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charleygirlTitle: The Hand of Seth 12/15
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Summary: Plans, and a rather odd blue box...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER TWELVE
“But, Mr Holmes – what about Will?” said Lady Amanda. “We cannot leave him with those men!”
“I have no doubt that as long as they believe they will get what they want, Mr William Ravensley will remain unharmed,” Holmes assured her, though his words did little to soothe.
“We do not have the object they desire, Mr Holmes,” the countess said, glancing at her husband, who nodded. “They have threatened violence, and after what happened to Jamie - ”
“I do not believe that Lord Amsworth’s death was premeditated, ma’am. He surprised them, and in their view they had no choice but to despatch him. This situation is a little different. Lord Harcourt - ” Holmes turned to the earl “ – you will, if you please, reply to their demands telling them that - ” He stopped, thinking furiously. “At what time is the eclipse to reach its apex?”
“Between ten o’clock and midnight tonight,” Harcourt replied, a little confused.
“In that case, you will tell them that you will bring the hand to the side entrance of the British Museum at five minutes to ten this evening. Tell them that you will only give them the object if it is made clear that your son has not been harmed. They want the statue complete; they will not take chances.”
“And what shall I do when I cannot produce the hand?” the earl asked.
“You will not be there. I think that you may safely leave the confrontation to ourselves and Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes said. “There is no need for you to put yourself in danger.”
We left shortly afterwards, Holmes stopping to give Lestrade further instructions. I did not hear the nature of them, trying as I was to allay the fears of the countess and Lady Amanda, but the inspector looked puzzled as he agreed to the proposals. I did wonder how we were going to gain access to the museum under the noses of the night watchmen, but Holmes dismissed my concern.
“They have bribed the watchmen to be absent, thus clearing the way for us all. A telegram to Bretherton should give us all we need.”
The rest of the short journey home was conducted in silence, and I knew better than to disturb Holmes when he was thinking. After a stop at the telegraph office to wire Bretherton we walked the few hundred yards back to 221B, and were nearly at the front door when Holmes said suddenly,
“There is one part of this matter which still eludes me: this mysterious friend of yours, the doctor with no name who leaves cryptic messages.”
“I can assure you, I do not count him as a friend!” I said, rather amused by the idea.
“He knows what is happening, and yet he remains elusive. I have made enquiries, and the Irregulars have scoured London, and we can find no trace of the man. He and his companion quite plainly do not exist.”
“That is not true,” I objected, “I spoke to the girl only yesterday.”
“And yet the fact remains that they cannot be found anywhere. When she left you yesterday, Charlie followed her – he told me that she vanished into thin air at the bottom of Orchard Street,” Holmes said in evident annoyance.
“That is impossible.”
“Precisely. But there it stands.” He growled, pulling his house keys from his pocket. As he did, there was a shout from two doors down – I turned to see Charlie himself running towards us, waving his grubby cap in the air. Holmes stopped, one foot on the doorstep, as the little lad came to an abrupt halt in front of us, unable to say any more because his sprint had taken his breath.
“I seen ‘er, Mr ‘Olmes!” he said eventually, between gasps. “She were down in Oxford Street!”
“Who? The girl you followed yesterday?” Holmes asked, his keys slipping back into his pocket. “What was she doing?”
“Just walkin’, lookin’ round like she’d never been ter London before. I knew you wanted to know where she went, so I followed ‘er again.”
“Good lad. Where did she go?”
“Back up Orchard Street, where I seen ‘er yesterday, but this time I saw sumfink that weren’t there before,” Charlie said. He stood up straight and pulled his cap back into place. “If you can come wiv me now, I’ll show yer.”
I looked at Holmes, wondering what on earth the boy was talking about. My friend smiled. “Very well, it’s not far. Lead on, Charlie!”
“Holmes, should we really be spying on the girl in this manner?” I asked as we followed the lad back the way we had come. “It does not seem right to me.”
“My dear Watson, you are letting your weakness for the fair sex override your judgement,” he said. “Have you no curiosity about these people? They are quite clearly involved in the Harcourt case in some way, and yet they keep to the shadows, careful not to reveal their identities. There must be a reason for it, and I mean to know what it is, if only to prove their influence to be benign.”
