Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

I regarded my friend closely. It was obvious that he was in deadly earnest and not deceiving me with some cunning stratagem, as when he led me a few years previously to believe he was dying from a nameless ‘coolie disease from Sumatra’. I decided to remain silent, although harboring grave misgivings about where the conversation was leading. Holmes may have sensed my unease, for he begun speaking more and more rapidly, rushing through the next part of his story.

To his astonishment and relief, Holmes had found this supposed spirit of John Openshaw bore him no malice and was not seeking revenge for having been so casually sent to his death. Against the three KKK members, however, he was set on deadly retribution. For that reason his spectral form had joined the
Lone Star
before it quit the Albert Dock.

“Openshaw told me that what did founder in those dreadful gales was the mail-boat carrying my letter to the American authorities laying out the case for a charge of murder against the three men. The faster mail-boat had overtaken the barque before the storm struck, and the bag containing that note was among the wreckage recovered by the
Lone Star.
Hoping for negotiables or even currency, the KKK murderers opened all the envelopes and thus discovered that their crime was to be exposed.

“As I remarked at the time, they are cunning devils. Openshaw told me how they dumped overboard the sternpost and some other fittings to make it appear that their own ship had sunk with all hands. Then they put into a port in the Caribbean, paid off the Finns and Germans who made up the rest of the crew, changed the name of the ship and sold it.”

Seldom pausing even to draw breath, Holmes continued with this remarkable tale of what he had learned from a bodiless spirit. The three men signed on to a Dutch steamer called the
Friesland
, where the ringleader, James Calhoun, was quickly appointed Second Officer on the basis of having his captain’s papers. The
Friesland
had called at London several times in the intervening years, but Openshaw had not been able to contact Holmes anywhere in London using mental projection.

“Of course, he had no way of knowing that I, too, was then deceased,” Holmes said with what sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

Finally, there arrived the necessary confluence, with the
Friesland
, the three murderers, the spirit of Openshaw and a very much alive Sherlock Holmes all present in the great metropolis at the same time. Before Openshaw could attempt to penetrate the consciousness of the master detective, however, fate once again intervened. The First Officer had resigned when the
Friesland
docked. Calhoun confidently expected to be promoted, but was pipped at the post by one Jan Brouwer, whose father was a significant investor in the shipping line and a prominent planter in the Dutch Antilles. While some resentment on Calhoun’s part was perhaps understandable, his animosity toward Brouwer escalated into pathological hatred after hearing a rumor of Negro blood in the Dutchman’s family several generations back. Aided by his two KKK companions on the
Friesland
, he staged a repetition of the murderous attack on John Openshaw seven years previously. All this was witnessed by Openshaw’s spirit.

As my companion finally paused for breath, I testily interjected. “Holmes, do you honestly believe in the existence of spirits and credit what one of them supposedly tells you as a true account of events?”

“Pray keep your mind open just a short time longer, my dear doctor. Initially, as you might imagine, I was distrustful and convinced that I was suffering from what Shakespeare called ‘paper bullets of the brain.’ I was also concerned that Openshaw, if indeed this spirit was a true manifestation of the man, must bear me some ill will for the cavalier treatment he suffered at my hands. That second fear evaporated as we talked at length over the course of several nights. I feel more attuned to him now than to any other person, save yourself of course.”

At this juncture Holmes shot me a bemused glance. “Indeed, you may have gathered that much from your covert overhearing of our most recent nocturnal consultation.”

“The concern about my mental state I addressed by my visit to your medical colleague in South Norwood. You may not be aware that he is a member of the Society for Psychical Research and also, most importantly, a man of science utterly devoted to the supremacy of rationality. He assured me that communication with the departed has been scientifically documented in a number of cases. As well, it is widely believed among psychical researchers that communication from spirits is the basis for what we sometimes term intuition. That would certainly help explain my actions the day I learned of Brouwer’s death.”

Here Holmes came to a stop and arched his eyebrows at me in obvious inquisition. Reluctantly I responded.

“I remain far from convinced of the existence of either an afterlife or of spirits of the dead who communicate with the living. All you have told me so far could be explained as the workings of your own mind pulling together items, as you said earlier, to construct an imaginary picture of how a crime was committed and by whom.”

“A hit, a palpable hit, Watson. And it is because of the risk of real hits that I entreat you, on the basis of our long friendship, to set aside these doubts for the moment and join me in the investigations I must undertake to keep faith with John Openshaw. I have reason to believe these may involve serious physical danger, and I would be far more comfortable with you beside me, armed with your service revolver.”

I immediately assured Holmes that he could rely on me, for indeed I could not possibly have declined such an appeal. He explained the need for quick action, since the
Friesland
would undoubtedly leave port once new cargo was loaded. A quick journey in a hansom cab had us climbing that ship’s gangway within the hour. The captain, a stolid Karl Neustaedter, was most co-operative. He took pains to emphasize that Brouwer had been appointed First Officer on the basis of merit, not family connections. They had sailed together previously on another ship where Brouwer had been a conscientious and more than competent Second Officer. He had upgraded his qualifications since, and the captain had been pleased to find him available in London on such short notice.

“Have you signed on another First Officer then?” I asked.

“Mr. Calhoun has been named to that position on a probationary basis. It was obvious from the start that he expected to get the post, but I had misgivings about his close friendship with the two other Americans aboard. Any suspicion of favoritism would have quickly created tensions and resentment among the rest of the crew, who mostly hail from Asia. I am trusting that Mr. Calhoun will keep a check on his deplorable tendency to disparage anyone not of the white race. But here he comes now.”

The man who approached had skin that shone like burnished mahogany, made the more striking by a white goatee and the blazing white of a dress uniform.

