Chapter I V
Sharkey's Tooth

After supper on Wednesday I retired to the garden to smoke while Belinda sat at my feet and sang to me. She had a sweet and expressive voice well suited to the simple hobbit ditties we both enjoyed. The sun was sinking behind a towering bank of purple clouds, and the lake was ablaze with scarlet and gold, when Holmes tapped me lightly on the shoulder. All was quiet and peaceful in the golden evening light that streamed into our sheltered garden, and it seemed hard to imagine that somewhere beyond its comforting glow, there lurked a malignant fiend the like of which we had never encountered before.
We shouldered our packs and I kissed Belinda fondly; instructing her to lock and bar the door and windows, and admit no one until our return. I confess that I was not a little alarmed by our expedition. The old tower of Insengard had an evil reputation that filled my heart with grim forebodings. It was said that the old conjurer had practiced unspeakable rites and raised unholy spectres from the deeps to serve his wicked ends, and that his imps still haunted the dark pits and foetid tunnels that honeycombed the valley beneath his ancient seat. Very few were brave or foolhardy enough to pass its shadow by day and none would venture within a dozen leagues of it at night. Yet here were we, an underweight and slightly frightened hobbit and a cynical, world-weary detective, creeping stealthily along a ruined causeway that might lead to unimaginable horrors. I gazed up at the soaring tower which seemed to rise from the very bones of the earth; black as pitch and hard as iron, bound by four jagged buttresses of many-sided stone that had once opened into gaping horns at the summit, but were now broken off like the remains of some enormous, rotten tooth. Sharkey’s Tooth it was called and well merited; though what the old wizard had named it none could now recall. Two hundred feet and more it soared above the lake, its few remaining windows opening into darkness amidst the deeper darkness of the slimy rock they pierced. Its foot was a wilderness of stunted gorse and tumbled rock, pitted with blackened holes and rotting posts to which, it is said, the conjurer’s victims had once been tied. Holmes stepped onto the broad pediment at the base of the eastern buttress and began to ascend the broken steps that led to a shattered door ten feet above us.

“The light is going,” said I.
“I have brought lamps and this-”
With that Holmes drew out a long wooden box from his pack and opening the lid, proceeded to assemble a weapon the like of which I had never seen before - at least I assumed it was a weapon.
“Good Gracious, Holmes, whatever have you there!” I exclaimed.
“It is a crossbow, Bingo, made for me many years ago by Mablung and Boromir, the finest armourers in Old Gondor. You will observe that is has a detachable limb system which is held to the stock with these clamps. The entire bow can be assembled in seconds and is constructed from yew and mithril.”
“Mithril!” I ejaculated. “The miraculous metal of the ancient dwarfs!”
“Quite so, Bingo, and exceedingly rare, but harder than steel and many times stronger and lighter. Note the precision roller guides that pre-tension the string and keep it aligned in exactly the same position around the natural cocking centre. The break-action trigger mechanism is the finest of its kind and allows the archer to fire as many as sixteen bolts a minute. Finally, I attach the long-range monocular which makes this formidable device the most deadly weapon in expert hands.”
“And in yours?” I enquired.
He laughed as he set the trigger and fitted a bolt to the runnel. “Adequate for our purposes.”
We made our way through many shadowy halls and dismal tunnels until I lost all sense of direction, but Holmes seemed to know his way about, and we came at last to a long winding stair that terminated before a stout door secured with a massive, brass padlock.
“By Jove!” I cried, “the door and lock are in perfect condition!”
“Not quite, Bingo, but they were not made by the original owner.”
Accustomed as I was to Holmes’ prodigious resourcefulness I was not greatly surprised to see him produce a key from his pocket and unlock the door. I found myself in a large, circular chamber lit by eight narrow windows spaced equally around the wall.
“Do you notice anything, Bingo?”
“Why, yes,” said I, “You have obtained a key to this place.”
“No, not that, try again.”
“The room has been used!” I exclaimed.
“Quite so. Here is the source of those cabbalistic instruments that so amazed you yesterday.”