I blinked in surprise. “Surely you do not believe them to be a threat!”
He shrugged. “I have no data, and therefore no opinion as yet. But I do not like men who send messages rather than calling in person.”
I had to concede that he did have a point. Orchard Street was not far, just past the junction of Wigmore Street and Portman Square. Charlie had run on ahead, but returned, his little face scrunched up in concern when we were forced to stop for a moment to allow Holmes, his face grey once more, to rest. He waved aside the lad’s questions with a smile, but Charlie did not lose his worried expression. I marvelled anew at the devotion his rag-tag little band had for Holmes.
“Is this it?” my friend asked breathlessly as we crossed the street. On the corner of Orchard and Wigmore Streets stood a peculiar tall, blue cabinet. Though the sign above the door proclaimed it to be a ‘police box’, a rather irate constable was standing on the pavement demanding an explanation of passers-by.
“Weren’t there yesterday,” said Charlie confidently, “but that’s where the girl disappeared, that exact same spot.”
“What the devil can it be?” I wondered. I had seen nothing like it in my life.
“A cabinet of some kind, I would think,” Holmes replied, moving a little closer. “Good morning, constable.”
The police officer jumped at being accosted from behind, but relaxed when he turned and saw us. “Mr Holmes! Do you know who might have left this box here, sir? I confess I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Has it just been abandoned?” Holmes enquired, laying a gloved hand on the box’s painted door.
“Suddenly appeared overnight, it did. No one’s been back to it, at least not since I’ve been here and I was alerted at six.” The constable scratched his head, pushing his helmet askew. “Who would do something like that? It’s causing an obstruction, too - ”
“Someone with access to some heavy-lifting equipment, that much is obvious. This is no temporary structure.” Holmes pushed on the door, at first gently and then with more forced, but it refused to budge under the pressure. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height and attempted to see through the windows but they were of frosted glass and evidently revealed little.
“Is has nothing to do with the police, then?” I asked
“I should say not, Doctor,” the constable responded, as if the very idea were anathema to him. “What would we be doing with a box? It don’t go nowhere, and I can’t even see that there’s a handle on the door so you couldn’t store nothing in there.”
Holmes had been examining a panel which was printed with lettering I could not make out from where I stood. He was smiling slightly, as though at a private joke. “A conundrum indeed,” he said.
The constable’s face fell. “You mean you don’t know what it is, sir?”
“Sadly, I do not. But I doubt that anyone can move it without resorting to extreme force so you had better leave it where it is. Who knows, perhaps it may vanish as abruptly as it appeared.”
I followed Holmes as he turned back up the street, Charlie at his heels. “Holmes - ” I began, but he held up a hand.
“Mysterious men in scarves and mysterious blue boxes, Watson. Might the two not be connected?”
“Why would anyone deposit a box on a street corner and then leave it? The idea is preposterous!”
Holmes smiled again “That is not for me to say, but let us chalk it up as yet another singular feature of this most unusual case,” he said, and I could not help but agree.
***
The next few hours of waiting were agonising.
With the end of the case in sight, Holmes seemed suddenly infused with an energy which battled against his weakness leaving neither one the absolute victor. He paced the sitting room, restlessly scraping upon his violin until I could take no more and begged him to put it away. I could see the logic in Lestrade’s suggestion that the thieves should be apprehended before they could put whatever they were planning into execution, but I also knew that Holmes could never resist a touch of the dramatic when such an opportunity presented itself and resigned myself to the nervous torment.
Mrs Hudson archly enquired whether we would be wanting our Sunday luncheon as we returned to the house, but neither of us felt able to eat much. Holmes touched little, and sat curled in his chair, smiling at something I did not like to ask him about.
My nerves were tangled in anticipation of the evening’s events. I had no idea what I should expect, though I was not surprised when Holmes charged me to bring my old army revolver, so useful on countless past adventures.
At nine o’clock there was a knock at the door, and a worried-looking Bretherton was announced. He entered the room turning his hat nervously in his hands.
