Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

“Yes,” said Holmes. “So how did this obligation come to be twisted into such evil intent? What misfortune befell this poor, superstitious fellow that turned him against you so?”

“I suppose that is the explanation — of course.” I said. I sighed, exhaustedly, and bent over a little, steadying myself on the nearby armchair. “I think I have punished myself enough, Holmes, would you help me hang the photo back up again?”

Holmes clapped me on the back softly and then turned to heft the picture. “Rest easy, old friend, it shall take me but a moment.”

With both his hands full and the picture partially obscuring his view of me, Holmes could not see me pull, from inside my coat, the last of the bronze arrows, where I had hidden it by tearing a hole in the lining. Using both hands, and all the strength I could muster, I plunged the arrow into my friend’s chest.

Instantly he dropped the picture and screamed. One of his hands flailed out at me, catching me on the face. My nose was smashed and I actually heard the cartilage break a moment before blood began to gout from it. I instinctively jumped as far back from Holmes as possible in my state, and watched him slowly sink to his knees, blood spurting from his chest, his arms jerking like some strange puppet.

He slumped to the floor, then onto his side and was screeching as he struggled, weakly, to pluck the arrow from his chest. The ichor that flowed from the wound and down his shirt-front, was no longer red, but was changing even as I watched, turning as black as his eyes. Finally, only one hand tugged uselessly at the arrow imbedded in his body. The other began to scratch the floorboards, effortlessly digging deep furrows in the hard, smooth surface. It was clear there was terrific strength in that form, but thankfully it could do nothing against the enchantment of the arrow.

Then, Holmes began to spasm and twitch; the heels of his shoes beating an awful tattoo on the floor. He began to weep but only briefly, soon he was silent, simply twisting and jerking like a landed fish breathing its last.

He looked at me. I shuddered, for the hatred I saw in those coal-black eyes was incalculable; it was the fierce burning hatred of one natural enemy for another.

Then, Holmes finally died. His body began to change, to warp and take on a different hue, his hands knotting and twisting as if suddenly desiccated by years of age. What he became was a creature that only resembled a man in base configuration, but this was no man, of any kind. Blue-skinned, blue as a corpse, its skin was more a lumped and pitted hide. The limbs were much, much longer than Holmes’ had been and now stuck out in an ungainly fashion from the sleeves and trousers of the clothes it had adopted. The hands were six-fingered, without nails and like the roots of plants, long and gnarled; the feet seemed equally distended, lying slack within Holmes’ boots.

The thing’s face was just as abnormal. A large, narrow head with a gigantic jawbone and a cranium that extended backwards, the creature looked like some nightmare version of a primitive man, heavy brow-ridge and bulging eyes combined with an over-sized mouth, full of protruding, tusk-like, teeth … the face on the triangular stone.

I collapsed on to a chair and waited in that room for hours, too horror-struck, too filled with shame and loathing, to do anything. Finally, the sun’s rays began to creep into the chamber, and I took to my feet. The natural light, the friend of we who can only pretend to have made this planet our kingdom, gave me courage, and the spell that had afflicted me for so many years was completely lifted from my weary shoulders.

I remembered all. I recalled how I had lain in a ditch in Afghanistan, my body afire with the wounds I had sustained, begging, screaming for Death to come, and crying out to the gods of that strange land to grant me mercy. Death had not come, but instead this djinn appeared, this awful, parasitic creature of antiquity. When it had leant over me and whispered to me in a language I ought not to have understood, I had no will to deny it. It reached into my mind and plucked out my most naïve and childish desires, fuelled by the discontent I had at being a failed medical practitioner, and had asked me whether I would like to have not only my life saved, but my fondest wishes fulfilled, to forever be known as man of courage and heroism, who would be renowned through my homeland as a vanquisher of evil, I said yes! In that moment I would have agreed to far worse. The demon smiled a ghastly smile, pressed an odd triangular piece of carved stone into my upturned palm, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

And so it was that I found myself miraculously rescued by Murray and, with my health broken, returned to England. Once there, young Stamford, in some weird trance, had come to my flea-ridden hovel and taken me to Bart’s hospital where I had descended, as if in a dream, to the morgue, where Holmes appeared like some spectre amongst the cadavers — an event I later glamorized when I wrote of it. I was to change many a weird event in the next several years as the foul thing performed its work. I suspect the creature had actually created its body, its form, from the cadaver of some poor lost soul lying in Bart’s, some nameless, hapless victim of disease or accident.

