Landis, Geoffrey A - SS - The Singular Habits of Wasps.pdf

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The Singular Habits of
Wasps
GEOFFREY A. LANDIS
GEOFFREY LANDIS lives in Cleveland, Ohio, with a calico cat and
twenty-six goldfish. In addition to writing, he works on solar energy
research at NASA Lewis Research Center. His current project is to develop
instruments to fly on an upcoming unmanned probe to Mars.
Dr Landis' first story, "Elemental", was written while he was a graduate
student in physics at Brown University, and earned him a Hugo Award
nomination in 1985. Since then his stories have appeared regularly in all
the science fiction magazines, and have been translated into twelve
languages.
His story "A Walk in the Sun" won the Hugo Award in 1992, and
"Ripples in the Dirac Sea" won the Nebula Award in 1989. A short story
collection, Myths, Legends and True History , appeared as part of
Pulphouse Publishing's Author's Choice Monthly series.
About "The Singular Habits of Wasps" (which was nominated for both
the Nebula and Hugo Awards), he says: "I recall reading 'The Adventure of
the Speckled Band' as a child, and it made quite an impression on me; in
particular the image of an unknown but terrifyingly deadly menace,
slithering in the dark down a bell-rope into the bedchamber of our
adventurers. I can assure you that, at least for children of some ages, many
of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes are not so much mysteries as horror.
This story skirts that ill-defined territory which lies at the boundary
between mystery, science fiction, horror and historical. A territory, of
course, which was not unfamiliar to Sir Arthur himself."
"In researching the story, I came across several interesting facts,
including the fact that in the summer of 1888, the stage adaptation of
Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was the hit of London's Lyceum
 
Theatre, and that in the only one of the Jack the Ripper killings in which
the presumed murderer was seen with the victim, the suspect was
described as a tall man wearing a deerstalker hat…"
OF THE MANY ADVENTURES in which I have participated with my
friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, none has been more singularly horrifying than
the case of the Whitechapel killings, nor ever had I previously had cause to
doubt the sanity of my friend. I need but close my eyes to see again the
horror of that night; the awful sight of my friend, his arms red to the
elbow, his knife still dripping gore, and to recall in every detail the
gruesome horrors that followed.
The tale of this adventure is far too awful to allow any hint of the true
course of the affair to be known. Although I dare never let this account be
read by others, I have often noticed, in chronicling the adventures of my
friend, that in the process of putting pen to paper a great relief occurs. A
catharsis, as we call it in the medical profession. And so I hope that by
putting upon paper the events of those weeks, I may ease my soul from its
dread fascination with the horrid events of that night. I will write this and
then secret the account away with orders that it be burned upon my
death.
Genius is, as I have often remarked, closely kin to madness, so closely
that at times it is hard to distinguish the one from the other, and the
greatest geniuses are also often quite insane. I had for a long time known
that my friend was subject to sporadic fits of blackest depression, from
which he could become aroused in an instant into bursts of manic energy,
in a manner not unlike the cyclic mood-swings of a madman. But the
limits to his sanity I never probed.
The case began in the late springtime of 1888. All who were in London
at that time will recall the perplexing afternoon of the double cannonade.
Holmes and I were enjoying a cigar after lunch in our sitting room at 221B
Baker Street when the hollow report of a double firing of cannon rang out
from the cloudless sky, rattling the windows and causing Mrs Hudson's
china to dance upon its shelves. I rushed to the window. Holmes was in
the midst of one of those profound fits of melancholia to which he is so
prone, and did not rise from his chair, but did bestir himself so much as
to ask what I saw. Aside from other, equally perplexed folk opening their
windows to look in all directions up and down the street, I saw nothing out
of the ordinary, and such I reported to him.
 