He strode over to a large table in the centre of the room as I glanced about me. Shelves and cupboards filled every available space; some stacked with items I recognized, such as books, ropes, tools, and boxes, others with strange retorts and even stranger instruments whose purpose I could not even guess at. Holmes waved his hand across the table. “Here, too, are the manuscripts from which Lotho learned the secret of manufacturing the poison Vanwafea or Lovewort and under the table you will find the canisters he used to store the deadly marsh gas.”
“I am astounded, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “How did you manage to find this place?”
“When Brockhouse left our burrow on Sunday evening I followed him here.”
I gaped at him in disbelief. “Then Brockhouse is the murderer after all? I can’t believe it!”
“Nor should you,” said Holmes with a chuckle. “He may have been a visitor here just like us, though I suspect that he has known of the existence of this place for a good while.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I took the liberty of searching his coat when he called on us on Sunday and found a key. In fact, I found three keys and took impressions of all of them. Only one fitted this door, the others presumably fit locks in his burrow.”
“You never cease to amaze me, Holmes.”
“It is the scientific method, Bingo, as I keep telling you. Come - I have something else to show you.”
He led me over to large cupboard, and opening the doors, pulled out a hideous mask.
“Good grief! It’s monstrous! Look at those frightful horns!”
“There’s your Balrog, Bingo, and here are his claws and his enormous webbed feet.” Holmes thrust the items into my arms one by one with a satisfied gleam in his deepset eyes.
“I don’t know whether I am relieved or disappointed,” said I.
“How so?”
“Well, relieved that the Balrog may turn out to be nothing more than a wicked hobbit, but disappointed that Lotho is an even worse scoundrel that I imagined. I suppose that in a corner of my mind I had hoped that you might be wrong. It is powerfully hard to stomach any hobbit committing the crimes that monster has perpetrated!”
“You have a gentle heart, my lad,” said Holmes with more warmth than I was accustomed to from him, and patted me affectionately on the head.
“Finally, here is the proof that Lotho or his brothers were also frequent visitors here.” Holmes showed me several cigar butts and tipped a pile of ash into my hand. As you know I kept the cigar he gave me on the morning of the murders at Sharkey’s End. These are the same brand from the same manufacturer - Hornblower of Hobbiton.”
“Then you have solved the mystery, Holmes!”
“Not quite, Bingo. There are some small problems that require further elucidation, though one, at least, is a little less intractable than it was.”
“And what is that?”
“The inexplicable umbrella shortage.”
“You’ve found an umbrella in here?”
“Not one, Bingo, dozens of them; over here, in this chest.”
“Astonishing!” I exclaimed as he opened the lid. “But what are they doing here?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
I laughed. “Well, that makes a refreshing change, Holmes!”
“There is one other problem that puzzles me.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
He indicated a large, gray metal box underneath the table.
“The lock of that box has been forced, evidently some time ago since the scratches left by the chisel used to break into it have oxidized quite badly.”
I knelt down to inspect the box and found a sheaf of advertisements inside that were, if anything, even more obscene that the sample Holmes had shown me when he interviewed Lotho. Underneath them lay a pile of faded receipts and a few unexposed daguerreotypes.
“I see nothing here to puzzle us, Holmes,” I remarked.
“That is because your attention was focused on the lewd nymphs in those salacious advertisements, Bingo. If you look more closely you will observe that the daguerreotypes are covered in dust whilst the papers are quite free of it. Moreover, only one edge of the bungle of receipts has faded and there is a clear impression in the bottom of the box which is entirely free of dust.”
“You are right, Holmes; but what does it mean?”
“It means, my dear Bingo that the box once contained a large folio, approximately twelve inches by nine and some three inches thick, with a pocket inside the back cover for receipts. Plainly it was a common ledger which the owner took great pains to conceal and the thief stole because of the value of its contents.”
“Great Heavens!” said I, “Then whoever broke open the box is in possession of a secret account book that could unmask the ringleader of the gang who committed the murders!”
“Excellent, Bingo! You are scintillating this evening. Your conclusion had not escaped me. What puzzles me is who it belonged to and why the thief has not handed it in to the authorities.”
Then you know who the thief is?
“Certainly, don’t you?”
I shook my head.