So began the years in Baker Street, where my mind and body were put into a strange servitude. The creature would prowl the streets of London, and sometimes, the country-side much farther afield, wreaking terrible murder and misfortune, and then concocting the most perfect, yet utterly fantastic scenarios that would explain the outrages, even affecting the minds of the very victims and witnesses; condemning many a man and woman to imprisonment or even the gallows. At times the creature was content to actually solve genuine crimes, its ability to partially glimpse men’s thoughts made that a simple matter, but it had a perverse sense of drama, and so created strange means of homicide and assault that defied reality but fuelled the fantasy. The speckled-band — that never-before heard of swamp adder that killed the Stoner girl; the impossible serum that transformed Professor Presbury into a creeping man; the impossibly agile, dart-throwing dwarf assassin at Pondicherry Lodge; the chemically irreproducible Devil’s Foot narcotic that slew a room of people instantly; all these were some of the terrible instruments of death that the djinn had conjured into being by sheer force of will, as plot elements in its cavalcade of murder and depravity. All done just so that Holmes and myself could triumphantly appear on stage to explicate and bring down the final curtain with a solution only we could furnish.

A solution I would then write of … for the adulation of millions.

My wife knew, of course. I don’t know how long it took for her to see through the veil of Holmes’ inhumanity, but she knew he was not what he seemed, but she was careful, she never challenged him directly; I am sure such action would have been fatal. No, Mary simply asked me to make a choice, as I had made a choice on that bleak battlefield years before, shivering with pain and ague. I wanted her to stay, but I could not admit why she was really leaving, so ultimately I let her go, because I was weak, I still wanted this life of fame, this life of international acclaim, as a stalwart of justice, and crusader against the wicked.

Somehow, across the years, across the miles, my old friend Faroukhan had sensed that my moment of truth was coming, and knowing I would fail, had come to repay the old debt, the debt that began with my helping his niece, and was compounded when I left his country carrying an evil native force with me, unbeknownst to him at the time. He had come to help me fight valiantly, with honor, as I had not done, as I had only pretended to do all these years since leaving Afghanistan. How he knew of my plight I know not, but he must have consulted a shaman of some kind and obtained the arrows that would rid the world of the djinn.

I was, I am, an utter fraud, no matter the sort of influence I was under all these years, no matter how confused my mental state when in proximity to the wretched creature. I know that now. I have my service revolver at my side. I have managed to rouse the fire in this room. I have dragged the djinn’s body into the fireplace and liberally doused much of the furniture in this place with oil. I will wait until I have satisfied myself that the thing’s body is adequately consumed and then ignite the room; that will take some hours, but the time has given me an opportunity to write this narrative.

After all else, I think I loved the writing more than anything, more than the money, the acclaim. How small and how sad were my desires.

I shall finish this missive and place it outside, in an envelope addressed to my old friend, Conan Doyle; he may do with it as he pleases. Then I shall return here, touch the flames to the furniture and put my service revolver to my head and do what I should have done in Afghanistan many, many years, and many, many lives ago. Hopefully I will become like Holmes, a thing of fantasy, nothing more than a creature of the imagination.

The Things That Shall Come Upon Them

The Things That Shall Come Upon Them

by Barbara Roden

“Do you recall, Watson,” said my friend Sherlock Holmes, “how I described my profession when we first took lodgings together, and you expressed curiosity as to how your fellow lodger was related to certain comments which you had read in a magazine?”

“I certainly do!” I laughed. “As I recall, you referred to yourself as the world’s only consulting detective; a remark prompted by my less than effusive statements regarding the article in question. In mitigation I can only say that I did not realize, when I made those statements, that I was addressing the article’s author; nor did I have the benefit of having seen your methods in action.”

Holmes smiled, and bowed his head in acknowledgment of my words. “Your comments had at least the charm of honesty, Watson.”

“But what prompts this recollection, Holmes?” I asked. My friend was not, as a rule, given to thoughts of the past, and I suspected that some event had given rise to his question. In answer he made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the many newspapers littering the floor of our Baker Street rooms.

“As you know, Watson, I make it a habit to familiarize myself with the contents of the many newspapers with which our metropolis is blessed; it is astonishing how even the smallest event may prove to have a bearing on some matter with which I come into professional contact. And yet it seems that every time I open a newspaper I find myself reading of yet another person who has followed where I have led.”

“Imitation is, as they say, the sincerest form of flattery.”

“In which case I am flattered indeed, Watson, for my imitators are numerous. When our association began there were, as I recall, no other consulting detectives, or at least none who called themselves such; yet even the most cursory glance at the papers now shows that I have, however unwittingly, been what our North American friends might call a trailblazer. Here” — and his long white arm stretched out to extricate a paper from out of the mass which surrounded him — “is an account of how Max Carrados helped Inspector Beedel of the Yard solve what the newspapers are, rather sensationally, calling ‘The Holloway Flat Tragedy’; and here is a letter praising the assistance given by Dyer’s Detective Agency in Lynch Court, Fleet Street. These are by no means isolated instances; and it is not only the newspapers which record the exploits of these detectives. The newsagent boasts an array of magazines in which one can read of their adventures; a turn of events for which you must assume some responsibility.”

