ve said there are other ‘augmented’ people, Mycroft. Are the super-strong pair of men the only ones?

The only ones we know about, yes, Mycroft said. There could well be others.

With…what abilities, do you think?

Mycroft made a face. Speculation is pointless, Sherlock, without evidence.

Yes, yes…true.

Please make yourself available for questioning by my superiors, should that be necessary.

Certainly. Of course. His conscience was tweaking him a little because he had had an idea while working on the drawing. The woman had run off toward a particular area of the city. Unless she was deliberately trying to lead him (or any pursuer) astray, she probably had a bolt hole somewhere relatively nearby. By rights he should have shared his thinking with Mycroft, but he wanted to gather more evidence first.

To that end, he said, What might be helpful, Mycroft, is a document giving me permission to go through the records at the museum. Things to which the public doesn’t normally have ready access.

Mycroft stroked his jaw in thought. I take it you’d be looking to compile a list of researchers and their areas of study?

Sherlock, not surprised that Mycroft could have deduced his intent so quickly, nodded. What he really wanted, though he scarcely admitted this even to himself, was to solve this mystery on his own.

Possibly this can be arranged, Mycroft said. Come with me to work tomorrow, provide my colleagues with a description of the woman, and I’ll see what I can do.

Very well.

* * * *

The next morning, they left for Mycroft’s office, armed with the drawing they had made the previous night. Sherlock was questioned closely by intelligence agents but could add little more aside from his description of the young woman, which was well captured in the drawing.

In return for his cooperation, Mycroft, as promised, gave him a document signed by Mycroft and his superiors and bearing the seal of the government’s intelligence agency. Sherlock promptly headed for the British Museum. Though he badly wanted to return to the place where he had lost the trail of blood drops to continue searching for clues, he knew that the better course of action was to first see if he could dig up more information that would add to what Mycroft had told him. Lord knew he was absolutely baffled.

The entire situation smacked of the supernatural, in which Sherlock resolutely did not believe. Then again, not long ago he wouldn’t have believed that animals could communicate with humans, or that blood from one person could be transferred to another to facilitate the prolongation of life. But these things were facts, and he never argued with facts. Why, then, could a human being not be made capable of fantastic speeds or feats of strength? Because the fact was that such exceptional people existed.

The librarian gave him a narrow look when he presented himself at the desk in the museum’s special collections room.

Aren’t you a little young to be in here, lad? she inquired, looking down her nose at him.

Sherlock hated being called lad. Stiffly he handed her the document allowing him official access to the collection.

She read it over twice, eyes growing wider each time. Finally, she handed it back.

Through there, she muttered, pointing over her shoulder.

Not bothering to take time out to eat, Sherlock burrowed through the stacks of records until, not long before teatime, he unearthed something that he thought could surely help their investigation.

He scribbled some notes, followed more trails through the information, and came away with a promising—or so he thought—lead.

That evening he met Mycroft once more at the Diogenes Club, where he spread out his notes on a table in the Stranger’s Room. Now here, he said, handing a sheet of paper to Mycroft, is a notice describing some experiments by an eccentric research chemist named Julius Gibberne. Apparently, he’s been delving into the action of stimulants and soporifics upon the nervous system.

Hmm, stimulants, mused Mycroft as he studied Sherlock’s notes.

Indeed. Now, he has among his known associates a few other young scientists who are concerned with things regarded as being outside the normal realm of concern, from what I can gather. There is a youth named Cavor, who is looking into the nature of gravity, and a Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood who have been studying strength-inducing drugs.

Mycroft perked up at this information. All very interesting, he said. Very interesting indeed! I have not heard of any of these young men, though we’d be interested in talking to them. I wonder…to what end are these experiments of theirs being conducted?

If pressed, Sherlock said, I’d hazard the guess, given our speedy lady friend’s recent escapades, that illicit activities would be involved.

Mmm. I concur. He gathered up Sherlock’s notes. With your permission, I will take these to my superiors.

By all means. I will return to the museum tomorrow to continue my own research.

But that was not at all what he meant to do.

* * * *

The next morning, pleading a slight infirmity, Sherlock remained home after Mycroft left for work. No sooner had Mycroft departed than the younger Holmes hurried off to a poorhouse he had previously noticed not far away. There he judiciously handed out a few shillings, after which he returned to Mycroft’s rooms with his purchases.

Shortly thereafter a disheveled man, dirty of face and dressed in torn clothing, slouched down the steps of the building in which Mycroft Holmes lived, and hurried off down the street before anyone could challenge him.