“Our friend the orc-hunter - Mr Milo Brockhouse.”
“Astounding!” said I.
“Elementary, Bingo. He dropped his pipe when he broke open the box, and did not trouble to get rid of the ash which you will observe still adheres to the surface of the uppermost daguerreotype.”
“My word Holmes!” I exclaimed, “you have excelled yourself!”
The faint smile that crossed his face was quickly replaced with a deep frown.
“There is one more surprise, Bingo, but I am not sure you should see it.”
“You have never shrunk from exposing the more unsavoury elements of your cases to me before, Holmes, what is so different about this one?”
His lips compressed into a tight line and he clenched his hands. “This is very bad, Bingo. Indeed, I do not think that I have ever encountered such horrors before.”
“Well then,” said I, “The sooner we see them the sooner we can get out of this filthy place. The light has all but gone outside and with only our lamps we shall see mercifully little.”
“I thank God for it,” said Holmes bitterly. With that he led me to a trap-door concealed beneath a low bed and we descended into the vaulted chamber below.

At first I could see very little, but as Holmes lit our lamps and hung two aloft on iron hooks which were embedded in the damp walls, I gave a great cry. I was in a torture chamber the like of which I pray never to see again. The walls were covered with the most loathsome paintings of the worst depravities known to Man or Hobbit. Demonic forms out of another age performed unspeakable acts upon mountains of writhing victims of every age and race, and from the vaulted ceiling a leering, yellow eye rimmed in crimson fire, glared malevolently down at us.
“Eru save me!” I cried, “it is the lidless eye of the Dark Lord himself!”
“That is not the worst this pit can show,” said Holmes through clenched teeth. “Look about you and weep.”
It was true; down the centre of the chamber marched a double row of squat pillars from which heavy chains and rings trailed in disorder across the rusty floor. But it was not rust that stained the floor, or the pillars, and discoloured the walls around me - but blood! I fell to my knees and covered my eyes. But there was worse to come. Holmes touched me gently on the shoulder and pointed to a pile of bones - hobbit bones, some with scraps of rotting flesh still adhering to them.
“Merciful heavens!” I cried. “This is devilish, Holmes, devilish! With what are we dealing?”
“What indeed,” said he grimly, and handed me a box. “Open it, and then we shall leave.”
I raised the lid with trembling hands and drew forth a daguerreotype. Oh, the horror! It was Belladonna and she was chained to one of the pillars in this very chamber. My readers will forgive me if I draw a veil over what I saw in that picture, and in the others, without number, that were in that dreadful box. We left that chamber of horrors and in after years I am proud to record that I was instrumental in having that foul tower levelled to the ground and the whole valley drowned, though I was an old gaffer by the time it was accomplished.
We had scarcely closed the trap-door when Holmes gripped my arm and pointed to a narrow window high in the opposite wall. A winged, black shape was approaching rapidly from the west, silhouetted like some monstrous bat against the dying embers of the setting sun. A freezing horror took possession of me. I felt my hair rising and the blood pounding in my veins. I dragged Holmes away from the window, but he shook me off and took aim with his crossbow. It was a mighty shot and must have struck the creature in some mortal place, for it swerved and slackened in its flight. I rushed to the window and saw it turn away from the tower, swooping low over the lake, rending the air with a fearful shriek as it rushed away from us.
Holmes fired again, but the creature was out of range.
“Damn!” he exclaimed. “I nearly bagged a Balrog!”
“Holmes, you are irrepressible,” said I. “No one else would make light of so dangerous a foe, or so evil a night, but I am grateful for it, for you have lightened my heart.”
I do not remember much of our journey home that night and we three slept together in Holmes’ room with his crossbow at our side.

