Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (12 page)

“As to the noises of footsteps you heard, and the cold wind: all this can be explained by some person or persons — as the footsteps sounded like those of two distinct people — using the stairs and the secret chamber as a means of entering and leaving the house in order to search for something of value that they felt might be hidden; for you spoke of treasure, Mr. Low, as did you, Mrs. Fitzgerald, and these views are borne out by the passage which we found in Karswell’s desk, which specifically mentions treasure. It was stated, however, that no treasures had been amongst Mr. Karswell’s effects. This would suggest that his treasures were well hidden, and that someone knew — or suspected — as much, and decided to continue the search. I wager that there are more hiding spaces in this house than the one we found tonight, and that a careful search will reveal Mr. Karswell’s treasure; while blocking up both entrances to the hidden chamber will eliminate the noises, and sounds, which have troubled you so much.”

“But what of the feeling of something rubbing against me, Mr. Holmes?” enquired Mr. Fitzgerald. “Ellen the maid felt it too, yet neither of us saw anything.”

“I suspect that the maid was imagining things, Mr. Fitzgerald; she was overwrought, as your wife stated. When you went up to the room you remembered her words, and something as simple as a draught of air became a phantom shape.”

“What of the claw marks, and that odd note we found in the desk?” asked Mrs. Fitzgerald. She had brightened considerably over the past hour, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from her; but her husband, I noted, still wore a worried and drawn expression.

“Those are very easily explained. The note was, I think, meant as a taunt for any who presumed to look for Karswell’s treasure, by mentioning it particularly; and I daresay that if one were to take a chisel to the panelling, one would make very similar marks to those we saw. When a person is looking for what he thinks is hidden treasure, he is not apt to be overly concerned about leaving traces of his handiwork on the walls, particularly if they are being ascribed to supernatural means which allow him to search without fear of being discovered.”

Holmes sat back in his chair, and Mrs. Fitzgerald clapped her hands together softly. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said quietly; “you have taken a great weight from my mind. I felt sure that there was a perfectly natural and logical explanation for these strange events, and I have no doubt but that you have hit upon the correct solution. I am sure that if we take your advice and seal up the chamber properly, there will be no further disturbances at Lufford Abbey.”

“By all means seal up the chamber,” said Flaxman Low, who had listened attentively to my friend’s explanation, “but not before you destroy all the items found within it — as well as the desk, and any other items which belonged to Karswell — by burning them, and with as little delay as possible.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Low?” asked Mr. Fitzgerald. He, too, had listened attentively to Holmes’ speech, but did not seem as convinced as did his wife.

“Because I believe that Julian Karswell was an evil man, and that anything associated with him carries that stamp of evil, and will continue to do so until it is destroyed by the purifying element of fire. Only that will put an end to your troubles.” He glanced towards my friend. “Both Mr. Holmes and I agree that the cause of the disturbances in this house is Karswell; but I am prepared to grant him a much larger part than is my colleague here.

“Karswell made it his life’s work to not only study and document the black arts, but to dabble in them himself. He believed, as many others have before him, that he was capable of controlling that which he unleashed; and as so many others have found, too late, he was greatly mistaken.

“We know him to have been a man both subtle and malicious, and one who desired to protect and keep secret what belonged to him. He had written a book on witchcraft, and was rumored to have written — if not completed — a second volume. For a man such as Karswell, would this manuscript not have been a treasure beyond price? The years of work poured into it, and the price that was doubtless extracted from him for the knowledge he received, would have made him value this above all else, and I believe that he would have ensured that it was … well guarded during his absence in July of last year. That this absence was to prove permanent did not, of course, occur to him; and once set in place, the guardian appointed by Karswell would continue to do its duty, neither knowing nor caring of the death of its master.”

“You speak of a guardian, Mr. Low,” said our host in a low voice. “What precisely do you mean?”