He had decided to stake out the area where the running girl vanished, in the hope of seeing her again. To do this he adopted the guise of a rag-picker. He hadn’t bothered to consult his brother, who, he knew, would pooh-pooh the idea. But Sherlock enjoyed employing disguises and had successfully used them before. He spent the rest of the day haunting the locale, avoiding the more prosperous inhabitants, who gave him scarcely a glance. But by the late afternoon, he was forced to admit that the day had been fruitless. He returned to Mycroft’s rooms, where he cleaned himself up and hid away the garments he had been wearing.

Informing Mycroft his day’s efforts in the museum’s library had produced little more in the way of evidence on Gibberne and his associates, Sherlock said, I’ll go back again tomorrow.

Good, said Mycroft, opening his evening paper. Keep at it.

The next morning found Sherlock again masquerading as a mendicant, moving slowly along the streets, occasionally asking passing residents for alms or old clothes. By mid-afternoon he was growing discouraged. He had an armful of rags but no hints as to the identity or whereabouts of his mysterious quarry. It was now the third day since his encounter with her.

As he turned to retrace his route back to Mycroft’s rooms in Pall Mall, a blurry figure sped past him, seemingly ducking into a nearby alleyway. His every nerve tingling, Sherlock followed. But when he reached the mouth of the alley, he halted.

There was no sign of his quarry. It was a dead end. Tall, buildings rose all around. There was no way out apart from the way he’d come in, and he knew no speeding blur had passed him.

He looked around, examining the ground and the doorways along the alley’s length. Several doors opened on to the alley, but all were locked. She must live in one of these buildings, he thought. Come, this is encouraging! We’ll have you yet, my dear.

That evening in the Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft eyed Sherlock cannily. You’re up to something, he said. What is it? I know you haven’t been at the library, because I sent someone there to check up on you.

Sherlock sighed. I might have known you’d get suspicious, he said. Let me keep it to myself for another day or two, will you? I promise I’ll have some information for you soon.

Very well, very well, Mycroft said with a trace of impatience. But we really do need to catch this minx and learn how she’s managed this speeding trick.

Early the next morning, Sherlock, carrying a beat-up old Gladstone bag full of tools and dressed in the best of the rags he had gleaned, entered the foyer of one of the buildings overlooking the alley. One of the residents was there, preparing to take her dog for a walk. When she cast him a suspicious look, he smiled and said, Stuck window on third floor.

She shrugged and paid him no more mind. He climbed the stairs and let himself out onto the roof.

Once there, he took a rope out of the Gladstone, secured it around a chimney near the roof’s edge, then sat back against the chimney and settled in to wait. The ubiquitous London fog had not quite lifted, but visibility was more than adequate for him to watch the building directly across the way.

A short time later he spotted a young woman exit the building across from where he sat, leaning against the chimney, drowsing a little. The instant he saw her, he came fully alert. She wore a long skirt and ruffled blouse, typical for young women of the day. She could easily have been a seamstress or a secretary heading for work, but he knew from her luxuriant dark hair (now pinned up in a sensible bun) and her carriage that this was indeed the woman who had robbed the British Museum.

No sooner was she out of the alley than Sherlock, still dressed as a handyman, shinnied down the rope and trotted after her. True to her mundane clothes, she had not sped off, but was easily visible half a block or so down the street.

He followed her, careful to stay well back. Evidently, she did not suspect that she was being tailed, for she made no suspicious moves. She sashayed her way through the streets, crowded as they were with pedestrians and horse-drawn conveyances, stepping delicately over piles of horse manure in the gutter as she crossed from one street to another.

Several blocks later she turned onto an unprepossessing street. At the house on the corner of the next cross street she knocked thrice and was ushered in by a servant. Sherlock hurried up to the doorway. There was a nameplate on the wall next to it: S. CAVOR.

He frowned in thought, remembering Mycroft having mentioned a young man named Cavor, and something about gravity. He shook his head in puzzlement. What did gravity have to do with speed? And what was the nature of this Cavor fellow’s association with the accelerationist?

Sherlock loitered around for a while, but the young woman did not reappear. He had plenty of time to think, however, and an idea about how to capture the mystery woman took shape in his mind. He couldn’t be certain it would succeed, but surely Mycroft would be able to give him some good input.

After returning to the rooftop he’d been spying from and waiting a bit longer, he took his Gladstone bag and went to Mycroft’s rooms, where he had a bath and then sat waiting for his brother to return home.