“I am really not sure about this, Holmes,” he began, “To enter the museum after hours in such a manner - ”
Holmes naturally waved the objection away. “Your assistance will be invaluable, my dear fellow. If nothing else you will remove a major nuisance from your galleries.”
The curator stared at him for a moment before he realised what Holmes meant. “You mean that Namin - ? This is to do with that statue you were asking about?”
“It is indeed. We may see one or two mysteries explained this evening.” Holmes opened his desk drawer and removed a revolver and bullets. He loaded the gun as he spoke. “That is my intention, at least.”
Bretherton now stared at the gun with wide eyes. “You are expecting violence?”
“It is as well to be prepared.”
“These people have more than mere theft to their name,” I said. “Murder and abduction come easily to them.”
“Good God,” muttered the curator, blanching. I did not like the look of him at all.
“Holmes, maybe we should leave this to Lestrade,” I said, but Holmes shook his head.
There was another knock at the front door, and his eyes lit up. “That will be our four-wheeler. Come, gentlemen.”
He left the room with a spring in his step for the first time in weeks, alive with the thrill of the chase. We were about to run our quarry to ground.
***
The half hour was being struck by the clock on a nearby church tower as we arrived at the British Museum. Holmes led us to the side entrance, stopping to carefully check the door.
“Locked,” he reported as he returned to my side. “They are taking no chances of being disturbed.”
“There is no sign of Lestrade,” I said. The street was quiet, and the inspector and his men were conspicuous by their absence.
Holmes looked around, his sharp eyes taking in far more than mine ever could, not hampered by the odd reddish lamplight in the least. “We still have time,” was all he would say on the matter.
With still twenty minutes until the proposed assignation, we secreted ourselves behind a wall on the opposite side of the street and settled down to wait. The rain had begun again, its light drizzle soaking into my coat and causing me to shiver uncomfortably. I glanced at Holmes to see him hunch into his own overcoat, his scarf pulled up around his face. He should not have been out in such weather, and I cursed myself once more for allowing him to see the case through to its conclusion, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that I could not have stopped him.
The minutes ticked by, but still Lestrade did not appear. My apprehension grew. It was one thing to face these men with a police presence, but quite another for the three of us (one unarmed and an innocent party to the whole affair) to take on a group of deadly fanatics.
As the clock chimed the quarter hour, I heard Holmes grinding his teeth in frustration.
“What now?” I whispered.
“They must come out and show the lad is safe and well,” he replied quietly. “There are three of us and only two of them. They will be startled to see us instead of Harcourt – in the confusion we should be able to take them.”
“Only two that we know of, Holmes! They could have any number of followers in there!” My tension ratcheted up another notch. Had he not completely thought this through? I could not reconcile this shoddy planning with my usually meticulous friend. “You have surely considered that possibility?”
“Of course!” he snapped.
“Then what - ”
“Lestrade will arrive.”
“Holmes - ”
“I confess I do not like the sound of this at all, Holmes,” Bretherton hissed from the other side of my friend.
“My dear fellow, you have no reason to stay. It was foolish of me to have brought you with us,” said Holmes, now showing perception only at this late stage. What was wrong with him? “Though it will weigh the odds more evenly, if you leave me the keys I have no objection to your retiring.”
I held my breath as Bretherton considered the offer for some moments before finally shaking his head. “You will get lost in the museum without my guidance.”
I could not read Holmes’s expression in the shadows, but I knew that he was smiling. “Good man,” he said, and his response confirmed my view that he was not himself. Had he been acting normally, he would have sent the curator away, refused to allow him to risk his life in so cavalier a fashion. There was little I could do about it now, however, much to my distress.
Instead I checked my watch. “Holmes, it is five to ten.”
“Still no Lestrade. Damn the man!”
“It is unlike him to be unreliable. At what time did you tell him to meet us here?”
Holmes ignored my question. “There is nothing we can do now. Make ready, gentlemen.”
On the other side of the street, the door was opening.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: PG
Type: Gen, mystery, angst
Characters Involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson
Summary: Plans, and a rather odd blue box...