On Thursday morning we awoke late and Holmes and I called on the Sherriff after breakfast to lay our latest intelligence before him. Proudfoot was clearly frightened out of his wits at our news; but had the courage to agree to Holmes’ suggestion to confine Lotho to his house under guard until such time as we could furnish him with sufficient evidence to bring the criminal to justice. He seemed unconvinced by my assurance that Brockhouse was innocent and handed me a letter, which rekindled my doubts. Holmes took one glance at it and slipped it in his pocket book with a snort of derision. Then we visited the good Doctor and were delighted to see that Belladonna was much improved. She had recovered the power of speech, but as yet could recall little of the terrible events of the night upon which she had almost lost her life. All that she could remember were the terrified shrieks of her brothers and the presence of some unspeakable ghoul with burning eyes that lashed her with a whip until her senses left her. Holmes gave her another injection of miruvor and we left her sleeping peacefully under the watchful eye of Doctor Lightfoot. We returned home in good time for an early luncheon and were smoking our pipes afterwards, when Holmes sprang up and smote his brow.
“Mrs Chubb!”
“The proprietress of the Blue Tit?” I asked.
“We never did return her call, Bingo!”
“That’s hardly surprising, Holmes, after all that occurred yesterday.”
“Nevertheless, my lad, I propose we should go, and at once. If she can be persuaded to testify against Lotho Bolger we shall have enough evidence to hang the scoundrel and his accomplices.”
“By Jove, Holmes, you’re right as usual!”
Thither we now bent our steps. I confess that the filthy business was getting me down. Good-hearted frolicsome fun was one thing, and I was as fond of a light spanking as the next hobbit, but this business of whips and chains and cruelty was not natural; it was Orc’s work and I hated it quite as vehemently as Holmes. What I had seen in the tower convinced me that some devilry was behind the evil that had corrupted the district and the sooner we got to the bottom of it the sooner we could all go back to Hobbiton. Presently we arrived at our destination and Holmes cautioned me to say nothing of the discoveries we had made on our expedition of the previous night.

The Blue Tit was a dilapidated estaminet that had clearly seen more prosperous times. The inn stood a little way back from the road, sandwiched between two tall buildings which leaned precariously away from it, as if they wished to disassociate themselves from its ill favoured reputation. The front was pierced by a wide arch that led into a paved courtyard around which the principle public rooms were huddled. Above the arch hung a peeling sign depicting a sorry-looking bird whose breast had once been blue, but now matched the dirty brown stucco walls that reared above us. On the right, a new, three storied wing had been tunneled into the grassy bank, and to it we had been directed. I rang the bell and the door was opened by a pretty slip of a hobbitmaid with a mop of curly blond hair and dimpled cheeks; a pout was on her red lips and a saucy light shone in her bright blue eyes. She reminded me a little of Belinda, but lacked our housekeeper’s grace and charm. I introduced myself and handed her Holmes’ card. The girl took it, curtseyed, and turned it over in her hands with a puzzled frown.
“I - I never learned my letters, sir.”
“The matter is of some urgency, miss —?” I said.
“— Peony, sir.”
“No — thank you. I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you, miss; though it was kind of you to ask.”
“Peony, sir,” she repeated.
I blushed and stared her.
“Peony,” she repeated. “PE-O-NY, is my name, sir.”
“Oh dear, dear oh dear. I do beg your pardon miss, er — Peony.”
“You may pee on me if you’ve a mind to, sir,” said the brazen little minx, hitching up her skirts provocatively with a pout of her cherry-red lips.
“But mama charges extra for that.”
Holmes regarded the girl with distaste. “We did not come here for urolagnia,” said he, “but to ascertain why your proprietress called on us yesterday.”
“Eh?” said the girl.
“We wish to see the lady of the house!” snapped Holmes.
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” said Peony, sulkily, and advancing into the hall, unlocked a door, and led the way up two ill-lit flights of stairs to a spacious apartment on the second floor. She pushed open the door and we found ourselves in what I can only describe as a bagnio, decorated in the most vulgar style, and dominated by a rococo mirror above a fireplace embellished with lewd carvings. Several priapic satyrs and reluctant nymphs leered down from the crimson walls in artistic attitudes that left no doubt as to the singular amusements to which the room catered.
Peony left us in the company of a striking, auburn-haired girl with the most languorous eyes I had ever seen; her pouting lips were parted in an insolent smile and her tightly-laced corset thrust her bosom forward and upward in a most provoking way. The girl exposed a tantalising glimpse of a pair of tight, black silk camiknickers as she curtseyed to Holmes.