“How so?” I exclaimed.

“Your records of my doings have, I am afraid, given the public an appetite for tales of this sort, so much so that every detective worthy of the name must, it seems, have his Boswell — or Watson — to record his adventures. The doings of Mr. Martin Hewitt appear with almost monotonous regularity, and I can scarcely glance at a magazine without being informed that I will find therein breathless accounts of the cases of Paul Beck or Eugene Valmont or a certain Miss Myrl, who appears to be trying to advance the cause of women’s suffrage through somewhat novel means. I understand there is a gentleman who sits in an A. B. C. teashop and solves crimes without benefit of sight, or the need of abandoning his afternoon’s refreshment, while Mr. Flaxman Low purports to help those whose cases appear to be beyond the understanding of mere mortals; truly the refuge of the desperate, although from what I gather the man is not quite the charlatan he might seem.” Holmes chuckled, and threw down his paper. “If this continues apace, I may find myself contemplating retirement, or at least a change of profession.”

“But surely,” I replied, “your reputation is such that you need have no fear of such a fate just yet! Why, every post sees applications for your assistance, and Inspector Hopkins is as assiduous a visitor as always. I do not think that Sherlock Holmes will be retiring from public view at any point in the immediate future.”

“No; I may fairly claim that the demands upon my time are as frequent as they have ever been, although I confess that many of the cases which are brought to my attention could be as easily solved by a constable still wet behind the ears as by a trained professional. Yet there still remain those cases which promise something of the
outré
and which the official force would be hard-pressed to solve.” Holmes rose from his chair, crossed to the table, and extracted a sheet of paper from amongst the breakfast dishes. He glanced at it for a moment, then passed it to me. “Be so good as to read this, and tell me what you make of it.”

I looked at the letter, and attempted to emulate my friend’s methods. “It is written on heavy paper,” I began, “simply yet elegantly embossed, from which I would deduce a certain level of wealth allied with good taste. It is in a woman’s hand, firm and clear, which would seem to denote that its writer is a person of determination as well as intelligence.”

“And pray how do you deduce the intelligence, without having read the letter?” asked my friend.

“Why, from the fact that she has had the good sense to consult Sherlock Holmes, and not one of the pretenders to his crown.”

“A touch, Watson!” laughed Holmes. “A distinct touch! But now read the lady’s letter, and see what opinion you form of her and her case.”

I turned my attention to the paper, and read:

Lufford Abbey

Warwickshire

Dear Mr. Holmes,

Having read of your methods and cases, I am turning to you in hopes that you will be able to bring an end to a series of disturbances which have occurred over the past two months, and which have left our local constabulary at a complete loss. What began as a series of minor annoyances has gradually become something more sinister; but as these events have not, as yet, resulted in a crime being committed, I am told that there is little the police can do.

My husband is in complete agreement with me that steps must be taken; yet I will be candid and state that he does not agree that this is a matter for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I hasten to add that his admiration for you is as great as mine; where we differ is in our ideas as to the nature of the events. I firmly believe that a human agency is at work, whereas my husband is of the opinion that we must seek for an answer that lies beyond our five senses.

I fear that any account which I could lay before you in a letter would fail to give a true indication of what we are suffering. However, suffering we are, and I hope that you will be able to see your way to meeting with us, so that we may lay the facts before you. I have included a note of the most convenient trains, and a telegram indicating your arrival time will ensure that you are met at the station.

I thank you in advance for your consideration of this matter; merely writing this letter has taken some of the weight from my mind, and I am in hopes that your arrival and investigation will put an end to the worries with which we are beset.

Yours sincerely,

Mrs. John Fitzgerald

“Well, Watson? And what do you make of it?”

I placed the letter on the table. “The letter confirms my opinion of the lady’s character and intelligence. She does not set down a jumble of facts, fancies, and theories, but rather writes in a business-like manner which yet does not conceal her anxiety. The fact that she and her husband have thought it necessary to involve the police indicates that the matter is serious, for Mrs. Fitzgerald does not, from this letter, strike me as a woman who is given to imagining things; unlike her husband, I might add.”

“Yes, her husband, who believes that the solution to their problem lies beyond the evidence of our five senses.” Holmes shook his head. “I have never yet met with a case which is not capable of a rational solution, however irrational it may appear at the outset, and I have no doubt that this mystery will prove the same as the others.”

“You have decided to take the case, then?”