* * * *

Mycroft was intrigued about the woman’s apparent relationship to Cavor. Our information of that property, this ‘S. Cavor,’ belongs to Samuel Cavor, the father of a young man named Roger. It’s Roger who is, apparently, mucking about with experiments concerning the nature of gravity. Perhaps it is where Roger is staying, or where he has set up a laboratory. He shrugged. We don’t yet know. Now, as to the girl, you said you had an idea about how to catch her?

As Sherlock outlined his plan, Mycroft looked increasingly aghast.

You’re mad, Mycroft said after Sherlock was done. Barking mad!

It will work, I tell you.

You’ll pardon me if I am…somewhat dubious.

Can you think of any scheme more appealing to her avarice? Sherlock asked.

Mycroft snorted. You put great faith in the willingness of the Crown to expose its most valuable treasures in this fashion.

Rubbish. You mean to say copies do not already exist? I refuse to believe it. All you need do is make sure it’s they that are on display.

This is not a subject Intelligence commonly discusses.

"But it’s the logical thing to have done. I would do it. You would have, too."

Mmm. The logic of it does not enter the conversation. However, I will inform my superiors of your idea. I would not be at all sanguine about their response if I were you.

Sherlock shrugged. If they want to capture this singular young woman, this is the best way to go about it, he said, waving his hand.

* * * *

The British Crown Jewels, symbolic of over seven centuries of monarchy, were regarded by all as the most valuable objects in the realm as well as the most historically complete of any royal regalia in the world. They included the Crown of St. Edward, embellished with over four hundred stones; the Sovereign’s Scepter, dating from 1661, decorated with 333 diamonds, 31 rubies, 15 emeralds, 7 sapphires, 6 spinels, and 1 composite amethyst; the Sovereign’s Orb, made for Charles II, also in 1661; as well as various other rings, scepters, armills, and so on.

Sherlock’s plan involved placing a false report in the newspapers saying the Crown Jewels would be transported from the Tower of London, where they were normally kept, to an unspecified location for cleaning and repair.

After Mycroft submitted the plan to his superiors, he returned home to inform Sherlock of their response.

To my utter surprise, he said, they think your plan has merit. I have also reported the young woman’s possible connection to young Cavor, with surprising—surprising to me, anyway—results.

Eh? Such as?

Well, now. It turns out Cavor is clandestinely working for the government on several metallurgical projects. I had no idea of this, but there seems to be a connection to that curious cube of Nemo’s, in fact—the titanium. I could not learn more, as it is classified information to which even I am not privy. Apparently Cavor’s on to something the government think might be highly useful.

Most interesting! But if this is the case, why is our accelerationist seeking out someone known to have government connections?

Mycroft shrugged. It isn’t clear she knows about that. And really, we have no clue as to the nature of her dealings with Cavor.

Let us hope it will soon become clearer, then.

With Fleet Street’s cooperation, the plan’s false item was inserted into the papers. The true jewels were hidden, and clever duplicates substituted. Sherlock noted the copies were quite good and could not have been fabricated in such a short time—thus proving, to his satisfaction, they had already been created at some time in the past. But he said nothing of his deduction to Mycroft.

On the day of the transfer, extra guards were stationed in and around the Tower to ensure the accelerationist would have no exit options apart from the main one. Sherlock was at the entrance, in disguise as a guard. In accordance with his plan, a stout net had been set up inside, capable of being dropped at a second’s notice.

Shortly before the appointed time, Sherlock and Mycroft inspected the installation. I’m gambling it will take her two or three seconds to steal the jewels, Sherlock said, by which time the net will have dropped, cutting off her escape. All the guards have whistles to sound an alert if they see anything.

Mycroft nodded. It’s a decent idea, he said. "My concern is, she is so bloody fast the net won’t be deployed quickly enough."

We’ve timed it. Less than a second is all we need.

"Yes, it would seem to be enough…but we shall see what we shall see."

Sherlock half-expected the girl to not show up. Surely, she would be wary enough to sense a trap. Then again, he knew how powerful the motivating factors of greed and pride could be. And while it was true enough that many criminals were not particularly intelligent people, he was sure this was not true in her case.

Time passed and nothing happened. After speaking with Mycroft, Sherlock assumed his post.

Time passed. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, going over his plan again and again in his mind, growing more and more dissatisfied with it as the minutes went by. It wasn’t going to work. She was too fast. The net would drop too slowly. And what if—?