“How may I serve you, sir?” she asked provocatively.
“You are not Mrs. Chubb?”
“Indeed no, sir. I am her elder daughter, Daisy. Mrs. Chubb is my mother. What is your pleasure?”
“We are here to call on your mistress,” retorted Holmes stiffly.
“My sister Peony has gone to fetch her. May I entertain you whilst you wait, sir? I can dance and sing, and play the pianoforte. Or perhaps I may serve you in some other way?”
Holmes’ eyes flashed dangerously and I could see he was controlling himself with some difficulty.
“We are here to see Mrs. Chubb, not — not to be ‘served’ or ‘pleased’, madam!”
The girl shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
“As you like sir. My person is yours to command. Should you change your mind it would be my pleasure to accommodate your desire.”
“I don’t doubt it!” retorted Holmes, and stalked over to the fireplace, where he flung himself in a hideous leather armchair and began to fill his pipe.
My word, she was a provocative little hussy and knew it! When she saw the admiration in my eyes, she planted her shapely foot on the arm of a sofa and brazenly hitched up her skirts to expose her slender calf, and wriggled her bottom. I confess, that had I been alone I would have filled her pipe without a moment’s hesitation! Holmes had no sooner lit up than Peony returned and beckoned us toward the door. We followed her down a wide corridor furnished with small tables and low chairs, which, by the number of doors we passed on our right, evidently served as a private waiting room for Mrs. Chubb’s more demanding patrons. Presently she knocked at the last door and ushered us into a small sitting-room, where we were greeted by the subject of our visit. My first impression of Mrs Chubb was one of superficial beauty. Her eyes were the same deep blue as that of her daughters, and her dainty chin and pretty mouth were framed by the most lustrous, brown hair I have ever seen. But on closer examination there was a hardness of eye, a coarseness of expression, and a looseness of mouth that had all the hallmarks of a sensuous nature long addicted to unnatural vice.
I suppressed a shudder as I shook her limp, clammy hand and took the seat she indicated beside Holmes. My friend’s brows contracted in a disapproving frown as his piercing eyes made a rapid circuit of the libidinous lithographs with which the room was decorated. Peony curtseyed and asked if we would like some refreshment. In doing so, she exposed her upthrust bosom to my gaze, and I am not ashamed to say that her considerable charms brought an even hotter flush to my cheeks than her sister had. Not for the first time I devoutly wished that I were possessed of the steely asceticism of my friend rather than the hot, libidinous nature with which we hobbits are cursed by our animal ancestry.
“Tea,” I muttered self-consciously.
“Cream?” she enquired in a suggestive tone.
“No, milk please.
“Something to nibble on, sir?”
I swear the saucy wench was teasing me, for she put her hand on my thigh, and squeezed it.
“Er, no, tea will be sufficient, thank you” I replied, and hastily crossed my legs.
She giggled and turned to Holmes.
“Nothing for me, thank you,” he said.
Peony curtseyed, winked at me, and left the room.
Holmes smoked his pipe and turned to our hostess. “My time is precious, madam, and has many calls upon it. Please tell me in as few words as possible what can I do for you.”
“You could begin by hanging that scoundrel Brockhouse.”
“That is not within my power, madam.”
“Then get Proudfoot to do it.”
“On what evidence?”
“Evidence?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair. “Why, the whole town knows he had unnatural relations with that strumpet and lived off the wages of her debaucheries. Isn’t that enough?”
“I was given to understand that it was Mr Lotho Bolger who profited from her earnings, madam.”
“Then you were misled, Mr Holmes. It was Mr Lotho who rescued her from that devil.”
“Really, madam, you are too disingenuous!”
Mrs Chubb resumed her seat and avoided Holmes’ eye. “What do you mean?”
“Are you not the proprietress of this disorderly house?”
“What if I am? It is not against our byelaws.”
“Possibly not, but torture certainly is!”
The woman looked up with an angry gleam in her hard eyes.
“What is the object of these questions?”
“The object is to avoid another death.”
“Whose death?”
“Yours madam!”
The defiance went out of her eyes and her face paled.
“Is that not the reason you called on me yesterday?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Then I would be obliged if you would answer my questions.”