Flaxman Low shrugged. “Guardians can take many shapes and forms,” he replied, “depending on the skill and audacity of those who call them up. That Karswell was an adept in the field of magic is not, I think, in dispute; we have the death of one man, and the near-death of another, to attest to this. I believe that Karswell summoned a guardian that was in a shape known to him; possibly something not unlike a large dog. It was this guardian which was responsible for the claw marks on the walls, and the soft, padding sound which you heard, and the cold draught which you felt: manifestations of this sort are frequently accompanied by a chill in the atmosphere, sometimes quite severe. I also think it unlikely that the workmen discovered the chamber; there were no signs of anything within it being disturbed, and I am sure that its discovery could not have been kept a secret. The door was, as we saw, quite cleverly built, and I believe the workmen did not realize it was there.”

“But why did this guardian not venture outside that one room?” asked Mr. Fitzgerald. Like his wife a few minutes earlier, he now looked considerably more relieved than he had been since we arrived; the prospect of putting an end to his troubles by following Low’s advice had obviously taken a weight from his shoulders.

“Without knowing the specifics of what Karswell did to conjure it up in the first place, I cannot say. I do know, however, that very powerful constraints must be laid on these creatures, lest they turn on those who create them. It could well be that Karswell’s guardian was restricted to that place, near its master’s treasure.” He paused, and gazed thoughtfully at his hosts. “From the manner in which the sounds it made changed, I should say that it was growing stronger as time passed, and that it is as well that we arrived when we did, before it grew even more powerful.”

“And what did you make of the note, Mr. Low?” asked our host. Low smiled gently.

“I, too, took it as a taunt, although I interpreted it somewhat differently to Mr. Holmes. He seized on the word ‘treasure’, whereas I was struck by the use of the word ‘vengeance’, and the reference to ‘the things that shall come upon them’.”

There was silence then, as we all pondered what we had just heard. Looking upon the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, I could see that their troubles were, if not quite at an end, at least fading rapidly. Mr. Fitzgerald, it was clear, was prepared to believe Flaxman Low’s interpretation of events, while his wife believed that Holmes had hit upon the correct solution. I caught the latter’s eye as I thought this, and he must have read my thoughts, for he laughed and said, “Well, we have two solutions, and three listeners. I know that two of you have already made up your minds, so it remains for Dr. Watson to cast the deciding vote. Which shall it be, friend Watson? Tell us your verdict.”

I glanced from the one detective to the other: both so alike in their methods, so sure of their case, yet so different in their explanations. I took a deep breath.

“I am glad of my Scottish heritage at this moment,” I said, “for it allows me to answer, quite properly, ‘Not Proven’.” And further than that I would not be drawn.

There remains little to tell of this strange case. The following morning, as soon as it was light, a proper investigation of the secret chamber was made. Nothing more was found beyond what we had already seen; and the stone steps did, as surmised, lead down through the thickness of the outer wall to a tunnel which stretched away from the house and emerged in a small outbuilding some distance away. The tunnel was in surprisingly good repair, leading Holmes to believe that his theory of treasure-seekers was correct. Low said nothing, but I noted that he spent some time scrutinising the floor of the tunnel, which was, I saw, free from any marks that would seem to indicate the recent passage of any corporeal trespasser. The entrances to both chamber and tunnel were sealed shut so as to make both impassable; but not before everything had been removed from the chamber, and everything of Karswell’s taken from the study, and burned.

I have not heard that the Fitzgeralds have been troubled since that time; nor did I ever hear of any treasures being found in the house.

One other item, perhaps, bears mentioning. Low had been invited to travel back to London with us, and we found ourselves with some time to spare in the village before our train was due to arrive. We walked, by common accord, over to the small parish church where, we recalled, some of the items salvaged from the original Abbey of Lufford had been stored, and spent a pleasant half-hour therein, admiring the church and its relics. Holmes, indicating that it was time to leave for the station, went outside, and I looked around for Flaxman Low, whom I found staring intently into a glass case which contained some of the remains of the old Abbey. As I paused by his side he turned and smiled at me.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” he said; “or should it be ‘Gentleman of the Jury’? Do you still find for ‘Not Proven’, or have you had any second thoughts?”

I shook my head. “I do not know,” I said honestly. “I have worked with Holmes for many years, and am rather inclined to his viewpoint that there is nothing that cannot be explained logically and rationally. And yet…” I paused. “I am not, I think, more imaginative than my fellow man, nor a person inclined to foolish fancies; yet I confess to you that as we stood outside the door of that room, I would have given a good deal not to go in there; and all the while we were inside it, I felt that there was … something in the room with us, something malignant, evil.” I shook my head. “I do not know,” I repeated, “but I am prepared to weigh the evidence and be convinced.”