Disclaimer: These characters are out of copyright but still don't belong to me. Doctor Who elements are the property of the BBC
Author's Note: Holmes and Watson as they appear in this story are based on the performances by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke in the Granada TV series. This fic is ostensibly set between The Sign of Four and The Devil's Foot in the Granada run.
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
THE HAND OF SETH
CHAPTER TWELVE
“But, Mr Holmes – what about Will?” said Lady Amanda. “We cannot leave him with those men!”
“I have no doubt that as long as they believe they will get what they want, Mr William Ravensley will remain unharmed,” Holmes assured her, though his words did little to soothe.
“We do not have the object they desire, Mr Holmes,” the countess said, glancing at her husband, who nodded. “They have threatened violence, and after what happened to Jamie - ”
“I do not believe that Lord Amsworth’s death was premeditated, ma’am. He surprised them, and in their view they had no choice but to despatch him. This situation is a little different. Lord Harcourt - ” Holmes turned to the earl “ – you will, if you please, reply to their demands telling them that - ” He stopped, thinking furiously. “At what time is the eclipse to reach its apex?”
“Between ten o’clock and midnight tonight,” Harcourt replied, a little confused.
“In that case, you will tell them that you will bring the hand to the side entrance of the British Museum at five minutes to ten this evening. Tell them that you will only give them the object if it is made clear that your son has not been harmed. They want the statue complete; they will not take chances.”
“And what shall I do when I cannot produce the hand?” the earl asked.
“You will not be there. I think that you may safely leave the confrontation to ourselves and Inspector Lestrade,” Holmes said. “There is no need for you to put yourself in danger.”
We left shortly afterwards, Holmes stopping to give Lestrade further instructions. I did not hear the nature of them, trying as I was to allay the fears of the countess and Lady Amanda, but the inspector looked puzzled as he agreed to the proposals. I did wonder how we were going to gain access to the museum under the noses of the night watchmen, but Holmes dismissed my concern.
“They have bribed the watchmen to be absent, thus clearing the way for us all. A telegram to Bretherton should give us all we need.”
The rest of the short journey home was conducted in silence, and I knew better than to disturb Holmes when he was thinking. After a stop at the telegraph office to wire Bretherton we walked the few hundred yards back to 221B, and were nearly at the front door when Holmes said suddenly,
“There is one part of this matter which still eludes me: this mysterious friend of yours, the doctor with no name who leaves cryptic messages.”
“I can assure you, I do not count him as a friend!” I said, rather amused by the idea.
“He knows what is happening, and yet he remains elusive. I have made enquiries, and the Irregulars have scoured London, and we can find no trace of the man. He and his companion quite plainly do not exist.”
“That is not true,” I objected, “I spoke to the girl only yesterday.”
“And yet the fact remains that they cannot be found anywhere. When she left you yesterday, Charlie followed her – he told me that she vanished into thin air at the bottom of Orchard Street,” Holmes said in evident annoyance.
“That is impossible.”
“Precisely. But there it stands.” He growled, pulling his house keys from his pocket. As he did, there was a shout from two doors down – I turned to see Charlie himself running towards us, waving his grubby cap in the air. Holmes stopped, one foot on the doorstep, as the little lad came to an abrupt halt in front of us, unable to say any more because his sprint had taken his breath.
“I seen ‘er, Mr ‘Olmes!” he said eventually, between gasps. “She were down in Oxford Street!”
“Who? The girl you followed yesterday?” Holmes asked, his keys slipping back into his pocket. “What was she doing?”
“Just walkin’, lookin’ round like she’d never been ter London before. I knew you wanted to know where she went, so I followed ‘er again.”
“Good lad. Where did she go?”
“Back up Orchard Street, where I seen ‘er yesterday, but this time I saw sumfink that weren’t there before,” Charlie said. He stood up straight and pulled his cap back into place. “If you can come wiv me now, I’ll show yer.”
I looked at Holmes, wondering what on earth the boy was talking about. My friend smiled. “Very well, it’s not far. Lead on, Charlie!”
“Holmes, should we really be spying on the girl in this manner?” I asked as we followed the lad back the way we had come. “It does not seem right to me.”
