The Adventure of the Flying Man

by L'Phantom

It was early evening that day in 1831 when I went to visit my dear friend Nicholas Knight. In the four years that I have been his acquaintance, I have never ceased to be amazed by his remarkable powers of deduction and his prowess at all things therein and of. And yet, I had begun to wonder at several things about his character. It has always puzzled me why Knight was never out during the day, why I have never seen him eating or drinking, save a glass or two of a very dark red wine (which I am not permitted to drink), and why he speaks in a fashion of a man far beyond his years.

All of these questions came to a head as a result of the story I am about to unfold to you. Questions that I fear will never be answered because, as you shall see, the great detective Nicholas Knight disappeared from London, and perhaps from the face of the planet itself, just as this case closed in the bloody climax you will read about shortly.

The late summer air was refreshing, so I opted to walk the few streets to the home of Nicholas Knight rather than take a carriage. The sun had just begun to set when I knocked on the door at 1228 Hudson Street, ready to greet Mrs. Baker as always. This night, however, Knight himself opened the door and welcomed me inside.

"My condolences on your loss, Wilson. I know you and your grandmother were very close."

"Now, how the devil --" This was a game that Knight liked to indulge in. No matter what the circumstances, or when I made a visit, he was always able to tell me something about me before I even made it through the door.

"I can see by your haggard appearance that you do not seem to have slept, or at the very best, slept fitfully these past few nights. You have not contacted me in quite some time, which suggests that something of critical importance has called you away. The wrinkles in the back of your suitcoat show that you have been sitting for a very long time, and the way your hand is shaking gives the impression that someone has been clenching it.

"The smell of cholera fills this room, and since I know that neither you nor I are afflicted, I can only assume that you have been near someone who was. The medicinal smell under that tells me that this afflicted person was in a hospital. Because no carriage was pulling away as I opened the door, I know that you walked here, and the only place nearby from which you could have walked and not been winded is the house of your late grandmother. The bulge in your pocket suggests her will, which you have no doubt taken upon yourself to see properly executed, a testament to your closeness with the deceased."

I shook my head and smiled. "You are a wonder, Knight." My grandmother had indeed passed on the previous evening. I had been standing vigil over her bed the past three days, stopping only for the occasional meal. We were very close, just as Knight had deduced, and I was very adamant about her last wishes being carried out correctly. I had walked from her home after settling her debt with her landlord and arranging to have her things delivered to my home as soon as possible.

"Not wonder, Wilson, observation. Nothing more." He indicated an open letter on the table by the fireplace. "Tell me what you make of that, my friend." I picked up the note and read it aloud. "Mr. Knight: I have need of your assistance. I have seen wondrous and terrifying things that I cannot explain and now my beloved wife is no more as a result of them. Please come to my home in Islington as quickly as you can. E. Nesbit."

"The doorbell woke me this afternoon, and when I came downstairs, I found the note slipped under my door," Knight explained.

"Why come all the way from Islington just to slip a note under your door? Why not simply post it through the mail?"

"Obviously because he felt the matter too important to trust to the postal service. He could not afford the chance that it could be lost or misdirected."

"Knight, the man is obviously mad with grief! Don't tell me you are seriously considering going!"

"On the contrary, Wilson, I am most certainly going. Something tells me that there is more to this case than it may at first appear."

And so it was that I found myself at the train station the next morning awaiting Knight so that we could embark on this journey. I was beginning to get worried as second boarding call was given and there was still no sign of him. Just then, a messenger boy handed me a note. I tipped him a shilling and read the note.

"I regret that I cannot journey with you," the note read. "I will meet you at the Nesbit home at promptly 8 this evening. There is a trunk in the baggage car in your name. Please take possession of it upon your arrival and place it in the rooms that I have secured for our lodging." It was signed, as all his letters were, with the initials N.K.