Low reached out and shook my hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Then his eyes returned to the case which he had been studying, and he pointed at an item within it. “I was reading this before you came over,” he said. “It is one of the relics from the Abbey of Lufford, a tile that dates back to the fifteenth century. The original is in Middle English, and rather difficult to make out, but a translation is on the card beside it. I wonder if Karswell ever saw it; in the unlikely event that he did, he certainly paid no heed to the warning.”

I gazed at the card, and read the following words from Lufford Abbey:

Think, man, thy life may not ever endure; what thou dost thyself, of that thou art sure; but what thou keepest for thy executor’s care, and whether it avail thee, is but adventure.

The Finishing Stroke

The Finishing Stroke

by M. J. Elliott

Some may call it a tragedy, others a fantasy. My friend Sherlock Holmes will not have it that those terrible events surrounding the Tuttman Gallery are capable of anything other than a rational, albeit unorthodox, explanation. While he admits that the violent death of Anwar Molinet is beyond our ability to explain at present, he is insistent that future scientific developments will one day show how such a thing might be possible. I confess, I do not share his confidence — should I call it hubris? — and to this day, he chides me for ever daring to suggest a supernatural solution to the mystery.

“Can it be, Watson,” he says, “that you, a trained man of science, have fallen in with the spiritualists, soothsayers and other such frauds and self-delusionists?”

I make no reply, and never shall. But I set down here the full, unbiased account of our most mysterious adventure, and leave it to the reader to decide.

Sherlock Holmes did not, as a rule, encourage visitors at 221B, but he frequently made an exception for Inspector Lestrade. I confess, I have never understood his fondness for the company of the rodent-faced policeman over other officers for whose intelligence he expressed a higher regard, but I have rarely seen my friend happier than when sharing a bottle of the Beaune with his old adversary. It was common on such occasions for Lestrade to voice his concerns regarding any recent problematic investigations. I expected today would be no different, but this afternoon the police official appeared agitated, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece from time to time.

“Are we keeping you from your duties, Inspector?” asked Holmes, with more than a touch of mockery.

“Er, no, Mr. Holmes. Not just at this moment. I was just thinking … it should be happening soon. Cawthorne’s post-mortem, I mean.”

It took very little effort on my friend’s part to persuade him to elucidate.

“Anwar Molinet was the fellow’s name,” Lestrade explained. “Murdered in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy restaurant.”

“Oh?”

He consulted his notebook. “
Les Freres Heureux
, it’s called. Ever heard of it?”

“Your pronunciation could stand some improvement, Lestrade,” I remarked. “But, yes, I believe we’ve dined there once or twice. An excellent cellar.”

“Although the manager’s cigars are quite as poisonous as I have ever experienced,” Holmes added. “It’s the curse of the modern age, I fear. I find it hard to believe that a detective of your undoubted abilities would experience even the mildest of difficulties running the culprit to ground. You seem to have an over-abundance of witnesses, and more than adequate supplies of the energy required for such a task.”

Lestrade twitched visibly. “You might think so, Mr. Holmes, but … well, it’s a peculiar thing … impossible, even.”

“I make it a habit to eliminate the impossible before proceeding in an enquiry. Come, come! Surely this is a matter for which the old hound remains the best.”

“I should have thought so, too. But you tell me what it means when a man is brutally murdered in front of some twenty-odd people and yet not one of them claims to have seen a thing… Almost as though the killer were
un
visible.”

“Brutally?” I wondered aloud.

“You’re a medical man, Dr. Watson, and a soldier to boot but I doubt if even you have ever…” Lestrade’s voice failed and I imagined for a moment that he was actually stifling a sob. “You’ll never see anything like it this side of hell, I swear it.”

Holmes rose to his feet and stuffed his pipe into the pocket of his dressing gown. I saw at once that his mood had altered from extreme languor to devouring energy.