He almost didn’t notice something unseen brush past him. He gasped. It’s her! He blew a blast on his whistle. Release the net!

Agents stationed inside the tower instantly cut the lines holding the net up. The sound of breaking glass simultaneously with a shout from the Tower’s upper level—She’s here!—came at the same moment a blurred something raced down the stairs and slammed into the net. Brought to a halt, the girl became visible. As in Sherlock’s earlier encounter with her, she wore a black leather costume, gloves, and goggles.

Momentarily nonplussed, she stared at him through the net, teeth bared.

So, he said, it seems you are not— He stopped, as she burst into a flurry of motion with her hands, her fingers moving faster than a bee’s wings. Within seconds, as Sherlock and the other guards stared, she had cut through the binding web of netting, and raced off too quickly to be seen, leaving her would-be captors open-mouthed in astonishment.

Mycroft hurried up to Sherlock, moving surprisingly quickly himself for once. What happened? What went wrong?

Sherlock was already examining the net. Mycroft bent to inspect it as well. Cut, he observed, eyebrows raised.

Yes, Sherlock said in a grim tone. Now I see why she carries a knife in her belt. She’s got foresight. This net would have held her, but she was ready for it.

Bloody rotten hell, Mycroft said. "She won’t fall for that ruse again. At least the Crown Jewels weren’t the true ones."

No, and she won’t be happy when she finds out. We will have to come up with another scheme.

They spent the rest of the day formulating and discarding several alternate plans. Might they use a metal net instead of a woven one? No, it would take too long to deploy, and she’d certainly be alert for another such gambit. Suppose they tried chasing her on horseback? No, she was much too fast.

After a fruitless brainstorming session, Mycroft retired to his club and Sherlock went to the de Sarasate concert.

This was one of the reasons he had come to London in the first place, to hear the Spanish composer and virtuoso violinist Pablo de Sarasate in the new Royal Albert Hall. He had seen engravings of the building, but they didn’t really prepare him for the reality. The Albert Hall was round, and larger than he had expected. He had arrived early, so he took advantage of the time to stroll around the entire perimeter.

As he approached the main entrance and prepared to enter, he heard a bit of a commotion at the doors. A well-dressed man accompanied by several other obviously wealthy men was remonstrating with a doorman about his tickets. A lovely young woman was on his arm. With a start, Holmes realized the man was the famous entrepreneur Phileas Fogg. Struck by curiosity, Holmes contrived to get a little closer. When he did, he got a better view of Fogg’s companion.

He blinked in surprise. She bore a close resemblance to the speedy girl. This woman, however, was taller and had broader features—it couldn’t be her. The ticket dispute being resolved, Holmes overheard Fogg introduce his charming friend to one of his associates as Irene Adler. She’s an aspiring actress and singer, Fogg said proudly. You’ll be hearing more of her one of these days, I promise you! With that, he conducted her inside, with his friends in tow.

Holmes made a mental note of the name and resolved to do a bit of research on the lovely Miss Adler. He presented his own ticket and was allowed entry to the venue.

The inside of the Royal Albert Hall was sumptuous, with rank after rank of red plush upholstered seats. The Hall’s round construction produced a distinct echo, and this had been ameliorated to some extent by an enormous canvas awning suspended below the domed ceiling. Sherlock thought it rather ruined the overall effect, but it was supposed to cut down the echo. The Hall was lit by thousands of gas jets, and Sherlock recalled reading that the Hall contained a special system by which all the jets could be lit within ten seconds. The entire interior was quite well lit by the greenish glow. Despite himself, Sherlock was impressed, and settled into his seat with expectations of an excellent program.

Once it began, however, the Hall’s acoustic problems immediately became apparent. Holmes wrinkled his nose. The musical performance was excellent, but although the canvas awning reduced the echo, it was still obvious. He refused to let this spoil his enjoyment of de Sarasate’s work, however. A couple of hours later he left feeling reasonably satisfied that he’d gotten his money’s worth—especially when he considered that he might have gotten a clue to the identity of the mysterious female accelerationist.

He returned to Mycroft’s rooms only to find that his brother was not yet back from the Diogenes Club, so he went to bed and slept well.

The next day Sherlock hurried off to the London Library, rather than the library of the British Museum, because he needed access to newspapers and popular periodicals, with which the British Museum did not concern itself.