“Request permission to go ashore, Captain. I need to complete arrangements for Brouwer’s service and burial tomorrow.”

“Of course, Mr. Calhoun. But first these two gentlemen were wanting a word with you about Mr. Brouwer’s mishap. Let me introduce the famous detective Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. Watson.”

Betraying no surprise, the First Officer spoke even before we had finished shaking hands. “I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen, and am willing to give you whatever time is needed for your inquiries. But the undertaker is even now expecting my arrival. Would it be possible for you to return this evening, say at two bells of the first watch, when we could talk at our leisure?”

So it was that in the last rays of daylight Holmes and I again made our way along the narrow and unsavory passages which led to the vast West India Docks. We had just started down Preston Road when an unexplained premonition of deep foreboding caused me to spin round, and I realized that I had unconsciously drawn my service revolver from my overcoat. I shouted a warning to Holmes before I became fully aware of the gang of swarthy ruffians bearing down upon us. The nearest drove his knife toward my left forearm just as I managed to shoot him in the leg. Arms around one another, we fell to the greasy stone surface and grappled for some moments until I was able to subdue my attacker.

Meanwhile Holmes was engaged in routing the others. Although they were armed with knives, cudgels and weighted coshes, they were no match for a man skilled in baritsu and the art of singlestick combat. As they fled down the alley, Holmes prised my assailant off me and slammed him roughly against the wall of a brick warehouse.

“If Watson is seriously hurt you will not live another minute,” he growled.

“There is no need for such desperate action, Holmes,” I said. “My heavy coat deflected his blade and I have suffered little more than a scratch. But I had better bind up the gunshot wound in that fellow’s thigh before he bleeds any more.”

The ruffian was understandably relieved to receive such immediate medical attention and readily answered all of our questions. He and his comrades had been hired by a ‘Yank’ from the public bar of The Gun, a pub on a nearby thoroughfare called Coldharbour. They’d been given our description, probable route and likely time of arrival. After the assault they were to dump our bodies into the water.

“He didn’t say nuffink about you being armed, Guv’nor, or about your mate being able to use a cane like that.”

His description of the ‘Yank’ left no doubt that it was Calhoun. Holmes and I gave our attacker into police custody and continued on our way to the
Friesland’s
berth. Captain Neustaedter was waiting at the top of the gangway. With him were two Lascars holding tight the arms of a struggling man in his mid-twenties.

“They’ve flown, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Calhoun and his older American friend lit out of here just about a half-hour ago. They commandeered a tug that was at the dock here and already had steam up. But we laid hands on their younger confederate as he was climbing over the side.”

“Have the River Police been notified?” asked Holmes.

“Yes, and they are in pursuit.”

“Then we will have to possess our souls in patience and use the time to get some account of the affair out of Billy here.” Somehow it was no great surprise that Holmes knew the scoundrel’s name without being told.

Obtaining the information proved to be easier than I would have imagined. Holmes explained to Billy that he would undoubtedly swing for the murders of Openshaw and Brouwer unless he could provide convincing testimony that the other two men were chiefly to blame. With such inducement the frightened young man was quick to tell all he knew.

In most particulars his account tallied with what Holmes said he had learned already from the spirit of Openshaw. For example, Holmes had wondered at the time how Openshaw was lured to the edge of the Embankment, well away from his most direct route from Baker Street to the railway at Waterloo Station. Billy explained that he had been the decoy. As a mere youth then, he had found it simple to imitate a woman’s voice and had cried out for help as Openshaw came down Wellington Street toward Waterloo Bridge.

“But it was Jim and Darrell that did the poor man in, not me, Mr. Holmes,” Billy pleaded. “They coshed him and then Jim pressed his cap down on the fellow’s face till he stopped breathing. He was already dead afore he went into the water.”

Even more striking was his confirmation of what had happened on the high seas, an explanation that I felt came too close to fantasy when Holmes had first relayed the spirit-transmitted version. Yet, unprompted, Billy described exactly the same sequence of improbable events: the survival of the
Lone Star
in the storm-tossed ocean, the providential discovery of wreckage from the mail-ship and the interception of Holmes’ accusatory letter. Then the staged disappearance of the
Lone Star
at sea, followed by its real disappearance in a Caribbean port.

“Jim said the ship’s owners were little better than carpet-baggers anyway, so we were merely getting a little bit of our own back, as real Southerners.”

Billy’s eagerness to talk began to abate, however, as we approached the death of Jan Brouwer. He confirmed that Brouwer’s preferment had festered with Calhoun. “It wasn’t just that he got the job because his Daddy owned part of the shipping line. And it wasn’t only that he was obviously a Nigra-lover, what we could see right away by the way he treated the rest of the crew the same as us. But Jim said that Brouwer had a touch of the tar brush, and there was no way we should be taking orders from a man whose blood was impure.”

“So you followed the same method as with Openshaw: the cosh to the head, suffocation and then into the water. Is that correct?” Holmes asked. Billy nodded silently, and it seemed likely that his hand had wielded the cosh or at least helped tip Brouwer’s body overboard.

At that point a grim-faced Captain Neustaedter interrupted our interrogation. “Blackwall Station has sent over a message, Mr. Holmes. They have had a cable from Tilbury. The River Police lost sight of the tug in the fog just past there and the scoundrels have made their escape.”

We were a dispirited duo as we made our way back to Baker Street. “To have failed John Openshaw once was a blow to my pride, Watson, but for it to happen twice is almost too much to bear. I cannot believe that he will have enough magnanimity to forgive me twice. The next visit of his spirit to our rooms will be painful for all concerned, but most of all for me.”