“If we are content to sit here chatting about it, I too swear that we will never see it. You said that the post-mortem is due to begin at any moment. If we make a start now, we should be in time to interview the surgeon. Watson, Professor Cawthorne is a member of your club, yes? Then we should have no difficulty in breaching the inner sanctum of one of London’s most respected police surgeons. No, no, Lestrade, you need not accompany us. I see from your haggard features that you have already had far too much of the unsavory side of this investigation. By all means, finish your drink, and show yourself out when you are ready.”

I was struck, upon entering the mortuary, how long I had been away from the world of practical medicine. The smell of carbolic and decaying flesh could never be described as palatable, but our ability to become accustomed to even the most unattractive circumstance will invariably out. On this occasion, however, it took some effort on my part not to gag as the odor assailed my nostrils.

Cawthorne was soaping his hands as we entered, and gave no more than a brief backward glance. It was not his way, however, to be ungracious, even in the most morbid situation.

“Why, John, what a pleasant surprise. Though I shouldn’t really be surprised at all, I suppose. And Mr. Holmes.” The two men exchanged no more than a nod of assent, for feelings were somewhat cool between them, ever since Holmes had called Cawthorne’s competence into question during our investigation into the shooting of a vagrant on the grounds of Colonel James Moriarty’s Chelmsford home. “You’re here about the late Mr. Molinet, I imagine?”

With his stick, Holmes indicated a corpse beneath a bloody shroud. “This is he?” he asked.

“It is. I’ve more or less finished with him, but you’re welcome to take a look. I confess, there are still a good many questions concerning the nature of his death I’d like answering. You have George’s permission to be here, of course?”

It took a moment before I realized that Cawthorne was referring to the Inspector, with whom, it seemed, he was on first-name terms. To Sherlock Holmes and myself, however, he was simply ‘Lestrade’.

I explained, in the most diplomatic terms, that our mutual acquaintance had chosen to remain behind at Baker Street, rather than view the body once more.

“You won’t judge him harshly, I hope. This is a shocking matter, even for an old war-horse like George. Indeed, your joint experience in examining dead bodies notwithstanding, you should perhaps prepare yourselves for something you may not have seen before.”

He tugged back the sheet, and we found ourselves looking at what had once been a man but had now been transformed into a nightmare. I made no remark; no gasp of astonishment escaped my lips. I seemed, in fact, utterly incapable of speech at that moment.

“Well, well,” Holmes breathed, “you do not exaggerate, Professor.”

“Whoever did this to Mr. Molinet aided my examination considerably. As you can see, I had no need to make a single incision.”

In the moments that followed, I heard only the whistling of my own breath, as we three gazed in silence at the hideously mutilated corpse, his innards visible through the gaping hole in the stomach. I had witnessed something similar when examining the body of the unfortunate Catherine Eddowes, but on that occasion, identification of the weapon had been a simple matter.

“These tears are deep but also ragged,” Holmes observed, without apparent emotion. “This was not done with a blade of any sort. Claws, perhaps … or teeth. Have you ever seen the results of an attack by a wolf, Professor?”

“Very few wolves in London, Mr. Holmes,” Cawthorne replied.

“Not the four-legged variety, in any case.”

“In any event, there is an even greater mystery to be overcome, as you can see, since it would appear that this beast — whatever it may have been — clawed its way
out
, not in.”

I heard someone say “There is devilry afoot,” and it was a moment before I realized that the words were mine, the first I had uttered since the hideous corpse had been uncovered.

“I have, in the past, voiced the opinion that life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent,” Holmes murmured, “but this is perhaps
too
strange even for life as we comprehend it.” But I knew that he could not do anything other than proceed with his investigation, for he refused to associate himself with any matter which did not tend towards the unusual and even the fantastic. And I, who share his love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life, could do nothing but follow in his wake.

For Holmes’ sake I attempted, so far as seemed appropriate, to make light of the matter. “Well, Holmes, we have a rare little mystery on our hands,” I commented, as we rattled along in the four-wheeler we had flagged down outside the mortuary.

“Your propensity for understatement never ceases to amaze me, Doctor. We seem to have been presented with someone’s waking nightmare masquerading as a case. Molinet is slashed to pieces in a public place, apparently by a ferocious animal and in a manner that beggars belief … and yet no-one seems to have seen anything.”

