Table Of ContentALL-CONSUMING FIRE
Andy Lane
To: Chris Amies, Tina Anghelatos, Ian Atkins, Molly Brown, Mr Fandango,
Craig Hinton, Liz Holliday, Ben Jeapes, Rebecca Levene, Andrew Martin,
Jim Mortimore, Amanda Murray, Mike Nicholson, David Owen, Justin
Richards, Gus Smith, Helen Stirling, Charles Stross and James Wallis. If
you don't like it, you know who to blame.
First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Doctor Who Books an imprint of
Virgin Publishing Ltd 332 Ladbroke Grove London W10 5AH
Copyright (c) Andy Lane 1994
'Doctor Who' series copyright (c) British Broadcasting Corporation 1994
ISBN 0 426 20415 8
Cover illustration by Jeff Cummins
Internal illustrations by Mike Nicholson
Typeset by Intype, London Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox &
Wyman Ltd,
Reading, Berks
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
'May I marry Holmes?'
Cable of enquiry from dramatist/actor William Gillette to Arthur Conan
Doyle during writing of Gillette's Sherlock Holmes play.
'You may marry or murder or do what you like with him.'
Doyle's reply.
Prologue
March 1843 - Jabalhabad, India
'Boy! I say, boy! Two more burra pegs, chelo!'
The man in the British Army uniform waved an imperious hand as the
turbaned servant glided silently from the veranda.
The old man in the cane chair beside him cackled gently. 'Most kind of you,
hmm?' he said, and glanced over to where his granddaughter was
attempting to capture the distant mountains in water-colour. The setting sun
was behind the bungalow, casting a deep shadow over the patchy doob
grass but catching the snowy peaks in a net of scarlet and purple.
She glanced up and caught his gaze.
'Grandfather?'
'Nothing, child.'
The soldier batted at a cloud of insects with his pith helmet. The motion
caused a fresh rash of sweat to break out across his forehead. He mopped
half-heartedly at it.
'Deuced if I know how you cope in this heat,' he muttered.
'Oh, I've been in hotter places than this, my boy,' said the old man.
'There's nowhere on Earth hotter than India during the dry season. If there
was, I'd have been posted to it.'
'Perhaps you're right,' the old man agreed. He looked over towards a group
of three people - a man and two women - who were sitting and taking tea
upon the lawn in the shade of a large parasol. There was something
familiar about the man, but he couldn't quite place him.
The servant appeared from the shadows of the bungalow with two double
whiskies on a tray. The ice had already melted. A mosquito was struggling
weakly in the old man's glass.
'Now, where was I?' the soldier asked, frowning slightly.
'You were telling me about a rather strange temple up in the hills.'
'So I was,' the soldier replied, faintly surprised. 'A rum tale, and no mistake.
Let's see what you make of it, what?'
The old man said nothing, but glanced again at the trio happily chatting
near his granddaughter. The women were young, but the man . . .
He managed to catch the man's eye. A look passed between them, and the
old man shivered.
'Are you all right?' the soldier asked.
'Hmm? I think somebody just walked over my graves.'
'If you're feeling a bit under the weather, you'd better see the medic.
Corporal Forbes is rife around here.'
'Corporal Forbes?' the old man asked.
'Cholera Morbus. Cholera, you know.'
'I wouldn't worry about that,' the old man said. 'Please, go on.'
'Right-ho. As I said earlier, the palace was a sight to be seen...'
'So this is where it all started?' Bernice said politely.
'Indeed,' the Doctor replied, and took a sip of tea. 'And we've seen where it
ends. If I hadn't listened to Siger's tale on that veranda.. .'
'Yeah, we know,' Ace said dismissively. She fiddled with her frilly dress.
Bernice could tell that she felt uncomfortable in something that wasn't
bullet-proof and laser-resistant. 'Ultimate evil, and all that guff, It's a bit hard
to swallow, Professor. If you hadn't stopped it, somebody else would have
done. I've seen the future, remember? The future of all this. I was born in
it.'
'Time's a funny thing,' the Doctor mused, gazing with a strange expression
at the girl who was painting the watercolour landscape. 'Didn't the business
with the Monk and his pet chronovore illustrate precisely that point? The
lives of every planet, every person and every proton are like trickles of
water running down a window. Their courses may look fixed, but if you
disturb them early on then they can trickle into another path entirely'
Ace summed up her viewpoint in one succinct word.
Before the Doctor's temper boiled over, Bernice said, 'So, do I take it that
the old man sitting over there is you?'
'In a sense.'