He had been in the London Library only once before, on an earlier trip to the city with his parents, who indulged him when he begged them to let him visit the place. He loved libraries, and this one was no exception. It was, in fact, the grandest book repository he had even seen up to that time. Not even the Trinity College library in Dublin, which he had had occasion to visit the year before, was as fascinating.

He knew a fair bit of the establishment’s history. The library was founded in 1841 by Thomas Carlyle. The famed poet Alfred Lord Tennyson had been appointed President of the Library in 1855 and still served in that position. Holmes knew nothing of Tennyson’s work, disdaining as he did all fiction and poetry, but he knew of the man’s reputation.

But none of that was in his thoughts now, as he entered the periodical section. Half an hour or so of digging into the society pages of Lloyd’s Weekly News, The Daily Telegraph, and the Times soon brought him success. It was easy enough to find references to Irene Adler, who, being a rising actress, was something of a publicity hound, and from these he was able to track down other mentions of her family, as well as an engraving of her older sister, Maureen.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching him, Sherlock quickly drew goggles and a leather cap onto Maureen’s portrait—and had the very image of the mysterious fast-moving female.

Got you, he muttered to himself. Carefully, though not without a qualm of conscience, he removed the page from the paper, replaced it in its rack, and quickly left the library. Mycroft, he knew, was going to be very interested in his find. But first, there were a few other loose ends that needed tying-up. Most importantly, he wanted to learn what associates Maureen Adler was meeting with at the Cavor home.

Seeing that it was still early in the day, Sherlock retrieved his Gladstone bag from Mycroft’s rooms and headed for Cavor’s residence. Directly across the street from it was a small park. Taking an untenanted bench, Sherlock withdrew a newspaper from the bag and sat pretending to read it while he kept an eye on Cavor’s door.

Over the course of the day, he saw four other men, two alone and two together, enter the lab. Sherlock carefully noted their appearance. One pair of men happened to walk right past Sherlock, who did not look at them. One man addressed the other as Julius. Aha. Julius Gibberne, Sherlock said to himself. Gibberne had a high forehead and singularly long black eyebrows that lent a Mephistophelean touch to his face.

Around tea-time, Sherlock decided he’d learned enough for one day. Besides, he wanted to do some background checking on Gibberne, so he returned to the public library and dug into the reference section. He soon learned that Gibberne attended Oxford, where he conducted research into stimulants of various types.

Most intriguing! he whispered to himself. Such research might possibly result in physical enhancements leading to an ability to run at a highly accelerated pace. He’s our man, Sherlock thought as he gathered up the papers on which he had scribbled his notes.

When Mycroft arrived home that evening, he found Sherlock waiting for him, a vulpine expression on his narrow face.

I know that look, Mycroft said, taking off his hat and gloves. He squinted at his brother. You’ve found something.

I have indeed. Eagerly Sherlock laid out the fruits of his labors.

Mycroft nodded slowly as he weighed Sherlock’s discoveries. Yes, he said thoughtfully. Most intriguing. A quick smile flited across Sherlock’s face as he heard Mycroft echo his own thought. Mycroft added, Now, here’s what I think we might do.

* * * *

The next morning, Sherlock and Mycroft stood before a slightly rundown home in Mayfair, where Julius Gibberne lived. Gibberne answered Mycroft’s peremptory tapping of the doorknocker, peering at his visitors with some annoyance. His scowl gave his rather wolfish features a forbidding cast.

Yes? he rapped out. Who are you and what do you want?

Mycroft Holmes, said Mycroft in his most supercilious tone, presenting his card. I am an intelligence agent of the Crown. This is my brother, Sherlock, a consulting detective.

Gibberne sneered. You’re two young scalawags, he said, and you’re interrupting a critical experiment. Now be off with you.

"Mmm. I can return with the police if you’d prefer," Mycroft said.

Gibberne glowered at him, then stepped back and opened the door more widely so they could enter. He conducted the brothers to a small sitting room just down a short hallway from the door.

What is your business? he demanded without bothering with any niceties of tea or biscuits.

Mycroft laid it out with brutal efficiency. We know your discoveries have made it possible for Miss Adler to commit her crimes. Of course, we cannot allow her to continue. He concluded by saying, I would like to offer you an opportunity to help us, Mr. Gibberne.

Gibberne scowled, which made his features appear even more Mephistophelian. I am engaged in private research, he said. I see no need to share my discoveries with you or anyone.

We are aware of your association with Roger Cavor, Mycroft said smoothly, and others whose concerns seem…less than mainstream, shall we say?