“Yes. As the lady was so thoughtful as to include a list of train times, I took the liberty of sending a telegram indicating that we would travel up on the 12:23 train. I take it that your patients can do without you for a day or so?”

“I can certainly make arrangements, Holmes, if you would like me to accompany you.”

“Of course I would, Watson! A trip to the Warwickshire countryside will prove a welcome respite from a damp London spring; and I will need my chronicler with me, to record my efforts, if I am to keep pace with my colleagues.” My friend was smiling as he said this; then his face became thoughtful. “Lufford Abbey,” he said slowly. “That name sounds familiar; but I cannot immediately call the circumstances to mind. Ah well, we have some time before our train departs, and I shall try to lay my hands on the details.”

My long association with Sherlock Holmes, coming as it did on the heels of my military career, had made me adept at packing quickly and at short notice. It was an easy matter to arrange for my patients to be seen by one of my associates, and well before the appointed time I was back in Baker Street and Holmes and I were on our way to Euston Station, where we found the platform unusually crowded. We were fortunate enough to secure a first-class compartment to ourselves, but our privacy was short-lived, for just as the barrier was closing a man hurried along the platform and, after a moment’s hesitation, entered our compartment. He was middle-aged, tall, and strongly built, having about him the look of a man who has been an athlete in his youth and maintained his training in the years since. He gave us both a polite nod, then settled himself into the opposite corner of the compartment and pulled a small notebook from his pocket, in which he began to make what appeared to be notes, frequently referring to a sheaf of papers which he had placed on the seat beside him.

Holmes had shot the newcomer a penetrating glance, but upon seeing that our companion was obviously not one to intrude his company on others relaxed, and was silent for a few minutes, gazing out the window as the train gathered speed and we began to leave London and its environs behind. I knew better than to intrude upon his thoughts, and eventually he settled back into his seat, put his fingers together in the familiar manner, and began to speak.

“I was not mistaken, Watson, when I said that the name of our destination was familiar to me. As you know, I am in the habit of retaining items from the newspapers which might conceivably be of interest, or have a bearing on a future case, and this habit has borne fruit on this occasion. An article in
The Times
from July of last year reported the death, in unusual circumstances, of an English traveller at Abbeville, who was struck on the head and killed instantly by a stone which fell from the tower of a church there, under which the unfortunate gentleman happened to be standing. His name was Mr. Julian Karswell, and his residence was given as Lufford Abbey in Warwickshire. It would not…”

But my friend’s words were cut short by an exclamation from the third occupant of our compartment. He had laid aside his notebook and papers, and was looking from my companion to myself with a quick, inquisitive glance which avoided mere vulgar curiosity, and instead spoke of something deeper. He seemed to realize that an explanation was needed, and addressed himself to both of us in tones that were low and pleasant.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I could not help overhearing you speak of a Mr. Karswell and his residence, Lufford Abbey. Both names are known to me, which accounts for my surprise, particularly when I hear them from the lips of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And you, sir” — he nodded his head towards me — “must be Dr. Watson.” He noted my look of surprise, and added with a gentle smile, “I heard your friend address you by name, and it was not difficult to identify you from your likenesses in
The Strand Magazine
.”

“You have the advantage of us, sir,” said Holmes politely, “as well as the makings of a detective.”

“My name is Flaxman Low,” said our companion, “and I am, in my small way, a detective, although I do not expect that you will have heard of me.”

“On the contrary,” answered my friend dryly, “I was speaking of you only this morning.”

“Not, I fear, with any favor, to judge by your tone,” replied Low. “No, Mr. Holmes, I do not take offence,” he continued, forestalling my companion. “A great many people share your view, and I am accustomed to that fact. You and I are, I suspect, more alike than you think in our approach and methods. The difference lies in the fact that where I am Hamlet, you, if I may take the liberty of saying so, prefer the part of Horatio.”

For a moment I feared, from the expression on my friend’s face, that he would not take kindly to this remark; but after a moment his features relaxed into a smile, and he laughed.

“Perhaps that is no bad thing, Mr. Low,” he remarked, “for at the end of the play Horatio is one of the few characters still in the land of the living, while the Prince of Denmark is, we presume, learning at first hand whether or not his views on the spiritual world were correct.”

Flaxman Low laughed in his turn. “Well said, Mr. Holmes.” Then his face turned grave. “You mentioned Lufford Abbey. May I enquire as to your interest in that house and its late owner?”

Holmes shrugged. “As to its late owner I admit of no knowledge, save for the fact of his death last year. The house, however, is our destination, hence my interest in any particulars relating to it.” He gazed at Low thoughtfully. “I am not mistaken, I think, in stating that Lufford Abbey is your destination also, and that you have been summoned thence by Mr. John Fitzgerald, to look into a matter which has been troubling him.”