'In what sort of sense, precisely?'
'In a rather imprecise sense.'
'He doesn't look very much like you.'
'I was five hundred years younger then,' the Doctor said gloomily. 'You may
not believe it, but age has mellowed me.'
Ace snorted.
'You should write your autobiography,' she said. 'Confessions of a Roving
Time Lord. You'd sell a billion.'
'Ah,' said the Doctor, 'that reminds me...'
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book.
'A present for you both,' he said.
Bernice took the book from his outstretched hand.
'All-Consuming Fire,' she read, grinning. 'Being a Reprint From the
Reminiscences of Doctor John Watson As Edited by Arthur Conan Doyle.'
She rifled through the pages.
'This is weird, seeing them called Holmes and Watson.'
'That's how history remembers them. That's how Arthur protected their
identities.'
'Arthur?' Ace looked interested. 'Mate of yours, this Doyle character?'
The Doctor looked away.
'Oh, our paths crossed, longer ago that I care to remember. Arthur Conan
Doyle and Rudyard Kipling. Do you like Kipling?'
'I don't know,' Ace replied with a cheeky grin, 'I've never kippled.'
Bernice, who had been flicking through the book looking for her first
appearance, laughed suddenly.
'What is it?' the Doctor asked.
'You, after that creature fell on you,' she giggled. 'I still remember the look
on your face.'
The Doctor frowned, and gazed at the faded pink stains on his linen jacket.
'I'll never get these blood-stains out,' he murmured.
Bernice hardly heard him. She had flipped back to the start of the book and
was already reading the first few words.
Chapter 1
In which Holmes and Watson return from holiday and an illustrious client
commissions their services
A reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson M.D.
As I flick through the thirty-five volumes of my diary I find records of the
many bizarre cases that my friend Sherlock Holmes and I were engaged in
over the years. In the volume for eighteen eighty four, to take an example, I
see the repulsive story of the red leech and the tale of the terrible death of
Crosby the banker. Again, in the tome devoted to eighteen eighty six my
eye is caught by the singular affair of the aluminium crutch and its
connection with an attempt upon the life of our dear sovereign: a story for
which the world is singularly unprepared. It is, however, the year eighteen
eighty seven which occupies no less that three volumes of my diary.
Following the tragic curtailment of my marriage to Constance Adams of
California I was again living under the same roof as Holmes. I still
maintained a small practice in Paddington, but my work was undemanding
- so much so that I had turned my hand to writing an account of my meeting
with Holmes for private publication - and I always managed to make myself
available on those occasions when Holmes requested my presence (I
cannot, in all honesty, say help) on a case.
All through the spring and summer of that year the brass knocker on the
door of 221b Baker Street seemed never to be still, and our carpet was
almost worn away by the constant stream of visitors. Twice Mrs Hudson
threatened to withdraw from her role as provider of light refreshments to
Holmes's clients. The unceasing round of snatched sleep and snatched
meals caused Holmes's naturally gaunt features to become so emaciated
that I became worried for his health. Eventually I managed to persuade him
that he deserved a holiday. Typically of Holmes, he chose to spend it in
Vienna researching his theory that many of Mozart's symphonies were
plagiarized from obscure works by Orlando Lassus. To mollify me, for he
had no interest in bodily comfort himself, he arranged for us to travel in
some considerable style. The cost, he claimed, was of no concern, for he
had recently been generously remunerated by Lord Rotherfield for proving
to the satisfaction of the various Court circulars and scandal sheets that
Lady Rotherfield was not a female impersonator. Whilst he delved into
archives and, much to the dismay of the maids, buried his hotel suite in
mounds of dusty paper, I admired the architecture, the ladies and the
horseflesh at the famous Riding Academy. Finally, completely restored to
health and happiness, we returned to England on the Orient Express. I
should have known that our luck could not last for ever. The shadow of the
Library of Saint John the Beheaded lay over us, even as we pulled out of
Vienna.
Holmes and I were in the habit of taking dinner with Colonel Warburton and
his charming wife Gloria. Returning from an extended holiday, they were
heading for Marseilles to pick up the ship to India, where the Colonel was
the Resident in the native state of Jabalhabad. Warburton had been with
my old regiment, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Our paths had never
crossed before, as he had arrived after my transfer to the Berkshires during
the Second Afghan War. My subsequent wounding and invalidity precluded
any chance meeting. He was a beefy, florid man with a greying moustache
and piercing blue eyes. His wife was a dainty creature, as fragile as a
porcelain miniature, but they were obviously devoted to one another
despite their differences.