“What are they?”
“Are you intimate with Lotho?”
“Yes.”
“And your daughters?”
“Yes”
“Does he flagellate them?”
“Yes.”
“With or without their consent?”
“They are good girls. They are well paid to do what they’re told.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“That is the only answer I am prepared to give you.”
“Very well,” said Holmes, leaning forward and fixing her with his gaze, “What can you tell me about Sharkey’s Tooth?”
Mrs Chubb flushed with anger. “Really, sir, that is an extraordinary question!”
“I am sorry, but I must repeat it.”
“Then my answer is, nothing at all.”
“Even if I were to tell you that the tower contains daguerreotypes of your daughter Daisy being flagellated by Lotho Bolger and stores of the drug Lovewort used to inflame her appetite for unnatural vice?”
The flush faded from her cheeks, and her face turned deathly white.
“Still, no”
I sensed, rather than heard the denial that escaped her lips.
“Surely your memory deceives you, madam. Perhaps you are confusing the daguerreotypes with a secret account book kept in the tower that is now missing?”
I thought that she had fainted, but she recovered herself with a supreme effort.
“I dare not answer,” she gasped.
“You place yourself in grave danger in not co-operating fully with me, madam.”
“I would place myself in even greater danger by answering you, Mr Holmes.”
“What reason have you to fear Mr Brockhouse?”
“It is not Brockhouse whom I fear.”
“No? That is not what you said earlier.”
“I - I made a mistake.”
“Then Mr Milo Brockhouse has not threatened you?”
“No.”
“Then I would be obliged if you would tell me who did. Who is it that you fear?”
“I - I cannot say.”
“Come, madam, I cannot help you if persist in this prevarication!”
“The fiend,” she whispered.
“Fiend? What fiend? Speak plainly, madam.”
“The Balrog! Ah, I see by your faces that you have seen him!”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Holmes. “It is a simple contrivance designed to frighten and intimidate, nothing more.”
“Then you have not seen him,” she said with a shudder.
“I assure you that there is no such supernatural creature!” said Holmes sharply.
“Then you are a fool!”
Holmes swallowed the retort that was on his lips as the door opened, and Peony Chubb entered with my tea. She crossed the room and placed the tray upon a small lacquered table on my right, and then sat down on the left arm of my chair. This artful manoeuvre was not lost on Holmes, who shot me a disapproving glance from under his brows, as Peony deliberately put her left hand on my thigh, and leant across me, to fill my cup.
“One lump or two, Mr Bracegirdle?” she asked provocatively.
“Three,” I replied stoutly.
“You must have a very sweet tooth,” said she.
“Not as sweet as your lips,” I replied, brushing them with mine as she handed me the teacup.
“You’ll make me spill your tea,” she pouted.
“I’ll warrant you’d like me to spill something a lot hotter than tea, you saucy young wench!”
She giggled, and almost overbalanced, and I caught her slender hand, and carried it to my lips, and kissed it.
“Oh, Mr Bracegirdle!” she murmured breathlessly.
My word, she was a comely lass! Her perfume was like strong wine in my nostrils and her adorable, upthrust bosom was inches away from my lips. I saw the hunger in her eyes and was on the point of slipping my hand beneath her rustling petticoats, when Holmes rose from his chair with a self-conscious cough.
“I shall have those knickers off you the next time we meet!” I whispered in her ear.
“Oh, I am that mad for you, Mr Bracegirdle,” she replied huskily. “You might take them off now and I shouldn’t care a bit.”
She drew away from me, her bosom heaving; her blue eyes wide with desire, and scrambled hurriedly to her feet.
“I am afraid we have no time for tea, Bingo,” said Holmes coldly, “or anything else this singular house may have to offer.”
I hastily put down my cup and took the clammy hand Mrs Chubb held out to me.
“I — I am sorry I could not be of any more help, Mr Holmes,” she said woodenly.
“You have been of more help than you may realise, madam,” said he.
With that, Peony showed us out, and our interview was brought to an abrupt and inconclusive end.

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© 2003 Story by Mercedes Dannenberg. Page design utterpants.co.uk