I don’t follow you, Gibberne said, though Sherlock though it obvious that he did.

Then let me put it to you more bluntly. Mycroft leaned forward. By cooperating with us you will avoid prosecution, receive a pardon, and be allowed to continue your work—under official auspices. Her Majesty’s government will sponsor your project as well as those of your scientific associates. Any future discoveries you make will be used for the benefit of…certain government programs.

Gibberne ground his teeth. You would seem to have me over the proverbial barrel, he growled. I have no choice. I must agree to do as you wish.

Thank you, said Mycroft. Now, I would like you to hand over your notes concerning your experiments in human acceleration.

Would that I could! Our Miss Adler has proved to be larcenous. She stole my hypodermic and the remaining serum, as well as all my notes, while moving at speed. I didn’t even see her do it! If you can get them back for me, I will be more than happy to cooperate with you.

Have you none of the serum left? Sherlock asked.

Barely enough for one last injection. It’s difficult and time-consuming to make. I’m sure she thought she got all of it, but there happened to be a little residue in my glassware. You may use that. It will confer the accelerative effect on you for a very brief time, less than a second or two—though that will seem like several minutes to you.

One injection… Sherlock rubbed his chin. Mycroft, I wonder if one of your colleagues might be willing to take that injection and pursue her?

Hmm. You say it speeds up reaction time, Professor?

Yes. To you, your movements will seem normal, but the entire rest of the world will appear to be moving like snails, or even standing still.

Mycroft and Sherlock escorted Gibberne to the headquarters of the Intelligence Service. Britain had had men and women gathering information for hundreds of years, but the Topographical and Statistical Department, the umbrella agency covering intelligence activities, had only that year been reorganized and given new life by Captain Sir Charles Wilson. Mycroft had been hired by the Department and was helping to re-orient its focus. To that end he had overseen the hiring of several aggressive young agents, all highly motivated to be of service to Her Royal Majesty.

But, as Mycroft and Sherlock learned when they canvassed the agents for volunteers to test Gibberne’s concoction, their patriotism didn’t extend to volunteering to be injected with potentially dangerous drugs, despite Gibberne’s assurances that the compound was perfectly safe.

"We can’t force them to do it, Mycroft said after the final candidate of eight had turned down the assignment. I don’t know where that leaves us." He sighed. He, Gibberne, and Sherlock were sitting in his office, where they had interviewed the young intelligence agents.

Let us suppose, Sherlock said, slowly, "that I volunteer."

Mycroft looked at him. You’re joking, he said. You’re not even in the agency’s employ, Sherlock. I couldn’t possibly hear of it. What would Mother and Father think?

How else do you propose to catch Miss Adler? Besides, I’ve just turned seventeen. I’m not a child.

No one said you were. Mycroft tapped his fingers on his desktop. That’s not the issue.

Come on, Mycroft…you’ve no one else willing to do it.

Because it represents a hell of a risk! Mycroft sighed. But it’s true, nobody has stepped up. He swore.

It truly is safe, Gibberne said, if the amount isn’t too great. Five milligrams will do the trick, and what remains is considerably less than that, as I have explained. You are in no danger of overdosing.

Mycroft growled to himself. Very well, he said at last, I consent. He turned a fierce gaze on Gibberne. I warn you, sir, if any harm comes to my brother, I will hold you solely responsible.

Miss Adler has proved beyond dispute the formula is safe, Gibberne said, biting off his words with scorn.

A matter of some pride to you, sir, is it? Sherlock observed. Gibberne sniffed without deigning to reply.

There is a piece of the puzzle missing, Mycroft said. How are we to know where she’s going to be?

A good point, said Sherlock. Turning to Gibberne, he said, Have you any suggestions?

The scientist said, She has stolen only a small amount of serum, not enough for more than one more speedy theft. I’m certain she’ll try to get more from my laboratory, assuming she wants to continue with her super-fast thieving. Either that or she will attempt to make it herself. She is not a chemist, however, and its synthesis will require specialized knowledge.

Mycroft and Sherlock eyed each other. She might essay to kidnap Mr. Gibberne, here, hoping to force him to assist her, said Mycroft.

Yes, and we’d be hard pressed to stop her. But what if she thinks there is more serum? Some that she missed?

Interesting.

Within an hour the brothers devised a plan. Mycroft arranged to publish a second notice to the effect that Gibberne’s lab was, for undisclosed reasons, being moved to Shepherd’s Bush, an undeveloped area west of London beginning to become urbanized as the city expanded.

