Danger: The Shadowy Figure
We had reached the iron railings of the Embankment, the Thames a black, oily expanse to our right. The silence was shattered only by the rhythmic slap-slap of water against the stone. Suddenly, Holmes gripped my arm, his fingers digging into my sleeve like talons. He pulled me into the deep shadow of a stone buttress.
"Do you see him, Watson?" he breathed.
Fifty yards ahead, standing beneath the flickering, sickly green glow of a gaslamp, was a figure. He was unnaturally tall and thin, draped in a cloak that seemed to absorb what little light remained. He stood perfectly still, facing the river, as if waiting for a signal from the void. A faint, cloying scent wafted toward us on the breeze—the unmistakable, sweet perfume of funeral lilies.
"It is him," I whispered, my hand moving to the holster at my belt. "The phantom from the docks."
The figure turned slightly, and for a fleeting second, the light caught a profile that was less a face and more a skull wrapped in parchment. He began to move, not toward the street, but down a set of slick, treacherous stone stairs leading directly into the churning waters of the Thames.
Holmes looked from the figure to the surrounding warehouses. "He is heading for the launch. If we follow him down those stairs now, we risk an ambush in the dark where our revolvers will be useless. But if we take the long way around to the pier, he may vanish before we arrive."
The clock was ticking. The fog seemed to be closing in, a physical manifestation of the choice before us.
Next
- ./watson-help Call for Watson's support
- ./chase-phantom Chase the phantom alone