“My dear Watson, you are letting your weakness for the fair sex override your judgement,” he said. “Have you no curiosity about these people? They are quite clearly involved in the Harcourt case in some way, and yet they keep to the shadows, careful not to reveal their identities. There must be a reason for it, and I mean to know what it is, if only to prove their influence to be benign.”
I blinked in surprise. “Surely you do not believe them to be a threat!”
He shrugged. “I have no data, and therefore no opinion as yet. But I do not like men who send messages rather than calling in person.”
I had to concede that he did have a point. Orchard Street was not far, just past the junction of Wigmore Street and Portman Square. Charlie had run on ahead, but returned, his little face scrunched up in concern when we were forced to stop for a moment to allow Holmes, his face grey once more, to rest. He waved aside the lad’s questions with a smile, but Charlie did not lose his worried expression. I marvelled anew at the devotion his rag-tag little band had for Holmes.
“Is this it?” my friend asked breathlessly as we crossed the street. On the corner of Orchard and Wigmore Streets stood a peculiar tall, blue cabinet. Though the sign above the door proclaimed it to be a ‘police box’, a rather irate constable was standing on the pavement demanding an explanation of passers-by.
“Weren’t there yesterday,” said Charlie confidently, “but that’s where the girl disappeared, that exact same spot.”
“What the devil can it be?” I wondered. I had seen nothing like it in my life.
“A cabinet of some kind, I would think,” Holmes replied, moving a little closer. “Good morning, constable.”
The police officer jumped at being accosted from behind, but relaxed when he turned and saw us. “Mr Holmes! Do you know who might have left this box here, sir? I confess I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Has it just been abandoned?” Holmes enquired, laying a gloved hand on the box’s painted door.
“Suddenly appeared overnight, it did. No one’s been back to it, at least not since I’ve been here and I was alerted at six.” The constable scratched his head, pushing his helmet askew. “Who would do something like that? It’s causing an obstruction, too - ”
“Someone with access to some heavy-lifting equipment, that much is obvious. This is no temporary structure.” Holmes pushed on the door, at first gently and then with more forced, but it refused to budge under the pressure. He drew himself up to his full, impressive height and attempted to see through the windows but they were of frosted glass and evidently revealed little.
“Is has nothing to do with the police, then?” I asked
“I should say not, Doctor,” the constable responded, as if the very idea were anathema to him. “What would we be doing with a box? It don’t go nowhere, and I can’t even see that there’s a handle on the door so you couldn’t store nothing in there.”
Holmes had been examining a panel which was printed with lettering I could not make out from where I stood. He was smiling slightly, as though at a private joke. “A conundrum indeed,” he said.
The constable’s face fell. “You mean you don’t know what it is, sir?”
“Sadly, I do not. But I doubt that anyone can move it without resorting to extreme force so you had better leave it where it is. Who knows, perhaps it may vanish as abruptly as it appeared.”
I followed Holmes as he turned back up the street, Charlie at his heels. “Holmes - ” I began, but he held up a hand.
“Mysterious men in scarves and mysterious blue boxes, Watson. Might the two not be connected?”
“Why would anyone deposit a box on a street corner and then leave it? The idea is preposterous!”
Holmes smiled again “That is not for me to say, but let us chalk it up as yet another singular feature of this most unusual case,” he said, and I could not help but agree.
***
The next few hours of waiting were agonising.
With the end of the case in sight, Holmes seemed suddenly infused with an energy which battled against his weakness leaving neither one the absolute victor. He paced the sitting room, restlessly scraping upon his violin until I could take no more and begged him to put it away. I could see the logic in Lestrade’s suggestion that the thieves should be apprehended before they could put whatever they were planning into execution, but I also knew that Holmes could never resist a touch of the dramatic when such an opportunity presented itself and resigned myself to the nervous torment.
Mrs Hudson archly enquired whether we would be wanting our Sunday luncheon as we returned to the house, but neither of us felt able to eat much. Holmes touched little, and sat curled in his chair, smiling at something I did not like to ask him about.
My nerves were tangled in anticipation of the evening’s events. I had no idea what I should expect, though I was not surprised when Holmes charged me to bring my old army revolver, so useful on countless past adventures.