"Most unusual," Holmes remarked. He was still slumped almost
bonelessly in his chair, but I believed I detected a bit of interest in his eye.
"We shall hear more about this, I would venture to guess."
And indeed, all of London seemed to have heard the strange reports,
without any source to be found, and the subject could not be avoided all
that day or the next. Each newspaper ventured an opinion, and even
strangers on the street talked of little else. As to conclusion, there was
none, nor was the strange sound repeated. In another day the usual gossip,
scandals and crimes of the city had crowded the marvel out of the papers,
and the case was forgotten.
But it had, at least, the effect of breaking my friend out of his
melancholia, even so far as to cause him to pay a rare visit to his brother
at the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was high in the Queen's service, and there
were few secrets of the Empire to which Mycroft was not privy. Holmes
did not confide in me as to what result came of his inquiries of Mycroft,
but he spent the remainder of the evening pacing and smoking,
contemplating some mystery.
In the morning we had callers, and the mystery of the cannonade was
temporarily set aside. They were two men in simple but neat clothes, both
very diffident and hesitant of speech.
"I see that you have come from the south of Surrey," Holmes said
calmly. "A farm near Godalming, perhaps?"
"Indeed we have, sir, from Covingham, which is a bit south of
Godalming," said the elder of the visitors, "though how you could know, I'll
never guess in all my born days, seeing as how I've never had the pleasure
of meeting you before in my life, nor Baxter here neither."
I knew that Holmes, with his encyclopaedic knowledge, would have
placed them precisely from their accents and clothing, although this
elementary feat of deduction seemed to quite astound our visitors.
"And this is the first visit to London for either of you," said Holmes.
"Why have you come this distance from your farm to see me?"
The two men looked at each other in astonishment. "Why, right you are
again, sir! Never been to London town, nor Baxter."
 
"Come, come; to the point. You have traveled this distance to see me
upon some matter of urgency."
"Yes, sir. It's the matter of young Gregory. A farm hand he was, sir, a
strapping lad, over six feet and still lacking 'is full height. A-haying he was.
A tragic accident t'was, sir, tragic."
Holmes of course noticed the use of the past tense, and his eyes
brightened. "An accident, you say? Not murder?"
"Yes."
Holmes was puzzled. "Then, pray, why have you come to me?"
"'Is body, sir. We've come about 'is body."
"What about it?"
"Why, it's gone, sir. Right vanished away."
"Ah." Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming with
sudden interest. "Pray, tell me all about it, and spare none of the details."
The story they told was long and involved many diversions into details
of life as a hired hand at Sherringford Farm, the narration so roundabout
that even Holmes's patience was tried, but the essence of the story was
simple. Baxter and young Gregory had been working in the fields when
Gregory had been impaled by the blade of the mechanical haying engine.
"And cursed be the day that the master ever decided to buy such an
infernal device," added the older man, who was the uncle and only relation
of the poor Gregory. Disentangled from the machine, the young farmhand
had been still alive, but very clearly dying. His abdomen had been ripped
open and his viscera exposed. Baxter had laid the dying man in the shade
of a hayrick, and gone to fetch help. Help had taken two hours to arrive,
and when they had come, they had found the puddle of congealing blood,
but no sign of Gregory. They had searched all about, the corpse was
nowhere to be found, nor was there any sign of how he had been carried
away. There was no chance, Baxter insisted, that Gregory could have
walked even a small distance on his own. "Not unless he dragged 'is guts
after him. I've seen dying men, guv, and men what 'ave been mere
wounded, and young Gregory was for it."
 
"This case may have some elements of interest in it," said Holmes.
"Pray, leave me to cogitate upon the matter tonight. Watson, hand me the
train schedule, would you? Thank you. Ah, it is as I thought. There is a 9
AM train from Waterloo." He turned to the two men. "If you would be so
good as to meet me on the morrow at the platform?"
"Aye, sir, that we could."
"Then it is settled. Watson, I do believe you have a prior engagement?"
That I did, as I was making plans for my upcoming marriage, and had
already made firm commitment in the morning to inspect a practice in
the Paddington district with a view toward purchasing it. Much as I have
enjoyed accompanying my friend upon his adventures, this was one which
I should have to forego.
Holmes returned late from Surrey, and I did not see him until breakfast
the next morning. As often he was when on a case, he was rather
uncommunicative, and my attempts to probe the matter were met with
monosyllables, except at the very last. "Most unusual," he said, as if to
himself. "Most singular indeed."
"What?" I asked, eager to listen now that it appeared that Holmes was
ready to break his silence.
"The tracks, Watson," he said. "The tracks. Not man, nor beast, but
definitely tracks." He looked at his pocket-watch. "Well, I must be off.
Time enough for cogitation when I have more facts."
"But where are you going?"
Holmes laughed. "My dear Watson, I have in my time amassed a bit of
knowledge of various matters which would be considered most recherché
to laymen. But I fear that, upon occasion, even I must consult with an
expert."
"Then whom?"
"Why, I go to see Professor Huxley," he answered, and was out the door
before I could ask what query he might have for the eminent biologist.
He was absent from Baker Street all afternoon. When he returned after
 

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