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"I got six, you got four," said one of the brothers.
"I got five," the other said.
"No, we both shot that last one, but I shot him first. You want credit for shooting a corpse now?"
"I shot him first."
"Nope. It's six to four, me," the first brother said. "Don't take it too hard, I think you got whipped more than me, too."
"I think you got hit in the head harder," the second brother said. "Affects your counting." He turned to me. "Hey, doc! You mind helping us down?"
I looked at Holmes, still locked in combat with Jacaré. They'd moved from the pier to the deck, and his back was up against the ramshackle building. He'd been wounded again, a gash along one cheek, but I could see him smiling in the firelight, and he shook his head at me when I began to raise my revolver toward his opponent.
Without the pirates surrounding me, helping the Holingbroke brothers down presented little challenge, and soon they were sitting in the mud, rubbing at the wounds the ropes had burned into their legs and watching the duel.
"It's over," Holmes said to Jacaré, blocking another blow. Holmes was clearly not as skilled in swordplay as his opponent, and made few attacks of his own, but he managed to ward off the worst of Jacaré's assaults, and continually maneuvered himself over to the pirate's left side, using his opponent's eyepatch as an advantage.
"Maybe so," the pirate said. "Maybe I should have killed you straight out, but it seemed like a waste."
"Surrender," Holmes said.
"Nah," Jacaré answered. "T'ain't my way." He raised his sword for another blow.
"You have a very interesting accent," Holmes said. "It took me a while to place it. Your method of hiding your secrets is a bold one."
For whatever reason, this last comment rattled Jacaré, who bellowed and charged at Holmes with all his speed.
Holmes dropped his sword, bent down, and kicked Jacaré at the side of the knee. The pirate howled in agony, fell, and splashed into the water.
Alarmed, Holmes rushed forward, holding an arm out to his opponent.
Jacaré splashed to the surface.
"Quickly, man," Holmes said.
But Jacaré, his face calm, ignored Holmes's offer of help. There was a tremendous splash beside him, and then the massive pale jaws of the alligator flashed in the moonlight. Jacaré screamed once in pain and then the beast pulled him under the water, its body rolling over and over. The bog bubbled and churned as the creature shook and began to consume its prey.
Weeks later, safely ensconced once more at 221B Baker Street, our wounds mostly healed, I broached the topic of the pirates of Devil's Cape over tea.
We had departed the city nearly as quickly as we had arrived. The death of O Jacaré had left a void in the city as large as that of a fallen king, and by morning, when news of his death had spread, there was rioting in the streets.
Before leaving, we made certain that the Holingbrokes were safe, and confirmed Holmes's suspicions, first that they had been traveling aboard the Friesland incognito because some of Jacaré's men had accosted them on their European tour, and second that Jacaré had been fascinated, even obsessed, with the mystery of where they hid their gold. "I believe our traveling days are done for a while," Janus Holingbroke told us. "Best to settle down here for a spell."
Somewhat to my relief, Deputy Chief Lestrade survived the shot to his shoulder. Holmes prepared documentation of his crimes and forwarded them to the office of Governor Murphy J. Foster of the state of Louisiana, but we never received a response. Our own Inspector Lestrade was appalled and consternated to learn of his cousin's crimes, not the least because of the opportunity it gave Holmes to jibe him about his relative.
"Holmes," I said, topping off my cup and taking a sip of Mrs. Hudson's excellent brew. "I do wish you would settle that last detail for me."
"Last detail, Watson?" he answered breezily, feigning confusion.
"Your comment about Jacaré's accent," I said, "and why it flustered him so."
"He was alone and defeated. Even had he managed to strike me down, you and the other two sharpshooters would have killed him in turn."
I waved off the implied compliment. "Defeated or not," I persisted, "your words conquered him as surely as the blow to his leg. What did you deduce from his accent?"
Holmes sighed. "With mysterious deaths and Siamese twins and a giant alligator, this adventure was extraordinary enough," he said. "I am reluctant to add another level of mystery to the tale."
"Oh, come now, Holmes!"
He drank from his own cup and stared at the latest addition to our parlor, a small painting of Lady Danger we had received from Lieutenant-Commander Powell, who was grateful for our defeating the pirates and returning the seven paintings that they had stolen from the Rijksmuseum exhibit. "Sometimes, Watson, a conclusion, no matter how sound, can defy belief." He tapped the cup. "O Jacaré seemed to revere the old pirate St. Diable in many ways: his tactics, his accoutrements, his mental discipline. There were some cosmetic differences, of course, such as the beard and the eyepatch, but in many ways, Jacaré seemed like a continuation of St. Diable himself."
"A disciple," I said. "He studied St. Diable and emulated him."
"Perhaps," Holmes said. "That is certainly the most likely explanation. But as you know, I have a rather disciplined ear for language and accents. As we dueled, as he spoke to me, I found myself struggling not just to preserve my life, but to place his accent. And I realized that if I considered not just different locales, but different times, and the evolution of language over time, I might finally have a solution."
"Holmes!" I cried. "You're saying that Jacaré was St. Diable? That's preposterous! He'd have to be nearly three centuries old."
"And now you know why I was reluctant to discuss the subject. The mechanics of such a thing-how it could be possible-elude me entirely. But answer this for me, Watson: If my solution was as preposterous as you say, then why did my comment shake him so badly?"
I stared into space, lost in thought, my hand trembling as I sipped my tea. Try as I might, I could not answer Holmes's question.
The Adventure of the Green Skull by Mark Valentine
Mark Valentine is the author of the novels In Violet Veils, Masques and Citadels, and, with John Howard, The Rite of Trebizond, which are about an "aesthetical occult detective" and are collectively known as the Tales of The Co
A revenant is a visible ghost or animated corpse that returns to terrorize the living, often in retribution for some wrong visited on that person in life. Wrongs done create ghosts, and many wrongs were committed against the workers of London in the early days of industrialization. Many of these deprivations were chronicled by the author Charles Dickens, who was so traumatized by the time he spent working in a dangerous, squalorous blacking factory that for the rest of his life he wore gloves and washed his hands constantly. The Sadler Committee once interviewed a young man named Matthew Crabtree, who testified that he had started work in a factory at the age of eight, commonly worked sixteen-hour days, and was beaten severely for the slightest infraction. He also testified that in all his years in the factory, not an hour had passed that you couldn't hear one of the child workers wailing. Many people don't realize that the thick, impenetrable London fogs that we associate with Sherlock Holmes were a result of terrible air pollution. The Victorian Age was romantic, but it was also a dark time, when business interests were totally unrestrained.