At nine o’clock there was a knock at the door, and a worried-looking Bretherton was announced. He entered the room turning his hat nervously in his hands.
“I am really not sure about this, Holmes,” he began, “To enter the museum after hours in such a manner - ”
Holmes naturally waved the objection away. “Your assistance will be invaluable, my dear fellow. If nothing else you will remove a major nuisance from your galleries.”
The curator stared at him for a moment before he realised what Holmes meant. “You mean that Namin - ? This is to do with that statue you were asking about?”
“It is indeed. We may see one or two mysteries explained this evening.” Holmes opened his desk drawer and removed a revolver and bullets. He loaded the gun as he spoke. “That is my intention, at least.”
Bretherton now stared at the gun with wide eyes. “You are expecting violence?”
“It is as well to be prepared.”
“These people have more than mere theft to their name,” I said. “Murder and abduction come easily to them.”
“Good God,” muttered the curator, blanching. I did not like the look of him at all.
“Holmes, maybe we should leave this to Lestrade,” I said, but Holmes shook his head.
There was another knock at the front door, and his eyes lit up. “That will be our four-wheeler. Come, gentlemen.”
He left the room with a spring in his step for the first time in weeks, alive with the thrill of the chase. We were about to run our quarry to ground.
***
The half hour was being struck by the clock on a nearby church tower as we arrived at the British Museum. Holmes led us to the side entrance, stopping to carefully check the door.
“Locked,” he reported as he returned to my side. “They are taking no chances of being disturbed.”
“There is no sign of Lestrade,” I said. The street was quiet, and the inspector and his men were conspicuous by their absence.
Holmes looked around, his sharp eyes taking in far more than mine ever could, not hampered by the odd reddish lamplight in the least. “We still have time,” was all he would say on the matter.
With still twenty minutes until the proposed assignation, we secreted ourselves behind a wall on the opposite side of the street and settled down to wait. The rain had begun again, its light drizzle soaking into my coat and causing me to shiver uncomfortably. I glanced at Holmes to see him hunch into his own overcoat, his scarf pulled up around his face. He should not have been out in such weather, and I cursed myself once more for allowing him to see the case through to its conclusion, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that I could not have stopped him.
The minutes ticked by, but still Lestrade did not appear. My apprehension grew. It was one thing to face these men with a police presence, but quite another for the three of us (one unarmed and an innocent party to the whole affair) to take on a group of deadly fanatics.
As the clock chimed the quarter hour, I heard Holmes grinding his teeth in frustration.
“What now?” I whispered.
“They must come out and show the lad is safe and well,” he replied quietly. “There are three of us and only two of them. They will be startled to see us instead of Harcourt – in the confusion we should be able to take them.”
“Only two that we know of, Holmes! They could have any number of followers in there!” My tension ratcheted up another notch. Had he not completely thought this through? I could not reconcile this shoddy planning with my usually meticulous friend. “You have surely considered that possibility?”
“Of course!” he snapped.
“Then what - ”
“Lestrade will arrive.”
“Holmes - ”
“I confess I do not like the sound of this at all, Holmes,” Bretherton hissed from the other side of my friend.
“My dear fellow, you have no reason to stay. It was foolish of me to have brought you with us,” said Holmes, now showing perception only at this late stage. What was wrong with him? “Though it will weigh the odds more evenly, if you leave me the keys I have no objection to your retiring.”
I held my breath as Bretherton considered the offer for some moments before finally shaking his head. “You will get lost in the museum without my guidance.”
I could not read Holmes’s expression in the shadows, but I knew that he was smiling. “Good man,” he said, and his response confirmed my view that he was not himself. Had he been acting normally, he would have sent the curator away, refused to allow him to risk his life in so cavalier a fashion. There was little I could do about it now, however, much to my distress.
Instead I checked my watch. “Holmes, it is five to ten.”
“Still no Lestrade. Damn the man!”
“It is unlike him to be unreliable. At what time did you tell him to meet us here?”
Holmes ignored my question. “There is nothing we can do now. Make ready, gentlemen.”
On the other side of the street, the door was opening.
TBC