The trip was an uneventful one, which left me ample time to wonder about the contents of the mysterious trunk that Knight had entrusted to me. What could it contain? And what was he doing that prevented him from travelling with me? And how could he arrive by this evening without taking this very train? The train pulled into the Islington station at 4 in the afternoon, and I and the trunk were safely put up in the local inn by 5, leaving me three hours to wander the city waiting for my friend. I went to the tavern by the inn and enjoyed an ale or two, trying to learn something of the townspeople, but always my thoughts returned to the mysterious trunk. I returned to the room at 7:30, the curiosity having gotten the better of me. I tore at the lid of the trunk, determined to see what was contained, but the lid held fast, and yet I could see no locks and no way that it could otherwise be sealed.

The carriage arrived then, and I left the trunk there, intending to ask Knight what it contained when I met him at the Nesbit house.

As I expected, the detective was waiting for me at the door of Mr. Nesbit's house when the carriage pulled up.

"Ah, you made it after all. Good chap! Now, shall we?" He stepped up and pulled the door chime.

Presently, a weary-looking man with wild eyes opened the door. "Are you Nicholas Knight?" he asked, almost frantic.

"I am," Knight replied.

"You must come in immediately, then, sir. I am Edward Nesbit. I apologize for my lack of a staff, but they have all seen fit to flee this horrible place. I would join them, but then the murder of my wife would never be revealed for what it is."

The three of us sat in Nesbit's drawing room as he explained while I took hurried notes and Knight sat stoically, listening intently.

"A week ago, my wife became somewhat ill. She no longer felt up to eating more than a small bite or two. She was constantly tired and listless, and yet she had terrible trouble sleeping at night, complaining of nightmares. I called for the doctor, but he could find nothing wrong with her. I could not understand why my beautiful and healthy wife was now suddenly wasting away like an old maid.

"I began to suspect that her illness was not natural five days ago when I noticed two small red marks on her neck, not more than a few centimeters apart. I asked her how they had gotten there and she said she didn't know. Perhaps a bee sting, she said. But I feared something more devious than a mere bee was causing this.

"She died three days ago. I was returning home late that evening due to complications at my place of business when I heard my wife cry out from the bedroom. I rushed into the room and, to my horror, I saw a man standing over her. He looked up when he heard me enter, and his eyes were the most devilish shade of gold. Gold! He looked at me, through me, and then he turned and jumped out of the window. I ran to window and looked out, and I saw him ... this is the unbelievable part, Mr. Knight ... I saw him flying! Flying like a bird! A horrible, demonic bird, but a bird just the same!

"Helene, the head servant, told the rest of the staff she thought that my wife had been bitten by a vampyr, and fled the house that same night. The rest of the servants followed her lead shortly thereafter. The police claim she died of an illness and do not believe that I ever saw this man. I have to know, Mr. Knight, am I losing my wits? How can a man fly like that? And how and why did he murder my beloved wife?"

Knight leaned forward in his chair, as if about to reveal a secret. "You are not losing your wits, Mr. Nesbit. This creature of which you speak is, I fear, just as real as you or I. I am further afraid that I may know exactly who and what he is."

"Knight!" I exclaimed, "You mean to say that you suspect LaCroix?"

"Indeed I do, Wilson. I think he has returned."

LaCroix, was, of course, Knight's nemesis. No one has ever been able to fight Knight to a stalemate except him. "The Dark Prince of Crime," Knight would call him, or simply, "that damnable fiend." I had thought we had seen the last of him after the Case of the Missing Cup, but now it seemed that he had returned.

"But, Knight," I implored in the carriage ride back, "what makes you so certain that it is LaCroix?"

"I am not yet completely certain, Wilson, but I do believe we shall know by tomorrow night," he replied, and then refused to say another word on the matter. He also refused to say what was in the mysterious trunk I had brought with me, saying only, "You do not need to know," and, hearing that, it seemed the most reasonable answer possible and I immediately ceased wondering.

We returned to our rooms, I already in a doze while my friend seemed to only now be fully awake. I do wonder at his endless vitality. I sincerely hope he has not turned to opium or some derivative thereof to increase his energy level.

"Wilson," he told me just before I turned in, "in your coat pocket is a list of duties I would appreciate for you to perform tomorrow. I would do them myself, but circumstances being as they are, I cannot. Bring the items listed to Mr. Nesbit's home at 8 o'clock in the evening, and we shall see if we can put an end to LaCroix's villainy once and for all."

"You are not retiring at this time?"