“Witnesses to a particularly vicious crime are often unreliable,” I noted. “I’m certain I don’t need to remind you of the conflicting accounts we heard following the Pennington Flash Murder. Shock can play peculiar tricks on the mind.”

“In one or two cases, I might agree, Watson, but surely shock cannot have affected every single diner and member of staff in one of London’s most fashionable restaurants.”

“Perhaps we are approaching the matter from the wrong end,” I suggested. “It may well be that knowing why Molinet was murdered will give us some indication of how it was done.”

“Excellent, Watson! Really, you are coming along! How can I take you for granted when your clarity of mind comes to my rescue?”

Holmes had never said as much before, and I must admit that his words gave me keen pleasure, for I have often been piqued by his apparent indifference to my assistance.

Upon our return to Baker Street, we were advised by Mrs. Hudson that Lestrade had only recently departed, and in a state of some merriment. Our long-suffering landlady was less than cheered, however, to learn that Holmes and I would not be staying for dinner, nor could we say when we were likely to return. Holmes searched through his ever-reliable index until he found the address of the late Anwar Molinet.

My earlier intuition, alas, proved of little use when we were confronted with a locked door. There were no servants at Molinet’s Belgrave Square address, no-one to answer our persistent knocking.

“Our first broken thread, Watson,” Holmes noted, and though there was no malice in his tone, I could not help but redden with shame at the thought of a wasted journey taken at my suggestion.

“You’ll find no-one at home, I’m afraid,” a strident female voice called to us. We looked about, and saw that the voice belonged to the occupant of the house next door. Though not born to the purple, she gave an excellent imitation, save for the fact that she had chosen to lean out of her window in order to address two perfect strangers.

“Anwar’s nephew gave the servants notice as soon as he heard. The place has been locked up ever since. You’re Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, aren’t you? You’re not unlike your pictures, if I might say so.”

I raised my hat. “Madam, you were a friend of Mr. Molinet?”

“An acquaintance would be the better term,” she simpered. “Neighbor, really. The last time I saw him was at the auction. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. What on Earth would my husband have said? Mrs. Serracoult is my name. Actually, would you care to come inside? Susan was about to prepare tea.”

I accepted cheerfully. Holmes, whose mistrust of the fair sex seemed to increase in direct proportion to their ebullience, murmured: “Watson, I leave this interview entirely in your hands.”

In an experience of women which extends over many nations and across several continents, I have met none so flighty as Mrs. Serracoult. She rushed about her sitting-room as though in a constant panic, half-remembering some errand before forgetting it once again.

Holmes emitted several loud groans at this very feminine behavior, but our host was far too preoccupied with at least half a dozen things simultaneously, and I am relieved to say she never noticed.

“Mrs. Serracoult,” I said eventually, having sat through several tedious anecdotes regarding her late husband’s social connections, “you mentioned that the last time you saw Mr. Molinet was at an auction?”

“At the Tuttman Gallery, that’s right, Doctor. Which reminds me, I’ve been suffering from an unpleasant burning sensation recently, right here.”

“I’d be happy to examine you, dear lady, but I regret I left my stethoscope at home.” I turned my hat in my hand as I spoke, hoping to conceal the bulge made by the instrument. “Now, this auction..?”

“At the Tuttman Gallery, yes. Do you know the Tuttman Gallery?” I shook my head. “They’re very particular about their customers — perhaps I could put in a good word for you both, next time I’m there. Anyway, there was rather a fierce bidding war over a Redfern.”

Holmes, who had the crudest notions regarding art, raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Redfern is a painter?” he asked.

“One of London’s most exciting new talents, Mr. Holmes.” Without warning, she shot from her chair, rattling the tea things as she raced to a handsome landscape upon the wall. I knew that my companion could have no appreciation of its excellence, or of the artist’s choice of subject, for the appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts. “Rather marvellous, isn’t it?” our host enthused. “And hideously expensive, of course. But that fact seems to make the very owning of it even more exciting. And I do so long for excitement. Curious, isn’t it, Doctor, how one can be very, very bored and very, very busy at the same time?”