Sherlock Holmes and the Ghost of the Flying Dutchman

Holmes looked at me with true compassion as I struggled to regain my composure.

"How is the back?" he asked, trying not to show that he noticed my ragged state.

"Oh, not bad, old fellow," I said getting hold of myself. "Where are we, Holmes?"

"Just a few miles from the coast now, Watson. I’m sure that Phillips is doing all he can to keep things steady, but on roads like these, on such a night as this...."

"Not to worry," I interrupted with a forced smile, "I know that he is doing all he can."

My back was a twisted mess indeed and the ride was nothing short of torture, but we were on our way to Blackpool seaport to investigate a matter of the utmost importance, so I was not about to let my colleague know of my discomfort. For it was obvious to me that he was deeply concerned about the telegraph message he had received from the Prime Minister regarding the destruction of several ships off that coastline.

Our spirited driver then called back to us. "Just a few more miles now, gentlemen! It won’t be much longer!"

If it had been anyone but Phillips driving our coach, I would have surely insisted that he stop somewhere nearby and wait for the weather to subside a bit. But I had complete faith in him, as did Holmes, for he was the best horse master that the military had to offer, and had proven himself an invaluable asset three years ago when he assisted us in the affair of the three dragons.

As terrible as the storm was, it seemed to be getting even worse by the minute. But despite the loud thunderclaps and the howling of the wind, my associate’s sensitive ears detected a distant sound that was not audible to me until he spoke of it.

"Do you hear it, Watson?" he asked. "What does it sound like to you?"

I strained my hearing into the restless night and presently perceived the faintest hints of what seemed to be the tones of distant bells. But they were strange and irregular, and seemed to me a most unusual range of the deepest and highest tolls.

"I must confess," I said to Holmes with some doubt, "I would guess the sound of church bells,

but the wind can play tricks with your ears in a storm like this. Perhaps a church tower is being shaken by the storm, or perhaps it is some warning signal for ships," I added as an afterthought.

"Perhaps," he replied, and then said nothing more.

But his silence said more to me than any words he might have uttered, for when Holmes became so quiet about something that puzzled him, it meant that he not only did not understand its origin, but also that his instincts were uneasy about its nature.

Nevertheless, I was sure there was no point in asking him about it, for I knew that he would refuse to speculate on anything that affected his perception in so intangible a manner. Without the presence of some cold, hard facts, he would say nothing. Even so, it made me quite uneasy. For I would sooner put my faith in my friend’s instincts than in most other people’s knowledge.

At that moment, our coach swerved sharply and the force of it threw Holmes and I against my side door.

"My God! What’s happening?" I said, rattled by the sudden jolt.

"Look there!" Holmes shouted, pointing out the small window.

It was another coach that he had spied, just a few feet away from us, and it was swerving recklessly about as though the driver were either inebriated or mad.

"What is he doing, Holmes!" I cried with some alarm. For at that very instant, our coaches banged together with a hard thud. "The man must be out of his head."

"Not possible, Watson," Holmes answered with a queer look. "The man driving the other coach has no head."