We first became aware of something amiss in the dining carriage. Holmes
was in an unusually expansive mood, that night, entertaining us with
anecdotes of his long and varied life as we dined on an excellent fillet of
beef washed down with a surprisingly mediocre Medoc. Having heard
Holmes's stories before, I spent some time admiring the carriage we sat in.
The ornate ceiling, mahogany panelling and embossed leather seats put
me in mind of the finest London clubs, although the paintings (by Schwind
and Delacroix, Holmes had assured me) were not to my taste. Give me
Landseer's Monarch of the Glen any day.
Eventually my gaze shifted to the window, and to the snow-bound Austrian
landscape which flashed past too quickly to identify any features. There
was a full moon in the sky, and occasionally clouds scudded across its face
like dirty rags carried by the wind. Moonlight glinted on the metal of a set of
rail tracks which ran parallel to ours. I was about to turn my attention back
to the table when a movement caught my eye. I craned my neck, and saw
that a second train was racing along behind us, moving at such a pace that
it would overtake us within moments. I watched, fascinated, as it pulled
alongside. Against the fiery glow from the engine I could see the silhouette
of the stoker shovelling like a clockwork figure in the cabin. As the train
overtook us I was amazed to discover that it consisted of only one carriage.
If anything it was even more ornate than ours from the outside; a gleaming
white shape with scarlet velvet drapes drawn across the windows and a
golden crest on its flank. Who owned it? What was it doing there? I turned
to ask Holmes, but he was engaged in deep conversation and I could not
find it in my heart to interrupt. By the time I turned my face back to the
window the mystery train had almost passed us.
Holmes was now waxing lyrical about violins, explaining to the Colonel and
his wife the difference between an Amati and a Stradivarius. I thanked God
that Holmes's own violin lay back in Baker Street. When the mood took him
Holmes could play like an angel, but more often than not his raucous
meanderings put the cats to shame. Whilst we waited for our third course I
glanced over Holmes's shoulder. Apart from the four of us around the
dinner table there were two other travellers travelling first class, but only the
Reverend Hawkins was present in the dining car. Baden-Powell, a self-
proclaimed expert on butterflies whose tan and manner indicated military
service, was absent. I looked again at the Reverend Hawkins. Something
about him bothered me, but I could not say what.
'You see, but you do not understand,' said Holmes, interrupting my train of
thought.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Our clerical fellow traveller is an agent for the British Government.'
'Good Lord, Holmes. Are you sure?'
Colonel and Mrs Warburton were listening intently. I suddenly became
aware that the train was slowing but I found myself, as always, fascinated
by Holmes's display of his talents.
'The Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits have provided spies of all
nations with a golden ribbon across Europe. It would be unusual were they
not to take advantage of it. When I see an English clergyman travelling first
class my suspicions are raised; when I notice that the knees of his trousers
do not shine, my suspicions positively levitate.'
'Knees?' asked Warburton.
'Shine?' murmured his wife.
'You do not see the connection?' Holmes asked. 'Forgive me, I thought it
was obvious. The Reverend Hawkins may pray, but not I suspect for his
immortal soul, and certainly not in the conventional position. You may also
note the callous on the index finger of his right hand, indicating a familiarity
with firearms of which the Archbishop of Canterbury would strongly
disapprove.'
The train was just crawling along now, but Holmes continued.
'The man is obviously an undercover agent of some sort. The assertion that
he works for our dear Queen rather than one of her foreign relatives is, I
will admit, a shot in the dark. However, given his calm manner I would
suggest that he is returning from an assignment rather than travelling to
one.'
'But how did you know . . .?'
'That you were watching him? If I catch you staring fixedly over my
shoulder it doesn't take much to know that you aren't keeping an eye on an
empty table. You were watching one of our fellow travellers.'
The train had been brought to a stop now. Glancing out of the window I
saw what I had expected; the white train with the gold crest was stationary
on the other track.
'But,' I protested, gathering my wits, 'Hawkins entered after us, and your
back has been to him all the time. How did you know it wasn't Mr Baden-
Powell who had entered?'
'Simplicity itself; When the serveur brought in the soup, he was carrying five
dishes. Someone had obviously entered behind me. It must have been
either Baden-Powell or Hawkins, since they are the only other first class
travellers.' He leaned back and steepled his fingers upon the tablecloth.
The candle on the table cast a hawk-like shadow behind him. 'When we
received the soup, we began immediately. There was a gap of almost forty-
five seconds before I heard the clink of a spoon on a dish behind us.