The services own a small farmhouse there we use as a place to meet with heads of state traveling incognito, Mycroft said. It should do nicely.

We’ve tried to lure her using notices in the papers before, so we know she reads them, Sherlock said. She may be suspicious.

Mycroft spread his hands. What else can we do?

What about this? Put the notice in, naming the day. Move Gibberne’s lab from the city to the farmhouse over the course of that entire day, making several trips in multiple caravans. If she’s hoping to steal more formula, she’ll be watching, awaiting a chance to swoop in and steal the serum. Her dilemma will be, which wagon will be the proper one? Sherlock turned to Gibberne. Given the dosage she has acquired, he said, how long can we expect the effects of your potion to last once she takes it?

Gibberne thought about it. "No more than fifteen minutes at most. Fifteen minutes our time. That’s well over five hours for her, at a factor of about twenty."

And she’ll give herself the entire dose, I should think, yes?

I should think so. Multiple injections in the same day would likely lead to disorientation and organ damage. She knows this.

No doubt you did, too, but you downplayed it. Be that as it may, if we arrange for three or four multi-wagon caravans, she will simply not know which one to attack.

"But we want her to attack the correct one, Mycroft said. How will she determine which one that is?"

Let us put ourselves in her position, Sherlock said, steepling his hands. She will know we are moving Gibberne and all his works to a supposedly safe house. She can’t spend all day ripping through crates and whatnot. Eh? We need to supply her with a strong clue as to which cart is the proper one.

How are we to do that? Mycroft asked crossly.

Rather simply, I daresay, Sherlock replied. She’s seen me, hasn’t she. I confronted her at the Tower of London. She’s bound to recognize me. If she spots me riding along on one of the wagons, she is likely to conclude that’s the one with the potion. As an added attraction, Mr. Gibberne should accompany me. Our combined presence is sure to draw her in.

I concur, said Gibberne, nodding.

Hmmm. Mycroft scowled. I don’t know.

Sherlock shrugged. Have you a better idea?

Ultimately, Mycroft had to give in. Yet another news item was leaked to the prominent newspapers, and a day set for the move. On that day, all Gibberne’s lab equipment was packed in crates and safes, each one of which was wrapped in chains and stout ropes.

"She’ll have a time getting through that lot," Mycroft observed as the items were loaded into wagons, one per wagon to make it even more difficult for Miss Adler to plunder them. In addition, armed guards were assigned to each wagon.

We can’t stop her from snooping around at high speed, Sherlock observed, but all the locks and safeguards will slow her down no matter how quickly she moves. And of course, there is no serum for her to steal in any event. I will inject myself with Mr. Gibberne’s accelerator potion at the first hint of piracy.

I still don’t like it, Mycroft said.

I will allow the scheme perhaps lacks a certain elegance, Sherlock said. In the absence of an optional one, though, we shall have to go with this. He turned to Gibberne. My question to you now is, should I be dosed when the caravan sets out?

If you do, you will experience it as a slow-moving journey, Gibberne said with a touch of humor. The hour it will take to get from my home to the farmhouse in Shepherd’s Bush will seem to you to last the better part of a day. You will suffer excruciating boredom—and the effects will likely wear off before Miss Adler commences her attack. You will be better off waiting until there is some warning of her approach. The serum will take effect in less than thirty seconds. It will take her at least that long to break open the one or two of the strongboxes—if indeed she can manage the thing at all. Once you have matched her velocity, you should be able to stop her.

Sherlock frowned. The serum conveys no excessive strength?

No—merely speed.

Hmm. Then the two men that tore open the bank vault can’t have been using your concoction.

No. But I can tell you that Professor Redwood, one of my, uh, former associates, was working on nutritional supplements designed to promote growth and healing. Added muscular efficiency and power could be side-effects of such. Perhaps his experiments have reached the human-trial phase.

Perhaps. Well, that’s neither here nor there. Let us prepare for our confrontation with the speedy Miss Maureen Adler.

* * * *

On the day of the move, Sherlock was ready. He had as a weapon a cane, but as a skilled stick-fighter and swordsman, he was very able with it.

He noticed Gibberne scanning their surroundings as the horse-drawn wagon trundled along. Loaded in the back of the wagon was a safe and three boxes, all shrouded in heavy chains. Sherlock and Gibberne sat among them. They had reasoned that Adler would be lying in wait at some point along the route to Shepherd’s Bush, examining each passing wagon for hints that the serum was aboard.

