Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Adventure. Bonnie Macbird

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      ‘Yes, but in the last month?’

      ‘I employed a certain amount of mind over matter,’ said he. ‘But ultimately, it was physical training. Boxing, my boy, is one of the most strenuous forms of exercise, for the lower as well as upper extremities. Only a dancer uses the legs with more intensity than a boxer.’

      ‘Perhaps joining the corps de ballet at Covent Garden was out of the question, then?’ I offered, amused at the mental image of Holmes gliding smoothly among dozens of lovely ballerinas.

      Holmes laughed as he drew his dressing gown closer around his thin frame. Despite the blaze, a deep chill crept in from outside. A sudden sharp draught from behind the drawn curtains made me shiver. The window must have been left open, and I got up to close it.

      ‘Do not trouble yourself, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘It is just a small break in the pane. Leave it.’

      Ignoring him, I crumpled a newspaper to stuff into the gap and drawing back the curtain I saw to my surprise – a bullet hole!

      ‘Good God, Holmes, someone has taken a shot at you!’

      ‘Or Mrs Hudson.’

      ‘Ridiculous! What are you doing about it?’

      ‘The situation is in hand. Look down at the street. It is entirely safe, I assure you. What do you see across and two doorways to the right?’

      I pulled back the curtain and peered down into the growing darkness. There, blurred by the snowfall, two doors down and receding, spectre-like into the recesses of an unlit doorway, stood a large, hulking figure.

      ‘That is a rather dangerous looking fellow,’ I commented.

      ‘Yes. What can you deduce by looking at him?’

      The details were hard to make out. The man was wide and muscular, wrapped up in a long, somewhat frayed black greatcoat, a battered blue cap pulled low over his face. A strong, bare chin protruded, his mouth twisted in what looked like a permanent sneer.

      ‘Bad sort of fellow, perhaps of the criminal class. His hands are in his pockets, possibly concealing something,’ Here I broke off, moving back from the window. ‘Might he not shoot again?’

      ‘Ah, Watson. You score on several counts. His name is Butterby. He is indeed carrying a gun, although something more important is concealed. He is dressed to hide the fact that he is a policeman.’

      ‘A policeman!’

      ‘Yes, and, in a sense, he is rather “bad”. That is to say, he is among the worst policemen in an unremarkable lot. Even Lestrade thinks him stupid. Imagine.’

      I laughed.

      ‘But he is enough to frighten away my would-be murderer, who is himself a rank amateur. So bravo, Watson, you improve.’

      I cleared my throat. ‘A rank amateur, you say? Yet with excellent aim. Who, then?’

      ‘An old acquaintance with a grudge, but I tell you, the situation is handled,’ he said. Then noticing my worried face, he chuckled. ‘Really, Watson. Your concern is touching, but misplaced. The mere presence of our friend below will end the matter.’

      I was not convinced and would try again on this subject later. ‘Where is the brandy?’ I said, moving to the sideboard looking for the familiar crystal decanter.

      I found the vessel behind a stack of books. It was empty.

      ‘I am sorry, Watson, there is no brandy to be had,’ said he. ‘The shops are barren except for a few outside my budget. You have heard of the problems with the vineyards in France? I have been studying the subject. But I can offer you this.’

      From next to him on a side table, he lifted a beaker of clear liquid. He poured a very small amount into each of two glasses. ‘Try it,’ he said, with a smile.

      I took the glass and sniffed. I felt a sudden clearing of my sinus cavities and a burning in the back of my head.

      ‘Good God, Holmes, this smells lethal!’

      ‘I assure you it is not. Give it a try. Here, I will drink with you.’ He raised his glass for a toast. ‘Count of three. One. Two—’

      On three we both gulped the liquid down. I erupted into such a fit of coughing and tearing of the eyes that I did not notice whether my companion did or not. When it subsided, I looked up to find he had tears streaming down his reddened face and was laughing and coughing in equal measure.

      ‘What is this stuff?’ I sputtered, wiping myself with a handkerchief.

      ‘Raw spirits. Distilled pure whisky, but before the ageing which renders it mellow. I diluted it with water, but clearly not enough.’

      He held up a small booklet, entitled The Complete Practical Distiller.

      ‘That was a rather mean trick.’

      ‘Forgive me, my dear fellow. All in the name of science.’

      A sharp pop and a sudden loud hiss emanated from the chemistry table. I glanced back at the complex system of flasks, copper containers and tubing.

      Holmes normally employed a small spirit lamp to heat his chemicals, but I now noticed a very bright flame arising from a Bunsen burner which was connected by a length of rubber tubing to the wall. Over this was suspended a small, riveted copper kettle in a strange teardrop shape, one end drooping into a line which proceeded through valves and tubes into various looped and coiled copper configurations, complex and confusing, and—

      ‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘That is a miniature still!’

      ‘Ah, Watson, you improve. Decidedly.’

      ‘But you have tapped into the gas line! Why? Is that not dangerous?’

      ‘I needed a higher temperature. And, no, it is not dangerous when you take the precaution of—’

      The noise had increased. The entire apparatus began to vibrate. The copper kettle and odd configuration of tubes and beakers rattled and shook. One clamp came loose and clattered off the table to the floor. A tube shook free and several drops of liquid arced into the air.

      ‘Holmes—!’ I began, but he was up and out of his chair, bounding across the room when a sudden small explosion blew the lid off the copper vessel, broke three glass tubes and an adjacent beaker, and sent a spray of foul smelling liquid up the nearby wall and across a row of books. A flame erupted underneath it.

      We shouted simultaneously and in a flash he was upon the equipment, dousing the fire with a large, wet blanket pulled from a bucket he had evidently placed nearby in anticipation of such a possibility. The blanket slid down among the broken pieces. The flame went out and there was silence except for a low sizzle.

      The room now reeked of raw alcohol, and a dark, burnt smell. A slow drip fell from the table to the carpet.

      Mrs Hudson’s familiar sharp knock sounded at the door. ‘Mr Holmes? Dr Watson?’ she called out. ‘A young lady is here to see you.’

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