"Alas, Wilson, I have other things which must be completed ere I can sleep." And then he had turned on his heel and walked away from the inn.

All through the following day, I did as Knight had requested. The items he required included a quantity of garlic, several sharp wooden stakes, and a modicum of water from a baptismal fount. The last proved to be the most difficult as I could not tell the priest the purpose behind Knight's request, simply because I did not know it myself.

He also bade me speak to several of the townspeople, whom he amazingly identified in his note by name and profession. All reported a similar illness in their families, but no further sightings of the Flying Man.

I met Knight that evening as he had asked and showed him the items he had asked me to gather. He entrusted me to keep them with me and then asked what news I had from the questions I had asked.

"All the families reported the same illness, down to the strange marks on the neck, but no one else had seen the Flying Man. Perhaps this is all just a strange plague, Knight."

"On the contrary, Wilson. I am now utterly convinced that the Flying Man, as you so succinctly put it, is none other than LaCroix himself."

"Good God, man! How do you know that so completely?"

"Elementary, Wilson. Because none other has seen him, I know that he is very careful, and would not have allowed Nesbit to glimpse him either, were it not to serve some dark purpose. Knowing my reputation, he knew that Nesbit would bring his discovery straight to me, which he also knew I would not be able to resist solving. And the only person with the motive to lure me here is, of course, LaCroix. Had others seen him, I would not have believed it either, but no, LaCroix is here. And we must stop him tonight."

I drew my service revolver from my inside coat pocket, but Knight stayed my hand. "That will be of no use tonight, Wilson. LaCroix will not be stopped with bullets."

"That's preposterous, Knight! He is only a man, like me."

"Oh, he is a man, Wilson. But not like you. Ever so different than you."

And so we set Knight's plan into motion. The garlic was spread throughout the house, although the most of it was placed around the drawing room, which Knight explained would be our "haven," as he put it, and that, on his word, I and Nesbit would flee there without hesitation. The holy water was used to douse the stakes, soaking the water into the wood. For some reason I to this day do not comprehend, Knight refused to take part in this section, preferring instead to keep watch on the perimeter of the estate.

At last all was prepared, though neither Nesbit nor myself could say for what we were prepared. Knight knew, however, for he merely said, "It is time," as he pulled on a pair of fine white gloves and hefted one of the stakes in his hand.

No sooner had he finished than a dark speck crossed the moon and dropped down not five feet away from Knight. It was LaCroix! I recognized his icy stare immediately. "Nicholas," he said with a sneer, "what a surprise."

"I doubt that very much, LaCroix."

"Ah, yes. And tell me, just how did you 'deduce' that?"

"Merely a character observation."

LaCroix sighed. "Have you not yet tired of this charade you insist on playing? The 'good detective' bit is getting a bit old, do you not agree?"

"One must keep monsters like you at bay."

"You flatter yourself, Nicholas. Monsters like us."

Knight turned and threw the stake he had been holding at his side, threw it faster than I believed it possible for a person to move. And quicker still, LaCroix plucked the stake from the air. He held it a moment, and something in the wood began to burn, for I saw smoke rising from his palm. LaCroix dropped the stake with a snarl, and presently his eyes twisted from blue into an eerie gold.

"Dear God!" I heard to my left, and turned to see Nesbit rushing toward LaCroix with one of the remaining stakes. "Murderer!" he screamed.

I started after him, but Knight called to me. "No! Quickly, to the drawing room!"

I began to turn, but froze when I saw LaCroix pick Nesbit up by the throat with one hand and heard the unmistakable sound of his neck being broken as LaCroix tossed the man aside like a worn-out dishrag. I was dumbstruck, my mouth agape, when Knight yelled again for me to run. This time, I did so without hesitation just as I saw LaCroix lunge for Knight.

As badly as I wanted to help him in that moment, I found I could do nothing but flee for my life, back to the drawing room where Knight assured me I would be safe.

What happened after that I cannot say. Only that neither Knight nor LaCroix were seen after that night. What became of my friend I do not know. Perhaps LaCroix destroyed him, or perhaps both met their ends that night. All that I am certain of is that these are the last words I shall ever write of my very good friend Nicholas Knight, truly the greatest detective who ever lived.