We won’t see her, you know, he said to the researcher.

Oh, I realize that. I can’t help myself. Gibberne paused. Do you suppose she’ll think it suspicious that I am trying to spot her?

Sherlock shook his head. "I fancy she’ll think it’s perfectly normal. Doubtless she’ll be amused, knowing that she can zip in before we’re scarcely aware of it. Besides, she won’t really know what you’re doing, will she—because you will be moving much more slowly, to her, that she is unlikely to notice that you indeed are looking around for her."

He was lounging at ease, facing back in the direction from which they’d come. It was a warm, sunny day, and he found himself drowsing a little. Gibberne had fallen silent, his brows knit in thought.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. Feeling himself drifting off, he opened them again—and thought he saw a mirage-like disturbance in the distance, far behind them. It rapidly drew nearer.

Without saying anything, he quickly reached for the padded case containing a hypodermic loaded with the last few milligrams of Gibberne’s accelerator and injected himself with it. The queer disturbance was alongside the wagon before he finished pushing down the plunger. He said, Gibberne! I think we’re— And then he felt a wave of dizziness and euphoria flood over him. There was something wonderful and seductive about the blissful feeling. It reminded him of the one time he had experienced the effects of cocaine, not long before.

Sherlock forced his attention away from those thoughts as the disturbance began to come into focus. After a moment he saw a young woman dressed in close-fitting clothing with goggles over her eyes climbing into the bed of the wagon—which, he realized, had slowed its forward motion to the point of being all but immobile.

She stalked past him without giving him a glance. She set about trying to free one of the crates from its chains, as he could tell by listening to her movements. He was tempted to cast a glance over his shoulder, cautiously so that Adler would not suspect he was moving as quickly as she. He moved his head slightly, slowly, so as not to attract her attention. She tugged on the chains binding one of the crates, swearing luridly. The horse seemed frozen in place. The wagon’s wheels were as motionless, moving as slowly as the minute hand on a clock.

He enjoyed the moment: Adler stymied by the ropes and chains, all else dream-like. He could have let her continue struggling, but what would be the point? He wasn’t sure he could sit still that long, and in any case, he wanted to best her.

He stood up. She whirled around, clearly stunned. Her hands, he saw, were trembling, and despite the goggles her eyes were deeply sunk in their sockets. She looked gaunt. Brandishing his cane, he said, Miss Adler. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now you will please surrender yourself to me.

She let out an incredulous laugh. You’re joking, boy.

The boy stung, but he refused to show it. By no means, he said. You are tampering with government property. And you cannot win past me.

He saw her eyes narrow behind her goggles. She knows I’m right, he thought. She knows I am moving as quickly as she.

She bared her teeth at him in a silent snarl. Abruptly she feinted to her left—but he was ready, and thrust his cane between her legs, causing her to stumble. She righted herself instantly, again cursing horribly—language he hadn’t even heard from sailors. He squared off against her—but she reached into her leather jacket and yanked out a pistol.

Sherlock gasped as she raised the weapon at him and fired. He winced, expecting a blow—but the bullet never hit him.

She missed! She was apparently as startled as he. Her hand holding the gun drooped; then, enraged, she lifted it and fired again—and again he wasn’t hit.

Both he and Adler stared at each other, he in astonishment and she in fury. Then she threw the gun at him, but he ducked it and sprang forward, seizing her.

To his surprise, she was stronger than he had expected, perhaps because she was fueled by desperation. They grappled, each unable to win an advantage. Then, to his annoyance, his dose of the accelerator potion wore off. Sherlock found himself at normal speed, struggling to hold onto a flailing ghost that emitted high-pitched screams like the whining of a mosquito. Sherlock yelled for help, and Gibberne, staring in astonishment at Sherlock’s sudden materialization, came to his aid, wrapping the shrieking apparition in a chain. It was already moving more slowly.

Dose—wearing off, Gibberne gasped as the decelerating young woman pummeled him.

They managed to maintain their grip on Adler despite her high-speed kicking and punching, which became slower and slower with each passing split-second. Within moments her metabolism had slowed down to the point where she appeared in normal time, disheveled and panting with anger. Despite her youth, some of her hair was shot through with gray.

Sherlock tore her goggles off. Without them she was hollow-eyed and had the appearance of a drug addict. Her hands trembled more noticeably. She was, all in all, a piteous sight.

They bound her more securely, ignoring